Will Not Remember, Cannot Forget
folder
G through L › Gossip Girl
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
37
Views:
6,179
Reviews:
5
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
G through L › Gossip Girl
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
37
Views:
6,179
Reviews:
5
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Gossip Girl, and I do not make any money from these writings.
Chapter 14
He blinks. That can’t be right.
98.6
With a snap of his wrist, he shakes the mercury down and places the thermometer back under his tongue.
98.6
What the hell? Maybe he isn’t waiting long enough.
98.6
This thing must be defective. It’s the only explanation. He’s obviously ill. Why else is his stomach fluttering like that? It’s been driving him nuts for the last couple weeks. Ever since he nearly kissed –
No! Stop right there. He is not thinking of that. Every time he does, the sensation only gets worse. The only time it is stronger is when he’s actually around her. Thankfully, that hasn’t been often lately.
Chuck wonders if it’s an allergy, one of those late onset things like diabetes. Is it possible to be allergic to a person?
He reaches for the folded sheet of Plaza Hotel stationary he’d written on last night. He’d felt the urge to write after he’d sent the stunning brunette with the killer breasts home. Despite her enthusiastic ministrations, her chestnut curls, and talented mouth, he just hadn’t been able to get in the mood.
Yet another reason why he knows he is unquestionably sick. Perhaps he should schedule a check up, just to get a diagnosis. And possibly some Valium.
He unfolds the paper and cocks one brow in confusion. It’s a list.
#1. Forget Blair Waldorf’s lips.
#2. Forget Blair Waldorf’s legs.
#3. Forget Blair Waldorf’s laugh.
He skips down a few.
#10. Forget Blair Waldorf’s smile. It really does make her whole face light up.
#11. Forget Blair Waldorf’s perfume. It smells kind of flowery. Like magnolia blossoms.
#12. Forget Blair Waldorf’s headbands. She has a lot of them. They’re sort of cute…
How drunk had he been when he wrote this? And is that a fucking heart doodled in the margin?
Oh my God.
He must be going crazy. Can allergies make one delusional?
He flips open his cell. “Arthur,” he orders brusquely, “I need a doctor’s appointment. When? Like yesterday!” He snaps the phone shut in irritation.
In trepidation, he glances back to the list. Should he bring it along to show his physician? It is proof of his mental instability. But no. Better not, he thinks. They might try to institutionalize him.
He scans the remainder of the list warily. Near the bottom, he breathes a sigh of relief.
#26. Remember to reform plan to destroy Blair Waldorf.
Finally, a sensible idea! Maybe it was only temporary insanity.
He rips off the top portion of the paper and crumples it in his hand. He tosses the wadded up ball into the waste basket, only to retrieve it seconds later. It isn’t safe in the garbage, he tells himself. Anyone could find it. Best to leave no evidence. He’ll burn it… later.
Right now? The plan!
Serena’s leaving had screwed the last one all to hell. But she can’t stay away forever, can she? The Upper East Side is her home. Surely she’ll come back sometime. Christmas, perhaps? Yes, definitely then.
Can he wait that long? Four months?
Easily if he is assured of success, but what if something unexpected happens again? He has to anticipate what could go wrong. Nate’s family almost always stays in town, but Blair’s parents sometimes go on winter vacations. With their upcoming divorce, the probability that one of them wouldn’t be in Manhattan doubled. Blair will likely have to split the holiday between them and might not be around during the crucial window of opportunity.
The odds are not favorable. Too many variables. So scratch counting on Serena’s return. Something else would have to suffice.
He supposes he could just send an anonymous text with the secret to Gossip Girl and let the rumor mongering bitch do the rest for him. It would do the trick. But that was so simple. It was a bit beneath him really. Plus, it wouldn’t hurt Blair nearly as much as it would if Serena was still around.
What else had the potential to cut like that?
What if Blair slept with Nate, thinking they were losing their virginities to each other, and then found out about Serena? Oh, that would work. It would work beautifully.
Chuck’s lips twist into a grin.
Okay, so how to get the lovebirds to do the deed?
Blair should be the easier of the two. Nate is already acting weird around her, pulling away. A few well placed comments and she’ll get it into her head that if they have sex, she’ll be able to hold onto him.
Getting Nate to actually do it is the problem. But then, he hasn’t confessed to Chuck about sleeping with Serena, so he probably won’t. Chuck could use that. Call Nate’s manhood into question. Pressure him to seal the deal with Blair, to tap that ass. And because Nathaniel looks up to him so much, sooner or later he’ll give in. Even better, as soon as Nate blows his load in Blair, he’ll brag to his best friend about it to stop the teasing. Then, after an appropriate amount of time so as not to draw suspicion, Chuck will send the text to Gossip Girl that will crush his nemesis.
Okay, that’s settled then. Operation get Nate to fuck Blair is a go.
Why is his stomach suddenly roiling? The contents lurching with a wave of something like nausea? Chuck tries to remember what he has eaten today. Oh, yes. Thai. And now that he recalls it, that pad see ew had tasted a bit off.
Great. Allergies and food poisoning.
He’s about to pour himself a scotch, alcohol is medicine after all, when a gentle knocking draws his attention to the entrance of his suite.
He opens the door and immediately regrets it.
“Nate’s not here,” Chuck says hurriedly while trying to shut the door.
Blair stops it from closing with an outstretched palm. “I’m not here for Nate. I came to see you.”
Upon hearing those words, the fluttering feeling in his belly kicks into overdrive.
“Why?” he sneers cruelly. “So you can say I’m disgusting again? That you hate me? I got the message last time, thanks.”
Her eyes darken in anger. “Fine!” she snaps. She turns to go, but not before shoving something hard and rectangular into his chest before she storms off. He catches the object before it falls to the floor. It’s a DVD case.
“What’s the point of this, Waldorf?” he calls after her, but she doesn’t answer. With a muttered curse, he runs after her, stops her seconds before she can enter the elevator. “What is this?”
She glares at him fiercely. “It’s a movie. I thought you might want to watch it with me,” she spits venomously.
“You want to watch a movie?” he repeats incredulous. He holds up the case. “Charade? You hate this film.”
She looks down briefly, then raises defiant eyes to his. “Yeah, well maybe I’ve never really given it a chance.”
Even colored by her temper and his, it sounds like an apology. Or as close to one as he’s ever likely to get from Blair Waldorf.
And despite the fact that he knows that he should tell her to fuck off and stay as far from him as possible, a small voice inside convinces him that it’ll be so much easier to destroy Blair Waldorf if he’s close to her. Right?
“Fine,” he grinds out. “Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant it is.”
“Great,” she bites back sarcastically.
Then they’re walking back to his suite, each still silently fuming. The ridiculousness of the situation is not lost on either of them.
Once inside, Blair thaws a little. “I had Dorota prepare a movie night to go. She even sent snacks,” she says grudgingly.
He nearly chokes on his own saliva when she proceeds to pull two fully popped bags of microwaveable popcorn from her oversized Birkin. Of course her maid had already made the popcorn. She would know better than anyone that ‘Miss Blair’ is only domestic at Thanksgiving.
“Well, I guess I can’t let Dorota’s hard work go to waste,” he deadpans. “Here, let me get a bowl for…” He trails off as she pulls one from the purse. “Is that like a designer Mary Poppins bag?”
She laughs, “There’s soda too!” Grinning, she hands him the bowl and pulls out a couple cans of Coke. “You have rum, yes?”
“What? Didn’t Dorota think to pack that too?” he mocks faux serious.
“No,” Blair sighs. “She’s only human, after all.”
Only human? He thinks the woman might be a damn saint! He never had an au pair do half the shit for him that Blair’s does for her. Then again, his nanny and he did engage in other activities. He smirks at the memory.
Once the drinks are prepared and the disc is in the machine, Blair drags the coverlet from off his bed. She bundles herself in it and then plops unceremoniously next to him on the couch. Looking at her, Chuck smiles thinking it is exactly like when they used to do this all the time as kids.
She raises her chocolate eyes to his. “Don’t try anything,” she warns.
Turning his head back toward the television and pressing play on the remote, he replies, “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
But that night, wrapped in the same blanket that had held her, breathing in the lingering traces of her perfume, he does.
98.6
With a snap of his wrist, he shakes the mercury down and places the thermometer back under his tongue.
98.6
What the hell? Maybe he isn’t waiting long enough.
98.6
This thing must be defective. It’s the only explanation. He’s obviously ill. Why else is his stomach fluttering like that? It’s been driving him nuts for the last couple weeks. Ever since he nearly kissed –
No! Stop right there. He is not thinking of that. Every time he does, the sensation only gets worse. The only time it is stronger is when he’s actually around her. Thankfully, that hasn’t been often lately.
Chuck wonders if it’s an allergy, one of those late onset things like diabetes. Is it possible to be allergic to a person?
He reaches for the folded sheet of Plaza Hotel stationary he’d written on last night. He’d felt the urge to write after he’d sent the stunning brunette with the killer breasts home. Despite her enthusiastic ministrations, her chestnut curls, and talented mouth, he just hadn’t been able to get in the mood.
Yet another reason why he knows he is unquestionably sick. Perhaps he should schedule a check up, just to get a diagnosis. And possibly some Valium.
He unfolds the paper and cocks one brow in confusion. It’s a list.
#1. Forget Blair Waldorf’s lips.
#2. Forget Blair Waldorf’s legs.
#3. Forget Blair Waldorf’s laugh.
He skips down a few.
#10. Forget Blair Waldorf’s smile. It really does make her whole face light up.
#11. Forget Blair Waldorf’s perfume. It smells kind of flowery. Like magnolia blossoms.
#12. Forget Blair Waldorf’s headbands. She has a lot of them. They’re sort of cute…
How drunk had he been when he wrote this? And is that a fucking heart doodled in the margin?
Oh my God.
He must be going crazy. Can allergies make one delusional?
He flips open his cell. “Arthur,” he orders brusquely, “I need a doctor’s appointment. When? Like yesterday!” He snaps the phone shut in irritation.
In trepidation, he glances back to the list. Should he bring it along to show his physician? It is proof of his mental instability. But no. Better not, he thinks. They might try to institutionalize him.
He scans the remainder of the list warily. Near the bottom, he breathes a sigh of relief.
#26. Remember to reform plan to destroy Blair Waldorf.
Finally, a sensible idea! Maybe it was only temporary insanity.
He rips off the top portion of the paper and crumples it in his hand. He tosses the wadded up ball into the waste basket, only to retrieve it seconds later. It isn’t safe in the garbage, he tells himself. Anyone could find it. Best to leave no evidence. He’ll burn it… later.
Right now? The plan!
Serena’s leaving had screwed the last one all to hell. But she can’t stay away forever, can she? The Upper East Side is her home. Surely she’ll come back sometime. Christmas, perhaps? Yes, definitely then.
Can he wait that long? Four months?
Easily if he is assured of success, but what if something unexpected happens again? He has to anticipate what could go wrong. Nate’s family almost always stays in town, but Blair’s parents sometimes go on winter vacations. With their upcoming divorce, the probability that one of them wouldn’t be in Manhattan doubled. Blair will likely have to split the holiday between them and might not be around during the crucial window of opportunity.
The odds are not favorable. Too many variables. So scratch counting on Serena’s return. Something else would have to suffice.
He supposes he could just send an anonymous text with the secret to Gossip Girl and let the rumor mongering bitch do the rest for him. It would do the trick. But that was so simple. It was a bit beneath him really. Plus, it wouldn’t hurt Blair nearly as much as it would if Serena was still around.
What else had the potential to cut like that?
What if Blair slept with Nate, thinking they were losing their virginities to each other, and then found out about Serena? Oh, that would work. It would work beautifully.
Chuck’s lips twist into a grin.
Okay, so how to get the lovebirds to do the deed?
Blair should be the easier of the two. Nate is already acting weird around her, pulling away. A few well placed comments and she’ll get it into her head that if they have sex, she’ll be able to hold onto him.
Getting Nate to actually do it is the problem. But then, he hasn’t confessed to Chuck about sleeping with Serena, so he probably won’t. Chuck could use that. Call Nate’s manhood into question. Pressure him to seal the deal with Blair, to tap that ass. And because Nathaniel looks up to him so much, sooner or later he’ll give in. Even better, as soon as Nate blows his load in Blair, he’ll brag to his best friend about it to stop the teasing. Then, after an appropriate amount of time so as not to draw suspicion, Chuck will send the text to Gossip Girl that will crush his nemesis.
Okay, that’s settled then. Operation get Nate to fuck Blair is a go.
Why is his stomach suddenly roiling? The contents lurching with a wave of something like nausea? Chuck tries to remember what he has eaten today. Oh, yes. Thai. And now that he recalls it, that pad see ew had tasted a bit off.
Great. Allergies and food poisoning.
He’s about to pour himself a scotch, alcohol is medicine after all, when a gentle knocking draws his attention to the entrance of his suite.
He opens the door and immediately regrets it.
“Nate’s not here,” Chuck says hurriedly while trying to shut the door.
Blair stops it from closing with an outstretched palm. “I’m not here for Nate. I came to see you.”
Upon hearing those words, the fluttering feeling in his belly kicks into overdrive.
“Why?” he sneers cruelly. “So you can say I’m disgusting again? That you hate me? I got the message last time, thanks.”
Her eyes darken in anger. “Fine!” she snaps. She turns to go, but not before shoving something hard and rectangular into his chest before she storms off. He catches the object before it falls to the floor. It’s a DVD case.
“What’s the point of this, Waldorf?” he calls after her, but she doesn’t answer. With a muttered curse, he runs after her, stops her seconds before she can enter the elevator. “What is this?”
She glares at him fiercely. “It’s a movie. I thought you might want to watch it with me,” she spits venomously.
“You want to watch a movie?” he repeats incredulous. He holds up the case. “Charade? You hate this film.”
She looks down briefly, then raises defiant eyes to his. “Yeah, well maybe I’ve never really given it a chance.”
Even colored by her temper and his, it sounds like an apology. Or as close to one as he’s ever likely to get from Blair Waldorf.
And despite the fact that he knows that he should tell her to fuck off and stay as far from him as possible, a small voice inside convinces him that it’ll be so much easier to destroy Blair Waldorf if he’s close to her. Right?
“Fine,” he grinds out. “Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant it is.”
“Great,” she bites back sarcastically.
Then they’re walking back to his suite, each still silently fuming. The ridiculousness of the situation is not lost on either of them.
Once inside, Blair thaws a little. “I had Dorota prepare a movie night to go. She even sent snacks,” she says grudgingly.
He nearly chokes on his own saliva when she proceeds to pull two fully popped bags of microwaveable popcorn from her oversized Birkin. Of course her maid had already made the popcorn. She would know better than anyone that ‘Miss Blair’ is only domestic at Thanksgiving.
“Well, I guess I can’t let Dorota’s hard work go to waste,” he deadpans. “Here, let me get a bowl for…” He trails off as she pulls one from the purse. “Is that like a designer Mary Poppins bag?”
She laughs, “There’s soda too!” Grinning, she hands him the bowl and pulls out a couple cans of Coke. “You have rum, yes?”
“What? Didn’t Dorota think to pack that too?” he mocks faux serious.
“No,” Blair sighs. “She’s only human, after all.”
Only human? He thinks the woman might be a damn saint! He never had an au pair do half the shit for him that Blair’s does for her. Then again, his nanny and he did engage in other activities. He smirks at the memory.
Once the drinks are prepared and the disc is in the machine, Blair drags the coverlet from off his bed. She bundles herself in it and then plops unceremoniously next to him on the couch. Looking at her, Chuck smiles thinking it is exactly like when they used to do this all the time as kids.
She raises her chocolate eyes to his. “Don’t try anything,” she warns.
Turning his head back toward the television and pressing play on the remote, he replies, “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
But that night, wrapped in the same blanket that had held her, breathing in the lingering traces of her perfume, he does.