AN: Us again! This story is a little different from what we've been doing. We're throwing it back a little and reworking a portion of season 1. B and I (C here, hi!) got a bug awhile ago to go vintage, and we're sorry we're not immune to some of the same plot-thoughts that have caught a lot of CB writers' attention during the course of the show. This story is AU starting from 1x11 Roman Holiday, but it definitely toys with the "what if" ideas that 1x13 circulates. We try to be somewhat original about it, though, and even if it's not, hopefully it's brief enough that it doesn't seem to drawn out and repetitive.

We're rating this story M, because do we do it any other way? Read at your own risk, although this chapter is fairly tame. Now, let's party like it's almost 2008...

One thing was becoming increasingly clear to everyone at the penthouse on 1136 Fifth Ave.—Blair Waldorf was mad.

It had become evident over the years, that when Blair didn't get what she wanted, she made it known to practically all of Manhattan. Though she had grown out of her temper tantrums (she was the mature age of seventeen, after all), she still had her ways of protesting what her mother, Dorota, or father tried to place on her without her consent or approval. An example of that, in fact, would be that her father hadn't come to New York to spend Christmas with his daughter.

She'd been furious when he didn't show up for Thanksgiving (thanks to her mother's handiwork), and that was when he believed Blair didn't want her there. Now, when she was dying to see her daddy…he wouldn't even come? For the sake of his boyfriend?! She couldn't even express her rage, especially since her perfectly concocted plan to convince him to move back to New York would have to wait, or even be terminated.

On top of all of that, there was Chuck Bass. The basshole who had taken her virginity, then had the audacity to…like her, and…he was Chuck Bass.

"Dorota!" Blair shouted from her bed, her laptop sitting in front of her as she wallowed in pity, and bottomless boxes of macarons.

The maid was at her door in moments, eyes wide, "Yes Miss Blair?"

Blair didn't even bother looking up to regard the maid, and instead stated, "Bring me more macarons. Chocolate."

Dorota slightly hesitated, and slowly spoke, "Miss Blair, don't you think you've had enough—"

Blair rolled her eyes, "More macarons!" was all she stated before reaching across her bed to grasp her phone, which had been going off over and over, nonstop, while Serena and Nate texted and called her, voicing their worry. Of course the motherchucker didn't even bother to call or text her.

Every year, after opening all of her presents on Christmas, Blair liked to call them and tell them everything she'd received. This year, however, was different. She'd awoken with a grin on her face, thinking that maybe…just maybe…her father's wishes had been a scheme. That he'd be there Christmas morning to surprise her and all would be well. She'd even bought the large candy canes for him, and dressed in her favorite red and white polka-dotted night gown.

When he didn't show up, Blair immediately rushed to her room, and declared that she would speak to no one for the rest of the day (aside from the occasional order for Dorota). Eleanor had immediately rolled her eyes at the proclamation, and announced she'd be spending the holiday in her bedroom as well, until Blair decided to stop acting so childish, and join the grown-ups for the holiday. Blair also told Dorota that if Serena came by to visit her, that she wasn't there, and wouldn't take no for an answer. As she scrolled through the missed calls and text messages, her eyes landed on one from Chuck, that he'd sent her two days ago. In it, was a picture of Nate and himself, all alone together in some foreign place.

Together.

The thought of Chuck telling Nate what she'd done…the thought of the way Nate would look at her from now on…it made her sick to her stomach, so much so that…Blair immediately jumped up from the bed, and went into the bathroom, not even bothering to lock the door behind her, before getting down on her knees, and performing a well-rehearsed ritual. Within moments, she was emptying the contents of her stomach into the porcelain bowl…all four boxes of macarons now having done their job. She haphazardly wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, flushed the toilet, shifted to lean back against the wall.

Christmas be damned.

The trip down Fifth Avenue was tediously slow and did nothing to help the nerves that were tightly wound within one Chuck Bass.

Outside, fat fluffy flakes of snow danced their way to the ground to join the slush that was thickly lining the streets of New York City. It had been an unexpected storm, and as a result the Mayor had yet to order the proper cleanup for the city, and the limo moved slower than usual after turning off Madison Avenue and onto Fifth. Every one on the entire Upper East Side must have been on the road, going to whatever Christmas dinner or party they'd managed to finagle their way into at the last minute so as not to appear sad, lonely, and pathetic on this night. Then again, was he really any better? The edge of the ribbon that was tied tightly around the box that was perched on his lap was frayed, evidence of his worrying fingers.

What he was nervous about he'd never know - after all, it wasn't like he was the one who should technically be apologizing! The sharp curve of his jaw tightened and he swallowed hard against the memory that burned into his retina. Blair and her lips, lips that he'd had both the pleasure and the misery of tasting on his own, attached to Nate. For about a fraction of a second, Chuck had dared to believe that what she was seeing wasn't happening, or at least wouldn't lead to what he feared. But the cock of Nate's eyebrow, the brotherly grin that he'd given Chuck over the top of Blair's sleek brunette head, it had been impossible to misconstrue. Whereas Chuck had previously been the only person to ever enter past Blair's defenses, Nate was about to join him in that claim, and the thought was enough to make him….

So, he thought, pulling himself from that unpleasant line of memory, it was Blair's fault. They'd had plans, an understanding between them. Then she'd just lashed out for no reason at all and had acted in a way that was thoroughly inappropriate and just downright hurtful. Well, hurtful if he cared, he thought, tugging at his short brown locks that covered his head. He didn't care, because he was Chuck Bass, and even though she was Blair Waldorf… even she wasn't worth caring about. Not anymore than he had to, as a friend anyway. Were they even friends after all of this? That was part of what he aimed to find out tonight.

Word of Blair's seclusion had reached his ears since he came back to New York, and he was curious to see what it was all about for himself. Not because he cared, he insisted aggressively. Just… because Blair Waldorf hadn't been known to sit inside during a holiday or party season since she was old enough to decide when and where she went out by herself. "Arthur," he snapped as he lowered the partition, "I won't pay you extra for every minute you delay." If his driver was annoyed, he didn't show it - he'd been putting up with Chuck's snaps and retorts for years now.

"Yes, Mr. Bass. We're here."

Sure enough, they had just pulled up outside of the penthouse. Sulking, Chuck didn't even bother to offer an apology to Arthur before he was sliding over the leather seats (seats that had seen so much), gift in hand, and opening the door to step out onto the sidewalk without waiting for his driver to get the door. He pulled the collar of his coat up around his neck as he strode up the walkway towards the door, nodding to the doorman as the glass door swung back to let him in.

The ride in the elevator to her penthouse was nearly as excruciating as the drive to the building in the first place, but he arrived much quicker than the latter. There was an eerie quiet to the penthouse as he stepped off the elevator and looked around. A faint glow in the living room told him that the tree was lit, but the lack of sound told him that there was no chipper Blair fawning over her expensive presents like he'd come to expect with every holiday season.

"Mr. Chuck,"Dorota's accented voice greeted him as she emerged from wherever it was that she'd been - she always seemed to appear out of thin air, "Miss. Blair is taking no visitors. You should go home. It is Christmas." Chuck's hazel eyes hardened slightly at the words. Christmas had never been much in the Bass home, and the one year where his father was staying home, Chuck was shoved aside so that he might propose to Lily Van deer Woodsen of all people. It wasn't that he minded the blonde, it was just that he'd rather not have his first Christmas with his father within his memory be filled with memories where they weren't even interacting.

"She'll want to see me." That was all he told Dorota before he was climbing the stairs lazily, like he had all the time in the world. The maid fumed after him, but did nothing, and Chuck belatedly wondered if perhaps she wanted her mistress to be barged in on. He crept quietly to Blair's door and knocked once before twisting the handle, stepping inside, and finding…. Nothing.

A frown crossed his lips and he walked farther into her room, surveying the scene before him. Signs told him that she had evidently been here recently, but she was nowhere to be found. Curiously, he walked over to her bed and picked up the lid of one of the boxes that was scattered over the comforter.

Pierre Herme.

It was then that he heard a horrible sound - a cough, a retch, then silence followed by the powerful sound of a toilet being flushed.

"Blair?" he called out, a thread of dread winding through his mind as he walked towards her bathroom door. He didn't even knock as he turned the handle and swung the door open, his eyes landing on the girl in front of him.

Blair hadn't even heard him say her name. She didn't think that anyone would be visiting her, trusting her maid's skills at keeping unwanted visitors away. And Chuck Bass definitely fell under the category of unwanted visitors. When he entered the bathroom, she panicked, but kept her cool, at least outwardly. Her eyes flickered up to him, a look of anger crossing her features.

"Go away, Chuck," she said immediately, standing in hopes she could slam the door before he made his way all the way through it. However, he somehow managed, and…he'd heard her. How had he…it didn't matter, she argued, because this was Blair Waldorf's life, and according to her, this never even happened.

"Waldorf… did…" This wasn't his area of expertise, this should be Serena's job, she was a chick and would know how to handle these inquiries. "Did you just… did you do what I think you did?" Concern laced his voice.

Not because he cared, though.

"No!" she immediately retorted at his "absurd" speculation. "I have the stomach flu, why do you think I'm not enjoying Christmas with my mother?" She practically spat the words, her voice dripping with venom, "Now, if you don't want to catch it yourself I suggest you leave, Bass," her eyes were lowered to nothing but slits as she glared at him, ignoring the package in his hand with all her might. There was nothing Blair Waldorf loved more than gifts (especially those that came from Chuck Bass), but she no longer had the Christmas spirit.

Me thinks the lady doth protest too much, Chuck quoted to himself drily while he stared at Blair, not letting her shrill, snappy retorts get the better of him. He'd known her since they were both children, he'd grown used to her temper tantrums, and their short affair between the sheets had only made him better acquainted with her dislike at not getting what she wanted when she wanted it. He might come away with a few scratches and bite marks, but in the end Chuck knew he was more than capable of standing toe to toe with her and at least making her put up a fight even if he didn't win his.

"Funny," he said airily, eyes burning into hers, "typically one has to go outside and have contact with others in order to contract an illness. From what I hear, you've made quite the social recluse of yourself and you might as well be a modern day Rapunzel. And since when have you ever enjoyed any holiday with your mother? You know as well as I do that it's your father you prefer to spend them with." He only wished he could say the same. At this rate, he'd prefer spending his Christmas with his mother, which was saying something seeing as she was six feet under and he had no idea what cemetery to even look for her in. Anything would be better than having to watch Bart play the doting, hopeful stepfather to Eric and Serena, though. Not that it wouldn't be fun torturing the normally bubbly blonde, but watching his father shower more attention on them than his own son by blood was… cruel.

If Blair Waldorf could wish torture and death upon anyone at that moment, it would be Chuck Bass.

Not only was he ruining her already terrible Christmas, but he was right, and she hated being wrong, almost more than anything. It was unfair that he just got to barge in whenever he wanted, it was unfair that he wouldn't just accept what she was saying, and move on. Her mind thought up quick retorts to all of his accusations, her mind rationalizing what she was saying as if it were nothing but the truth.

"I haven't been outside because of the stomach flu, obviously!" she turned her lips up into a disapproving frown then (largely induced by his horrid reminder that her father wasn't around), and gave him a good hard glance from top to bottom.

"Please do not tell me you cut your trip short on my account. I know you have a crush on me, but we're nothing more than friends, Chuck, and that's not going to change!" She knew the words were probably cutting, but she just wanted him out. She wanted him to stop being so suspicious, wanted him to just not care about her! She had a weird feeling, deep down, that told her otherwise, that told her that they'd taken one step away from friendship, and there was no hope in going back.

Chuck's hands curled slowly into tight fists. If she weren't a girl… if she wouldn't have his ass in jail and leave him with a very unamused Bart Bass having to bail him out for laying a hand on Blair Waldorf… if he wasn't the type that perpetually paid someone else to do his dirty work for him, he would throttle her!

The nasty words she all but trilled at him cut him to the core, and flooded him with hot embarrassment and shame. The one time in his life that he'd had the nerve to feel butterflies - the one time he'd shared them with the girl - and look what happened. She used them to throw them in his face, make him wish he'd stuck to what he knew best and stayed glued to the alcohol and random women that didn't care if he felt anything or not.

"Don't delude yourself into thinking you're that important, Blair. If your father wouldn't come home for Thanksgiving, there's no way in Hell I'd come home for you. You see, I only trouble myself with the important people, and I'm afraid my usual girl has missed me," he sneered the words, the last bit a lie but a well-done one if he did say so himself. It was an eye for an eye, and the remark about her father was low, but she'd started it the second she brought his feelings, or any remnants of, into this argument. After that, he saw red, and all he wanted to do was… was to make her sting as much as he did. Throwing in the remark about her being less than his formerly favorite call girl was just the cherry on top of this disastrous sundae.

Blair felt like she'd just been punched in stomach by his words, a small gasp leaving her lips. How…how dare he tell her she's less important than…a call girl. How dare he tell her that he didn't care! (She'd told herself she didn't want him to care, but obviously that wasn't the case). He obviously did, otherwise he wouldn't be standing before her, he wouldn't be pressing and pulling her until he got out a confession as to what she'd really been doing in the bathroom. What she'd been telling herself had been the stomach flu for days; it had to be the only rational explanation.

"I'm really that unimportant to you?!" she hissed, "So I guess you just buy all of the girls you bed diamond necklaces…how dare I think that Chuck Bass ever be…kind?!"

No, she wasn't that unimportant to him. Despite everything between them, they were still… friends, weren't they? She was important to him, more so than any of his call girls (maybe too much so, a nasty little voice chimed in), but he wasn't about to actually tell her that. Least of all not directly after he'd said the cruel remark in the first place. Not when it might help goad her into telling him what was really going on. He'd known what he had heard, and he knew what he saw. He'd heard the same sounds only once before, just before Blair's secret had been uncovered and she'd been sent to inpatient.

There were very few things that could make Chuck Bass uneasy, but hearing Blair Waldorf purposefully make herself sick was one of them. So, when he heard it now, he knew exactly what it was, but he still… there was a smidgen of hope that he was wrong. That she was exiling herself to an early bedtime and she was just brushing her teeth or performing some other mundane task like that, anything but… that.

Even though he knew that wasn't the case, it still irked him when she admitted to it, when she stopped lying to him and told him that he was right and she was doing… that… to herself. Somehow, he still couldn't connect the words 'purge' and 'Blair' - the only thing Blair Waldorf purged was last seasons fashions or unruly minions that thought they were better than everyone else. Joining her with such an ugly, self-loathing act, it just didn't…. There wasn't a way for him to wrap his mind around it.

Blair felt incredibly trapped with him in the tiny room, and immediately resolved that she needed to get out as soon as possible, and with that notion, she pushed past him and sauntered into her bedroom.

Chuck turned and followed her back into her bedroom, not quite ready to let the subject change like she was.

Blair quickly kicked the evidence of her macaron massacre subtly under her bed, before grabbing her phone, which went off yet again. With that, she was reminded of the entire reason that Chuck had been gone in the first place, and her initial upset at seeing him increased tenfold.

"When did you and Nate get back from your trip?" she asked, her voice dangerous, Chuck knew by now that one wrong move with Blair meant total social destruction, but he wouldn't back down as easy as most, which was something that Blair had come to find out, even in their very short amount of time together. "I trust you had a good time. And judging by the fact that you're in one piece, you didn't tell him." She was offering him a chance with her words. Offering him a chance to lie to her, to tell her that he didn't do what she'd assumed he had done. She'd hoped he was just teasing with the pictures, but with someone as dangerous as Chuck Bass...you always had to be careful.

At first Chuck wasn't quite sure what she was referring to, but then he remembered.

In a spiteful rage, just after Nate had finished giving vague details of his night with Blair with the sappiest, goofiest, grin on his face (a grin that Chuck wanted to smear off his face and throw onto the rug if it were at all possible), he'd suggested a photo with him and his best friend to commemorate their time living as bachelors before Nate returned to New York to become a committed man.

That photo, of course, had been promptly sent to Blair to act as a silent threat. It nearly hadn't been a threat - Chuck had come very close, too close, to spilling everything. When Nate made reference to how good Blair had felt, Chuck had nearly opened his mouth and said I know. Because he did know, he knew exactly how good her tight, virginal depths felt around a swollen length, and he'd known before Nate, damn it!

But he also knew exactly what Blair was saying - if he told Nate, that was it. Their friendship would crumble, because even though he and Blair had been broken up and Nate had actually cheated on Blair, he wouldn't see it that way. He'd see it as the very deepest betrayal of trust and Chuck would lose the closest friend, the closest thing to a brother, he'd ever had.

Before he could get a chance to respond, Dorota was in the doorway, interrupting their conversation, "Miss Blair, your macarons here." She presented the box, and received one of the coldest looks from Blair, one that said she'd screwed up, bad.

"Dorota," she hissed, "Not now."

Blair swallowed thickly, and looked between Dorota and Chuck, before marching across the room and holding the door open for him, "You've extended your un-welcome as much as it is, now please leave before I ask you to be escorted out!" she shouted, eyes flicking to Dorota and snapping at her as well, "You're dismissed Dorota!" the maid quickly stepped away, descending the stairs.

Chuck rounded on Blair then. "How many is this?" he asked icily, the coolness to his voice a mask. "Four? Five?" He tossed her present onto the bed and grabbed two of the boxes before toeing out the one she'd tried to kick under the bed. "I've heard of indulgence but I'd say this borders on overdose, Waldorf. How exactly are you not bouncing off the walls right now?" His eyes were full of challenge upon the inquiry.

Blair turned around to face Chuck, her skin heating and coming close in color to the red and white polka-dotted dress she wore. "Quit it, Bass!" she barked, "Those were—" she faltered, "Those were from days ago! Dorota hasn't been keeping up the apartment due to the crazy holiday season." She knew her slight sputter and red face contradicted her sharp tone and conviction of her words, she knew that he'd catch on and know she was lying, she'd know that he'd tell Serena and Nate…but she couldn't—no—wouldn't accept that. According to Blair Waldorf, this never happened. According to Blair Waldorf, she'd caught a nasty stomach flu, and that was that.

"Like Hell!" Chuck all but snarled at her, flicking the boxes with surprising force across the room and towards her trashcan, making Blair jump slightly. "You have arms, and with your OCD tendencies you'd never just let boxes of macarons lie around your room for days, no matter how busy Dorota is. You'd throw them away yourself before you let any ant so much as sniff the crumbs."

"No!" she shouted back at him, their charade seemingly endless, she wouldn't admit to anything he was saying. "I've been bedridden," she tried to argue, "I…I didn't even notice the boxes there!"

He inhaled sharply, chest heaving as he took in her appearance. The red in her cheeks matched the red of her short, red polka dotted nightgown, and there was a certain unsteadiness just under her voice that said everything she was saying was not as it seemed.

"You're a wretched liar, you know that, Waldorf?" he said, "Always have been, always will be."

A wretched liar…always have been, always will be. He was referring to her and Nate's relationship, referring to how no matter how many times she'd told him she loved him, here she was, having sex with his best friend. Tears stung her eyes, but she fought them off. How…how could he say such a thing to her? She had to keep reminding herself, he was Chuck Bass. He knew not of…sympathy.

He pointed towards her bathroom door then. "I know what I heard, Blair," he said firmly, concern leaking into his voice despite his best efforts, and perhaps ruining the confrontational tone of it, "I know what I heard, and I know that you don't just eat box after box of macarons just because." He kicked the box across the floor to join the other one he'd tossed that way. "Either you tell me willingly or I'll pull your hair until you tell me anyway. I'll go to your mother if I have to," there was a slight strain in his voice for once as he remembered the last time it had happened, "she'll send you in for treatment again, and she'll make you go to therapy." The short stint Blair had done at an inpatient center had been torture on the rest of them. Even after she'd come home and was reduced to simply going to her therapist's office after school, it had cast a dark cloud over them knowing what hours Blair wasn't available, and why. It wasn't a time he cared to remember, but if he had to use it to try to coax an answer out of her, then he would.

Finally Blair exhaled a large breath, and shouted, "FINE!" the thought of her mother knowing what happened…the thought of going back to the hospital and going through therapy…she grimaced, lowering her voice so that no one in the house would hear, "It happened again. I tried to stop it, but…with my dad refusing to come see me for the holidays, and you—" she practically growled at him, her tone icy, "You sending me that picture…" she shook her head, "I just…" she let the sentence linger in the air, for she knew he knew exactly what would come next, had she finished speaking. "Congratulations Chuck, you got it out of me. Happy?" she asked with a nasty expression, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

"He's not here?" Chuck asked, disbelief tainting his question, eyebrows rising momentarily in a rare show of genuine surprise. Harold Waldorf loved three things: his daughter, the holidays, and those two things combined. He knew he'd skipped out on Thanksgiving through the grapevine (Blair tried to avoid talking about it directly, but it had been mentioned), so everyone, Blair included, was sure that he would show up for Christmas.

Even Chuck had felt the stirrings of jealousy when he imagined how happy and bubbly Blair's Christmas with her father must be in comparison to his own. For the old Waldorf to actually skip out on both holidays was slightly obscene. Jesus, no wonder she'd taken to hiding herself away and even Gossip Girl was questioning what was going on with her. This information certainly did nothing to quell the guilt that stung him when she mentioned the picture he'd sent in his fit of jealousy and rage. Jealousy over the fact that Nate had her, again, and rage over the fact that although he didn't say much, it was worse than saying too much, since that meant that this time…. This time Nate was in it, and there was no chance in Hell Blair would have second thoughts if Nate was in it once and for all this time.

"No," he said, taking a step and lifting his hands to lock around her too slender arms, "no, I'm not happy. Blair, you…" he faltered; for once, Chuck was serious about something, a sight that was rarely seen, "you can't keep doing this to yourself, you know what it does to you!" He exclaimed quietly.

"I know what it does to me, Bass. I went to therapy." She practically spat, annoyed that he'd even question that fact. "Do you know what all that alcohol and drugs do to you?" she retorted quickly, "And yet you still do them. It's not that easy Chuck, I need…" she paused momentarily, gritting her teeth together, "I need…" to feel important "you to not tell anyone. I'll deal with it, okay?" She just needed him off her case.

"Yes," he immediately responded to her sharp question, "I know that they make my orgasms more convulsive than they would be without it, and they give me an excuse when I don't remember what name I'm supposed to be yelling." It was a crude, vulgar response, but it wasn't far from the truth. The alcohol and drugs did give him that excuse, so that when he yelled out Blair, Blair, fuck, Blair! repeatedly, he couldn't be held accountable for his own actions. In the end, he was an ass and an addict and an alcoholic, and the taste of the night left his bed and he would move onto his next victim in the next night. He was disgusted with himself that he had to stoop to this level, but until the… the butterflies or whatever the hell they were were crushed, he would turn a blind eye to this level of patheticness.

Blair barged on with her words, though, and he wanted to shake her because this couldn't be real, she couldn't be real. This Blair Waldorf seemed so… uncertain, on edge, and not in her usual way. He surveyed her intently when she made her request, and he was caught, uncertain of what to do. How could he not tell anyone? How could he break her trust, though…. He neither confirmed nor denied her request; instead, he silently stared her down until she changed the subject.

"I see you brought something?" she asked, raising her brows and regarding the package on the bed.

He turned his head to look at the box that he'd carefully picked out the wrapping paper for. "Yeah," he said the word curtly. The box seemed so innocent now in what was decidedly not an innocent situation.

He turned back to her and met her eyes, noting the gleam in the back of the brown depths.

"I also have something I want to show you…"

Her words made his mouth go dry, and he became acutely aware of the fact that he was still holding onto her arms. His reply was velvety smooth. "If you weren't… devoted," he sneered the single word softly, "I'd say that sounded like a proposition."

Blair immediately rolled her eyes and scoffed at his response, "Pig." It was so typical of Chuck Bass to respond to a serious accusation with something so suggestive it had her skin crawling with disgust, yet La Perlas slightly dampening with reminder to just how convulsive her orgasms had been with him…and that was without the aid of any drug or alcohol (because quite frankly, he intoxicated her enough as it was).

Blair pulled away from his grasp and crossed the room to her desk where she'd been keeping her key, the gift her brought her temporarily forgotten, and pulled open a drawer to search for its hiding place.

Chuck allowed his eyes the luxury of traveling over the back of her body without shame. Legs were deceptively long and creamy, and they were accentuated by the way they peeked out from under her red nightgown. There was a soft swaying motion to her hips as she walked, and it left him entranced, lost in memories of times where his hands had fit perfectly to those same hips and held them tight as the two of them-

When her wandering fingers finally closed around the small metal key, she lifted it, with the red ribbon attached, and crossed back to Chuck.

Quick as lightening his eyes rose back to hers when she turned around, nothing in his expression giving away the brief indulgence he'd allowed himself. Just looking, he justified himself. That was all he was doing. It wasn't like he actually wanted to touch her again. Wasn't like he wanted to find out if her hips fit in his hands like they had the first time and every time since that point…. He was Chuck Bass. Leering at girls was what he did. That didn't stop his lips from pursing and his jaw from tightening when she grabbed his hand, heat rippling out over the surface that she touched.

"Who ever said I was devoted?" She asked, her voice turning slightly suggestive, before she dropped the key into his hand, and let go, returning both of her arms to her sides. "Not a proposition, but an invitation. Tomorrow night, Kati, Is, and some of the other juniors will be at the pool house, thanks to yours truly."

Hazel eyes narrowed in her direction, bitterness riddling the intense stare. She must think he was a fool if she thought he wouldn't deduce that she was going to devote herself to Nate after… after they had…. He looked down at the small weight she'd deposited in his hand, and turned it over for inspection. A key, it seemed. A pool party. It sounded very juvenile, except he knew this would be no ordinary pool party. It never was in their world. Besides, pretty girls in things that could hardly be anything more than underwear? Count him in.

She slightly swayed side to side, that devious smirk she'd adopted from him gracing her features "The party starts at midnight. I trust you'll bring some…party supplies?" Of course, it was a silly question. When did Chuck not provide the party favors? Weed and alcohol were his specialty after all, and it wasn't a party unless the Basshole was there. There was one small problem, however, and that was Nate. After they sealed the deal, so to speak, he thought that they were officially back together, that he'd made clear enough by all the voicemails and text messages.

Chuck didn't have to know that, at least for now.

He let out a soft snort of laughter when she posed her question and he looked up at her, closing the key in his fist. "I'll call my guy tonight," he said, "You can sign for the liquid party favors in my name." His name, because Blair would have his balls if she got caught hosting a party for underage teenagers at a pool house. Trespassing, technically breaking and entering, alcohol, narcotics… none of that would look good on her transcript for Yale, and if there was one thing everyone knew she wanted it was that school.

After all, this was her party, and anyone who didn't go would be considered a social loser. "Now that I've showed you mine…" her voice slightly dipped at the end, "Show me yours," her eyes landed on the gift behind him, her mind wandering the possibilities of what it could be. From her past, brief, experience with Chuck's gift giving…he always did satisfy. Whether it was a diamond necklace, or…something intimate in the back of a moving vehicle.

He looked back over to the box that she was eyeing with a fair deal of interest by this point. The contents was extravagant, too much so. The problem was that he'd never had anyone to buy gifts for, so he didn't know how to do anything but big. The gift was too much given their current situation, and Chuck realized that perhaps… perhaps he'd hoped that somehow it would…. He lopped that thought off before it even had a chance to grow, visions of reunions that would never be cutting him deeply.

"Why don't I," he started as he grabbed it off the bed to hand it to her, "leave you to open it in private?" he said. She shouldn't have the memory tainted by being in his presence when she opened it, lest she associate it with him. "I'll see you tomorrow, Waldorf." He was sloping out of the room in the next minute, chest strangely heavier than when he'd first entered the penthouse.

Blair's face scrunched up in curiosity and disgust when he handed her the gift and walked out of her room.

She turned and watched his retreating form, "Goodnight, Chuck," slipping off her lips as she let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding.

There was a slight feeling of longing coursing through her as he left, but she pushed it aside and instead walked to her bed and sat down on the edge, the package sitting in her lap. Judging by his last comment, she was expecting it to be something crude and unusual: some lingerie or a sex toy. Something that was completely…expected from Chuck. After all, her birthday had been directly after their…first time, and he was being sweet. Now, he was just being cynical, or at least that was what she assumed.

Blair gently plucked the ribbon from the package and admired the wrapping, before tearing away at the paper, her eyes widening at the name on the box.

Bvlgari.

It couldn't be…could it? Lifting the lid, she was graced with the sight of the beautiful pearl choker with the beaded clasp, the one she'd been wanting for months. As she admired the piece of jewelry, Dorota appeared in the doorway, box of macarons in hand.

Blair looked up from the box at her maid, "You can send those to the doorman," she regarded the macarons, "I don't want them anymore." She could've sworn she saw Dorota crack a smile before disappearing back down the stairs.

Quickly reaching for her phone, Blair typed a message to Chuck: Thank U. xoxo –B.

The faintest of smiles crossed Chuck's mouth as he stopped on the snowy sidewalk and looked at his phone to see the message Blair had sent. Evidently she'd opened her package and she liked it. The knowledge both incited a strange tug in his chest and a weak fluttering of the butterflies. It made him uncomfortable to want to be making her feel happy (he supposed that was the most appropriate emotion to insert, although it seemed slightly wrong, somehow not enough) while at the same time acknowledging that he wasn't what made her happy. He wasn't the one that made her happy. A stormy look brewed in his eyes as he shut the door to his limo behind him - as much as she liked that choker, she probably would have liked it ten times more if Nathaniel had given it to her.

Mind, Nate wouldn't have stopped thinking about lacrosse long enough to realize that Blair had been fawning over it for months now, to the point where Chuck was ready to throw his money around and get her entire building gilded in pearls if she liked them so damn much, so long as she shut up about it every time the group sauntered past the store on 57th street. This was another thing, Chuck thought to himself as he scrolled through his phone contacts, that made him uncomfortable with Blair. Nate was his best friend, and yet Blair had him thinking the vilest, cruelest thoughts about him. He'd always poked fun at Nathaniel for being a little dazed and confused, but it was fine since Nate was almost always high, and the pair of them were perpetually getting stoned together. Now, though, his best friend was the enemy, and he didn't even knowhe was the enemy, nor would he probably think so if he knew the full story between Chuck, Blair, and that night at Victrola.

"I need to make an order for tomorrow night." Chuck said into his phone. Marijuana, the good kind, acid, and coke for those that really wanted to start the evening with a bang (coke that would probably be used primarily by him) were among the order, and after topping off the call with another one to the only person that would sell crates of liquor to an underage boy billionaire in the city, he found himself arriving downtown at The Palace, the traffic on Fifth relatively eased since he'd arrived at Blair's in the first place, apparently.

"That'll be all for the night." He addressed his driver as the door was opened for him and he strutted through the courtyard into the building. It was only once he was up in his suite - his suite, not the suite that had seemed to become the joint Van der Bass pad - that he got out his phone again and made another call. "Chuck Bass," he said, "I need you to get here as soon as you can. I'll pay you double and give you your cab fare if you make it snappy." He didn't know how to deal with the confusion that Blair left him with. He didn't know how to deal with what she had confessed to him tonight, didn't know how to deal with his growing animosity towards his best friend, didn't know how to feel… anything. He knew how to fuck, though, and get fucked, so that was exactly what he would do. So long as it kept his head occupied and his brain full, he mused to himself while he poured a tumbler of scotch.

Christmas be damned.

AN: There you have it! The first chapter. This fic will probably not be as long as Whenever, Wherever, but there are a few chapters left to come... that is, if there's interest. Let us know what you're thinking with a review, and we genuinely love to hear your thoughts - the good, and the constructive (and the bad... but only so long as it's constructive and not pesky little trolls that loathe all things CB). Speaking of Whenever, Wherever, B and I are, indeed, working on it. We're just ironing out a few kinks and trying to make it the best that it can be because we love that pairing so much. In the meantime, feel free to reread it, or to check out our Limoversary one-shot which features the CB we developed in the fic! And, as always, if you want more news on our fics or to watch B beat up on C... I mean, watch B and C tweet each other via the same account, feel free to follow us! The handle is: DevilandQueen.