FIC: Trust Issues
Author's note: So... I started this with the best (ahem) intentions to make it fit into my sex series, but the whole thing backfired once I got to the meat of it and then there was no sex at all. I will tag this as part of the series (#13. Obey) but it's not smutty so blah. Oh, and it's angsty à souhait.
Seeing is believing. But sight isn't always truth.
TRUST ISSUES
You fault my pride. Don't ever need to apologise.
You’d better learn to crawl before if I walk away.
- Kings of Leon, Crawl
“Get the hell out.”
The low growled command sliced neatly through the air, touching the fuck-me lipped redhead like a resounding slap. The girl and her deep cleavage, barely flustered, made a slow show of climbing off the male lap she’d been - Blair bit her cheek, drawing and tasting blood - grinding on like a bitch in heat.
Chuck’s dark eyes found hers. Impassive. As though he had nothing to be ashamed of.
“I pity you, you know,” the green-eyed monster taunted in her ear.
Blair drank the blood, chin up and eyes not swimming as Chuck’s summer assistant let herself out. At the click of the massive door, her eyes found Chuck’s again. Empty. Nothing at all. Nothing to grab onto and accuse him of and to walk out on and to curse and to forget forget forget as part of this obviously severe head trauma his words - I love you, too - must have set off for the whole of this past year. She lashed out. “So. She’s good?”
“How should I know?” he answered calmly, so, so calmly that she wanted to scream and tear him apart and get him to react, for Chrissakes!
Blair chortled darkly instead. “Please. You insult my intelligence.” She gestured to the closed office door and the whore beyond. “How long?”
He fingered his designer pen. “Never.”
Blair’s blood screamed. “You’re a shitty liar.”
“No, that’s you, Blair.” His eyes bore into hers, inquisitive. “You really don’t trust me, do you?”
Blair bristled, but couldn’t answer. Shameful though it was, she truly didn’t, because… because of who he was, once upon a time, maybe even still. It was maddening. Tiring.
“I saw you, just now,” she said by way of answer, though she knew it wasn’t one. “You did nothing to stop her.”
Chuck sighed, then sat back in his plush seat. “Come here,” he said at length. When Blair held her ground, his eyes narrowed, the grim line of his mouth flattening, hardening. “Come. Here. Blair. Please,” he bit out, enunciating each word harshly and without apology.
She was being difficult, she knew, but that Basshole deserved every bit of it. With a glare, Blair moved forward to stand before him and his cherry wood desk. “What,” she spat out viciously.
Leisurely, smoothly - Chuck had always reminded her of a slinking bobcat - Chuck unfolded himself from his boss chair and rounded his desk to her. He didn’t stop safe inches away. No, he kept on, his hard scowl suddenly in her face as he took her hand and yanked it down to the crotch of his fine trousers. “What’s this, Blair?” he grunted dangerously in her ear.
At a loss, bewildered, Blair halted, “No - nothing.”
“That’s right,” he said, releasing her hand brusquely. “And why’s that, Waldorf?”
“She…” Blair trailed off, mortified, confused.
“… didn’t do it for me.” He stalked off backward, leaning against his desk. “Now, was there anything else?” His gaze narrowed on her face, her flushed cheeks, the moisture in her eyes, but he was relentless - heartless - as he pushed it further now that she’d well and truly goaded him too far. “Maybe I could mention that you’re many a man’s secret wet dream. Or how about I point out that it’s all fine and cute when you’re all possessive in public but it’s a fucking insult to me when you’re always suspicious behind my back. You don’t trust me? God dammit, Blair. Will you ever forgive me my past? Do you see me getting all caveman when you talk to Nate?”
During his diatribe, Blair’s shame had turned inside out. Lips quivering, lipstick gone from all the biting to keep her tears reined in, she hugged herself into a tiny, tiny little being and whispered, with no force at all, “It’s not the same.”
“Like hell it isn’t,” Chuck spat, then added, “Fuck you, Blair.”
Blair’s gaze shot up then, locking onto his. No apology there, simply starkness and a deep grooved frown. The moment seemed to stretch infinitely, until she couldn’t look at him anymore. “Well,” she breathed, hating her weak rebuttal but helpless to it, “if that’s how you feel.” Forcing herself to tamp down on any emotion the words might reveal, Blair unlocked her body, moving. Away. Unseeing.
Her hand was twisting the knob when he spoke again. “Blair…” he said, the hoarseness of his voice surprising her. “Stay.”
Her hand obeyed. Her tears didn’t. The strength to leave left her, though she didn’t face him, didn’t call him on his insult. Had no idea what she was doing.
She heard him move, heard the whisper of clothes coming closer until his arms slid around her and her limbs - treacherous things - relaxed into him. His mouth and warm breath followed, burrowing into the nook of her neck. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You’re just… I don’t know what I’m doing… Please, don’t cry.”
It was a little too late for that, but Blair swiped at her eyes, his words and the past suddenly reverberating through her. Do you see me getting all caveman when you talk to Nate? A cotillion and strain in his voice as he called her back. There was a history of purposeful wound-inflicting there, yet… “I’m sorry, too,” she murmured, comforted by his heat. “I never thought… I didn’t think Nate bothered you anymore.”
Silence, and Blair imagined that Chuck contemplated the question from all angles, as he did everything else professionally. “No. But…” He trailed off, but she understood implicitly.
“You’re afraid this is too good to be true,” she breathed to the air before her.
Blair felt his subtle nod against her hair.
“Me too,” she confessed quietly.
And he, too, understood. “Turn around,” he commanded gently, stroking her arms in quiet encouragement.
Smiling softly and sniffing back the emotions of a few minutes past, Blair turned in his arms. Reaching up, she was the one who initiated the brushing of lips, then deepened it in a forgiving press and tangle. “Fire her,” she finally mumbled against his lips, a gleam and grin in her eyes.
Seeing is believing. But sight isn't always truth.
TRUST ISSUES
You fault my pride. Don't ever need to apologise.
You’d better learn to crawl before if I walk away.
- Kings of Leon, Crawl
“Get the hell out.”
The low growled command sliced neatly through the air, touching the fuck-me lipped redhead like a resounding slap. The girl and her deep cleavage, barely flustered, made a slow show of climbing off the male lap she’d been - Blair bit her cheek, drawing and tasting blood - grinding on like a bitch in heat.
Chuck’s dark eyes found hers. Impassive. As though he had nothing to be ashamed of.
“I pity you, you know,” the green-eyed monster taunted in her ear.
Blair drank the blood, chin up and eyes not swimming as Chuck’s summer assistant let herself out. At the click of the massive door, her eyes found Chuck’s again. Empty. Nothing at all. Nothing to grab onto and accuse him of and to walk out on and to curse and to forget forget forget as part of this obviously severe head trauma his words - I love you, too - must have set off for the whole of this past year. She lashed out. “So. She’s good?”
“How should I know?” he answered calmly, so, so calmly that she wanted to scream and tear him apart and get him to react, for Chrissakes!
Blair chortled darkly instead. “Please. You insult my intelligence.” She gestured to the closed office door and the whore beyond. “How long?”
He fingered his designer pen. “Never.”
Blair’s blood screamed. “You’re a shitty liar.”
“No, that’s you, Blair.” His eyes bore into hers, inquisitive. “You really don’t trust me, do you?”
Blair bristled, but couldn’t answer. Shameful though it was, she truly didn’t, because… because of who he was, once upon a time, maybe even still. It was maddening. Tiring.
“I saw you, just now,” she said by way of answer, though she knew it wasn’t one. “You did nothing to stop her.”
Chuck sighed, then sat back in his plush seat. “Come here,” he said at length. When Blair held her ground, his eyes narrowed, the grim line of his mouth flattening, hardening. “Come. Here. Blair. Please,” he bit out, enunciating each word harshly and without apology.
She was being difficult, she knew, but that Basshole deserved every bit of it. With a glare, Blair moved forward to stand before him and his cherry wood desk. “What,” she spat out viciously.
Leisurely, smoothly - Chuck had always reminded her of a slinking bobcat - Chuck unfolded himself from his boss chair and rounded his desk to her. He didn’t stop safe inches away. No, he kept on, his hard scowl suddenly in her face as he took her hand and yanked it down to the crotch of his fine trousers. “What’s this, Blair?” he grunted dangerously in her ear.
At a loss, bewildered, Blair halted, “No - nothing.”
“That’s right,” he said, releasing her hand brusquely. “And why’s that, Waldorf?”
“She…” Blair trailed off, mortified, confused.
“… didn’t do it for me.” He stalked off backward, leaning against his desk. “Now, was there anything else?” His gaze narrowed on her face, her flushed cheeks, the moisture in her eyes, but he was relentless - heartless - as he pushed it further now that she’d well and truly goaded him too far. “Maybe I could mention that you’re many a man’s secret wet dream. Or how about I point out that it’s all fine and cute when you’re all possessive in public but it’s a fucking insult to me when you’re always suspicious behind my back. You don’t trust me? God dammit, Blair. Will you ever forgive me my past? Do you see me getting all caveman when you talk to Nate?”
During his diatribe, Blair’s shame had turned inside out. Lips quivering, lipstick gone from all the biting to keep her tears reined in, she hugged herself into a tiny, tiny little being and whispered, with no force at all, “It’s not the same.”
“Like hell it isn’t,” Chuck spat, then added, “Fuck you, Blair.”
Blair’s gaze shot up then, locking onto his. No apology there, simply starkness and a deep grooved frown. The moment seemed to stretch infinitely, until she couldn’t look at him anymore. “Well,” she breathed, hating her weak rebuttal but helpless to it, “if that’s how you feel.” Forcing herself to tamp down on any emotion the words might reveal, Blair unlocked her body, moving. Away. Unseeing.
Her hand was twisting the knob when he spoke again. “Blair…” he said, the hoarseness of his voice surprising her. “Stay.”
Her hand obeyed. Her tears didn’t. The strength to leave left her, though she didn’t face him, didn’t call him on his insult. Had no idea what she was doing.
She heard him move, heard the whisper of clothes coming closer until his arms slid around her and her limbs - treacherous things - relaxed into him. His mouth and warm breath followed, burrowing into the nook of her neck. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You’re just… I don’t know what I’m doing… Please, don’t cry.”
It was a little too late for that, but Blair swiped at her eyes, his words and the past suddenly reverberating through her. Do you see me getting all caveman when you talk to Nate? A cotillion and strain in his voice as he called her back. There was a history of purposeful wound-inflicting there, yet… “I’m sorry, too,” she murmured, comforted by his heat. “I never thought… I didn’t think Nate bothered you anymore.”
Silence, and Blair imagined that Chuck contemplated the question from all angles, as he did everything else professionally. “No. But…” He trailed off, but she understood implicitly.
“You’re afraid this is too good to be true,” she breathed to the air before her.
Blair felt his subtle nod against her hair.
“Me too,” she confessed quietly.
And he, too, understood. “Turn around,” he commanded gently, stroking her arms in quiet encouragement.
Smiling softly and sniffing back the emotions of a few minutes past, Blair turned in his arms. Reaching up, she was the one who initiated the brushing of lips, then deepened it in a forgiving press and tangle. “Fire her,” she finally mumbled against his lips, a gleam and grin in her eyes.