#sometimes it makes what happens in the s6 finale okay because what was never born may never die

[anotheronechicagobog]

I’ve gotten some negative DMs so I’ve decided to make a little bit of a statement.

I am of Slavic descent. I do not know which country, or even region, of Eastern Europe I am from, only that my dad’s side of the family is Eastern European. I am caucasian, but I don’t always look it. I have been asked if I’m Asian or First Nations many, many times, I usually just respond with ‘why do you need to know?’ ‘what made you think it was appropriate to ask me that?’ or ‘how is information like that any of your business?’ There is absolutely nothing wrong with being Asian or First Nations, I just don’t know why pasty white people feel they are entitled to anyone’s ethnicity or race.

I’m getting off topic; I am of Slavic descent. Barring Brian ‘Otis’ Zvonecek, I would like for you to think of a character that was Slavic and had absolutely no ties to the Russian mob, KGB, or Russian brides (which is a human trafficking scheme btw). I bet you can’t. Don’t worry though, I can’t either! And that’s my point. I started watching the One Chicago Series because they had a character who had that same heritage as me, who looked a lot like me (olive skin, still a white person but dark enough that pasty people think you don’t share the same racial identifier as them) and he was not, in any way, connected to any of the Russian stereotypes I’d had shoved down my throat growing up! It was amazing! (I started watching because of a S6 repeat while S7 was running, and he died beginning of S8 so I only got one season in real-time, unfortunately) But I don’t think a lot of people I know grasp just how important this was for me.

I grew up being asked if my family and I were spies. I was called ‘comrade’ in a shitty Russian accent more times than I could count (seriously, if I got 5 cents every time it happened I’d be able to pay for undergrad, law school, and a house by now), I was emotionally, mentally, and physically tormented, I was told I was evil for my DNA, and I spent a lot of time fearing for the safety of me and my family. There were numerous times I genuinely thought a group of classmates were going to kill me. I was called nothing, the word ‘nothing’ so that I would know that I wasn’t even good enough to be the filth on the bottoms of their shoes.

They told me I was evil, so I grew up thinking there was a ticking time bomb in my mind, that one day a switch would flip, and I’d suddenly be speaking fluent Russian (a language I was forbidden to learn growing up, barring the word ‘matryoshka’ which is a Russian nesting doll, because of the negative and nightmarish hold the memory of the Soviet Union had on my family), doing backflips in heels, and killing everyone with acrobatic hand-to-hand combat. I am not joking. Being half Slavic has been a huge factor in my depression, anxiety, and suicidal state. I was so afraid of being evil that I did everything in my power to be good.

But none of it mattered, because like they said, I was born Slavic. I was born evil. Rancid. Rotten inside and out.

So when I found a character who wasn’t even remotely involved in the usual BS Hollywood puts Slavic people through (I’m looking at you CSI: Miami, yes I’m still salty about that), I was ecstatic. I’d only just started rehabilitating myself from the trauma I’d endured in my childhood, and this helped a lot if I’m honest. I actually cried tears of joy because of it, and stared blankly at the screen when he died.

So when I decided to write fanfiction, I wanted to put a piece of me, and consequently Chicago Fire, in my work by making some characters Slavic. And it brought me so much joy and peace to be able to do that. And to read what I wrote, because there was Slavicness and goodness in it. I know that there are so many underrepresented or misrepresented people in media, trust me, I do. But this was about me for once, and finally feeling like it’s okay for me to even exist. To not feel like an abomination. Just for a little while.

And while I desperately want for more accurate and less derogatory Slavic people in media, it is not my priority. My priority is for visible minorities to get better representation first. Because I at the very least have some people who look like me, and talk like me, and walk like me, and that’s more than most people can say. 

So I do try to be as inclusive as possible. I never put physical descriptions in (I don’t have porcelain skin, flowing blonde hair, or piercing blue eyes either \(0_0)/), and I try to even out how many of the readers in my fics are related to white characters, with readers related to characters who are people of colour. And that’s if I decide to make the reader related to anyone or from a specific culture, because I know that I probably won’t get to everyone, and sometimes what makes a reader fic so great is a blank slate. I research other cultures, their words and foods, so that I can bring other neglected people into the spotlight. I promise all of you, I am trying my best.

I don’t get paid for doing what I do, and it takes a lot of me to write and post. If I genuinely do something wrong, message me or comment, I’ll fix it. But I’m trying to make myself feel okay about existing, and I want to help others feel okay about themselves and who they are too. So please, no hate. There’s more than enough of that in the world already.

[snowbellewells]

“Uncommon Fairy Tales”

By: @snowbellewells  (TutorGirlml on ff.net)

Okay,so a while back I posted “pillowfort with CS baby” as one of my WIPs for a tag game response, and I started work on it with the hopes of posting it as a fluffy Valentine’s one shot.  Unfortunately, I did not get it accomplished in time for the holiday. However, I liked it too much to scrap it, or wait for another year to post.  Instead, with a bit of editing, I offer it to you now as a bit of general fun Friday fluff in a canon divergent near-future post-s6.  I mainly say divergent because Henry is off at college rather than traveling the realms, and I have included my own headcanon CS children: Morgan Ruth Jones and Westley Graham Jones.  

I hope you enjoy -- and I’d love to hear your thoughts! :)

“Uncommon Fairy Tales”

Giggles, snorts and snickers, along with the quickly following sounds of scuffling child limbs and whisper-hissed shushing greet Emma Swan as she returns to her family’s home by the harbor on the outskirts of Storybrooke, tired from her shift at the sheriff’s station and ready to collapse on the couch and put her feet up. However, despite her weariness and aching bones, a smile curls across her lips as she hangs her coat on the hall tree and heads toward the living room. She has already toed off her bots quietly as well, kicking them haphazardly to land on the mat somewhere near her husband’s, and is tiptoeing in her socks toward the sounds that continue to carry on the quiet evening air, hoping to catch her little pirates at whatever they are up to before they realize her presence.

Once Emma reaches the entryway, she peers around the wall, only to draw in a quick, surprised breath just as her eyes widen at the construction before her. Sometime between her leaving for work at 10 a.m. and now, in the suppertime twilight, her family’s living room has become the site of some sort of fairy glen, complete with twinkle lights, gauzy curtains, and a pink and purple blanket stronghold taking pride of place in the very center of the floor. Clearly, her clever (though endlessly spoiling) husband has been at work to help their two younger children create this; in fact, Emma thinks she can hear his deep sonorous chuckle rumble from within the blankets festooned over the backs of two kitchen chairs to the recliner, coffee table, and couch at their other corners right along with Westley’s little yips of excitement and Morgan’s protests of “Quiet! Mama will be home any minute!”

Emma has to press her fist to her mouth not to laugh aloud at them already, their chance at surprise long past even if they don’t know it yet. She draws back a bit further, not wanting to be seen and spoil whatever fun they have concocted. Even as she does so, she hears Killian’s gentle admonishment, warming her heart once again with his infinite patience for his little ones and the depthless well of love in his heart that had clearly lain waiting for centuries, merely needing to be tapped and set free. “Easy there, my Lass.  He’s little yet, and anxious to unveil your surprise. Try to have patience.  You know after all, that Mama will love it, surprise or not, aye?”

There is a weighted moment and a bit of shuffling and dissatisfied grumbling, but Emma’s heart nearly melts its last little bit when their six-year-old, Morgan Ruth Jones, indomitable, one-of-a-kind, and vibrant to a fault, bright-eyed and opinionated in all things, answers at last, “Aye, Papa, I know.” It went without stating outright, just from her weary tone of voice that she would still rather manage their unveiling as planned.  Even with their reward on the horizon, Emma can only imagine that their wild pirate queen, as unruly as the dark curls that cascade down her back and as mischievous as her twinkling green eyes suggest, is finding the extended period of required stealth and patience quite a stretch as well. She can almost see Killian smoothing Morgan’s hair off her forehead in a calming gesture, even as she hears his deep murmur of “Just a bit longer, she should be here any moment now…”

“Aye, aye, Captain!” pipes up Westley enthusiastically, their three-year-old as sandy blonde, strapping, and fearless as his grandpa Charming, and no doubt pressed so close to his sister’s side in his excitement that he is quite probably sitting right on her lap, looking up at her with blatant admiration and practically wriggling with glee. Their baby is the only one of her three child to inherit her lighter complexion, hair color, and pale freckles, and Emma can only imagine how flushed his cheeks must be as hyper as he sounds at present.

Emma is startled in the next instant when Killian’s own dark head of tousled hair peeks up out of their blanket construction to capture her unerringly in his gaze and wink at her saucily.  She should have known he would be aware of her presence; how had she thought she’d snuck up on a pirate? Crystalline blue eyes still glittering with affection and mischief, Killian nods to her once, as if urging her on, and then ducks back down into their hiding place, clearly hoping to keep up the illusion of going undetected for their children.

Smirking to herself and shaking her head at their antics, not to mention how she will do almost anything to accommodate them, Emma proceeds to sneak back into the hall and make an entrance they can’t miss hearing. She opens the front door again to close it just a bit louder than necessary, going through the motions she would take if she really did need to take off and hang up her coat and kick off her boots in the entryway. Finally, biting back the grin that threatens to stretch all the way across her face, she moves toward the living room where she knows her little family is hiding, calling out innocently, “Guys, I’m home! Hello? Where is everybody?”

Just as she reaches the archway from the foyer - for the second time, though unbeknownst to her two youngest - there is a squeal of glee and rustling that nearly upsets the whole blanket fortress for a moment, and then the blanket draped over the top flings back, and her husband with his two little pirates in training all leap out with a call of “Surprise!”

Emma allows herself to jump in exaggerated shock, emitting an audible gasp and letting her mouth drop open and eyes widen to what she hopes is a convincing extent. Both Morgan and Westley chortle with mirth and hop up and down, clearly proud of themselves and their success in startling their mother.  Emma’s chest swells at their happiness, celebrating within herself one more small moment in which she knows with certainty that she and Killian’s babies are getting the life both she and her husband had always wished for - the simple pleasures, the fun and unconditional love both had ached to experience, and deserved to have.  If she accomplishes nothing else for the rest of her days - and she knows Killian agrees with her in this - Emma is so proud and thankful that Morgan and Westley don’t have to grow up the way she and Killian did.

The smile that has been trying to break free wins and spreads across her face unabashedly, practically beaming even as she blinks back sentimental tears at the three people she loves most (besides Henry, now off at college but still very much home in her heart) in the entire world. “Wow,” she finally sputters, overcome more by contented fulfillment and love than genuine astonishment, though the distinction thankfully doesn’t seem to be apparent to a three and six-year-old. “What’s all this for?”

“For you, Mama!” Westley bursts out in excitement, hopping from one foot to the other before holding out his arms to be picked up by his mother. “To ‘prise you!”

“Yup,” Morgan adds succinctly, nodding in solemn agreement, “Papa says that letting people know you love them, especially for no particular holiday and when they least expect it, is a gift that can’t be replaced by any treasure.” Their feisty buccaneer recites these words sagely, pleased with her repetition and completely assured in her belief that all her beloved papa says is true.

Emma smirks, reaching out to ruffle Morgan’s dark ringlets where they stream over her shoulders while cuddling Wes closer to her chest. Her eyes lift to meet Killian’s with a challenging arched brow as she asks, “Is that so?”

“Certainly, Milady,” Killian murmurs, his voice husky and low with emotion as he bows slightly over her hand, taking it in his own and kissing the back of it, which makes Morgan squeal and Westley groan, burying his face in Emma’s shoulder. “Wouldn’t you agree?” His own eyebrow quirks upward deliberately as he gazes back at her with a smouldering stare that sends her temperature skyrocketing several degrees higher in seconds. She watches, speechless, as her husband runs the tip of his tongue over his lower lip salaciously, a low hum in the back of his throat caressing her ears as rich velvet would her skin, and Emma knows her cheeks must be flushed red as ripe tomatoes, not to mention her neck and chest. It’s an embarrassingly obvious tell that her husband never misses.

Emma isn’t sure what might be about to happen, until there is an insistent tugging on her hand that breaks the laden moment. “Hey, hey, stop kissing!” Morgan orders, not even slightly inhibited in letting her parents know they have gotten off track. She was born to be a captain Killian has stated more than once to Emma in an awed tone, shaking his head and his blue eyes far away, holding that look in them he only gets when he is remembering his older brother, seeing in his mind’s eye the sibling who was his captain, his role model, his father figure and his hero, all rolled into one person.

At any rate, there is no denying their determined daughter, especially not when Westley removes his face from her shoulder, tilting it up to look into her eyes as he adds, “Yeah Mama! You haven’t even seen your ‘prise yet!”

Emma smiles lovingly at her little boy, offering Killian a look over his blonde head that she hopes conveys just how much she wants them to continue later from where they have been interrupted. His full lips tilt upwards in a knowing, returned grin, and her heart soars. He always understands her.

“Alright, alright already, you two scurvy knaves!” Killian calls out in his fiercest Captain’s voice. “We’ve caught ourselves a Princess, mates! Let’s show her to her new quarters, shall we?”

Emma laughs wholeheartedly at their continued game of make believe, even as Westley and Morgan both yell in delighted agreement and each take one of her hands to pull her toward their fortress. Once she has knelt down closer to their height and then followed their prompting to crawl in under the festooned blankets after them, she genuinely does draw in a breath of pleasant surprise. The three of them have been busy while she was away, as beneath the blanket roof several plump pillows gathered from all over their house have been scattered as comfortable seats, there is a lamp in one corner and an open book where Killian has clearly been reading to them, and there are three lidded travel cups with bendy straws and a platter of fresh grapes and apple slices along with several shortbread cookies obviously waiting for her to join them.

It is hard telling how Killian has kept their sticky-fingered bandits out of the goodies thus far, but Emma is not at all surprised that they have been listening to him reading. In truth, Killian’s read alouds are one of both their children’s favorite things, and for good reason. Between his beguiling accent, dramatic reading style, and his ability to choose all the best stories, Emma herself can hardly look away once he begins to spin a yarn.

Without realizing she has done so, Emma has stopped in the makeshift entry on her hands and knees, taking it all in. Morgan and Westley have scampered in before her and are each waiting impatiently on their chosen pillow seats, but it isn’t until she feels a lightly playful swat on her jean clad rump that she remembers Killian is still behind her, waiting to follow her in.

With a gasp, feeling her flesh heat, Emma scuttles forward, biting her lower lip and already contemplating how she’ll make her husband pay for that deliciously later.  She hears his warm chuckle as he crawls into their haven behind her, even as she senses his presence nearby, and she can tell, simply from his tone that his blood has gone hot with the same plans for later, despite neither of them speaking a word. “Move along there, Love, or we’ll never get on to your special tea,” he jibes her.

Once Killian has settled himself by the light and picked up the book to continue from where he and the kids had left off, he says jovially, “What say you two lubbers?  Can you tell Mama where we left off?”

“Aye! Aye!” Morgan and Westley chorus exuberantly, bouncing on their seats.

“The Lost Boys just shot down a Wendy-bird!” Westley chirps, puffing out his chest with pride at knowing the answer and having followed the story, “but it was really Wendy the girl!”

“Right,” Morgan affirms, giving her brother a patient smile, but also adding with a hopeful look at her papa, as if wanting him to see her three years’ older wisdom, “but it was really Tinkerbell’s fault.  She didn’t like Peter paying all that attention to Wendy.  She told the boys there was a Wendy-bird and Peter wanted them to get it.  But that wasn’t true. She was jealous and trying to get rid of Wendy, wasn’t she?”

Killian nods quietly, his eyes alight at his little boy’s obvious enjoyment of the story and at his daughter’s clear understanding, not just of plot, but also of human emotion and empathy. “That’s right, my loves,” he murmurs, appeasing both young listeners as they settle down to hear more of Barrie’s classic adventure.

It is only because she knows her pirate so well and grasps the emotion overwhelming him all too easily herself that Emma hears it choking her pirate’s words along with his amusement. Westley crawls over to sit in her lap as Killian picks up the tale once more; his melodious voice casting magic every bit as powerful as Tink’s pixie dust. Blinking away stray tears at the rightness of it all as she listens, her son’s hair tickling her chin, Emma marvels again at the uncommon fairy tale ending she has stumbled into, not sure how she managed to get here, but grateful all the same.

Tagging: @searchingwardrobes @laschatzi @kmomof4 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @jennjenn615 @therooksshiningknight @spartanguard @aloha-4-ever @thislassishooked @winterbaby89 @linda8084 @teamhook @revanmeetra87 @branlovestowrite @ilovemesomekillianjones @effulgentcolors @hollyethecurious @tomeandflickcorner

[lost-n-stereo]

A/N: Heyyy look who finally finished a GG fic, and it’s not even one I had planned. This is set post S6 finale. A little NJBC angst. Enjoy!

the bottles always there (when I have nowhere else to turn)

He’s in Sydney when he hears news of Serena’s engagement.

It doesn’t come as a surprise but it still stings in a way that it shouldn’t. It’s been years since they dated and almost six months since he’s even seen her.

Chuck is the one that breaks the news, tells Nate that him and Blair were asked to host the event but he wanted to make sure Nate wouldn’t have a problem with it. He’s never been able to hide his feelings from his best friend and while it’s going to hurt like hell to watch the woman he’s been in love with for most of his life marry someone else, he’s not going to stand in her way of happiness. He leaves his phone in the room, tells himself he’s just not responding because of the time difference, and makes his way to the elevator.

He plants himself down on a barstool in the hotel bar, orders a beer and tells the bartender to keep them coming. 

“Tough night?” She asks in a light Australian accent, a pretty brunette that looks nothing like Serena and for that he’s eternally grateful.

“The love of my life is getting married,” he says and raises the bottle, tips it in her direction before taking a long pull. She smiles sadly at him, pulls a shot glass from under the counter and fills it up with vodka.

“I think you need this. On the house, o’course.”

He thanks her, downing the shot without a chaser. It’s not like him to drink away his problems, he’s seen enough of that in his lifetime to curb the cravings but right now this bottle in this bar in this country is the only thing keeping him sane.

“Does she know?”

Nate looks up from where he’s peeling the label off his third bottle. “Who?”  It’s a dumb question but he asks it anyway.

“The woman you love. Does she know how you feel?”

He shrugs, finishes off the bottle with one last swing and sets it down harder than he needs to on the bar. “Doesn’t matter. She made her choice a long time ago.”

He doesn’t know how he makes it back to his room in one piece.

When he wakes up his shoes are still on, his suit pants rumpled and his phone is lying next to him on the bed. He scrambles for it, hoping to God he didn’t drunk dial or text Serena in his intoxicated state.

There’s only one outgoing message but it’s to Chuck, he realizes with relief. Until he reads it and sees that it’s past the point of no return.

It’s okay with me. Send her my love.

***

It’s an easy routine for him to fall into, one of the doting husband and father.

Henry is a great kid, already so smart and a perfect mix of both of his parents. When Chuck looks into the eyes of his son he sees Blair’s spirit and tenacity, but also her kindness and compassion. And, if judging by the outfit his son is currently wearing, he got his sense of fashion from his father. It’s barely eight am and yet his son is already dressed in black slacks, a white cashmere sweater and a pair of Italian loafers.

“Daddy!” Henry calls happily when he runs in and flings himself at Chuck, who’s reading the Post at their kitchen table. They try to spend as much time at home as they can, especially in the mornings and at bedtime. It’s not easy when they are both running their own companies but it’s worth it, to see his family every morning when he wakes up and every night before he falls asleep.

“Good morning, Henry. Did you sleep well?”

Henry widens his eyes and his arms at the same time. “Like a log, Dad. You know like those really big ones down at the duck pond!”

Chuck laughs, drops a kiss to his son’s head and looks up when his wife comes into the room. The smile drops from his face when he sees her brown eyes glistening with tears.

“Dorota,” he calls and the woman bustles in. “Can you please keep an eye on Henry for a moment?”

“Of course, Mister Chuck.”

Blair doesn’t say anything, just lets Chuck take her hand and lead her into the living room, which is enough on its own to completely freak him out.

“Blair, what’s wrong?” He asks when they are alone and she sighs, sits down on the couch and pats the space next to him. “You’re kind of scaring me here. Please tell me what’s going on.” He finally sits and she pulls his hand onto her lap.

“I’m not sure how to tell you this,” she says softly. “I just got off the phone with Dr. Brown. He said that the results of my fertility tests aren’t good. The chances of us having another baby without help are slim to none.”

It’s been something they have talked about since Henry was a year old, when to give him a brother or a sister. At first they took the whatever happens, happens approach. When Henry was three they decided to actually try but it’s been almost three years and still no luck.

“Okay,” he says, thinking of the right way to navigate the conversation. “We have all of the resources we need, Blair. If we need help, we’ll find a way. Hell, we can adopt. This isn’t the end of anything.”

Her pretty brown eyes are sparkling with tears when she looks up at him. “Then why does it feel like it is?”

Chuck reaches for her hand but she shakes her head, tells him that she just needs to be alone for a little while, and leaves him by himself in the living room.

He blows off his lunch with Lily, makes up an excuse that he doesn’t think makes sense and promises her that he’ll make it up to her. Instead he goes home, pours two fingers of scotch and sits behind the desk in his office. When his glass is empty he fills it up again, and then again, and finally once more.

There’s no way he’s going to make it to any of his meetings for the rest of the day so he texts his assistant, asks him to move everything until tomorrow, and tosses his phone on his desk.

It’s been a long time since he’s dulled the pain of something like this but right now it feels fitting. He’s a good father and a good husband, he knows this. But right now he feels like the old Chuck. Powerful but powerless. Unable to give the woman he loves everything her heart desires.

So he sits in the dark like he would have before, lets the sun go down and drowns his pain the only way he remembers how.

***

Her marriage ends only two short years after it begins.

If she’s being honest with herself, she should have seen it coming. Dan was a social climber in disguise, always looking for a way in and a step up. The start of the marriage was like a dream, parties and events every weekend. A handsome man on her arm that she was proud to call her husband.

But then one day it changed. He cared more about getting ahead than he did about their relationship. It made her question everything. Was he only with her because of who she was and her status on the Upper East Side? Did he love her or the idea of her?

Why did she marry someone that spent years tearing her down for the world to see?

Blair is the first person she tells and she can see the look of relief on her best friend’s face, even though she’s trying to be supportive.

“I’m so sorry, S.” Blair rests her hand on her growing baby bump. Serena feels like a divorce is small potatoes compared to the year Blair and Chuck have had but then thinks, no, that’s not fair. Her problems are just as valid, if not more, because they are hers.

“I am too,” Serena says, curling her legs up underneath her. “I really wanted the first time I got married to be the only time.”

“Hey, don’t knock second marriages,” Blair jokes. “Sometimes it’s for the best.”

Later that night, when she’s alone in her suite at the Empire, she pours a glass of wine and sits down next to a window looking out over the city.

She’s mourning but she’s not sure exactly which Dan she misses the most. Her partner, who was supposed to be her equal in everything. Her husband, who looked good in the photographs lining their fireplace mantle. Her friend, the one that told her time and time again that her happiness meant everything to him.

The bottle of wine doesn’t last longer than an hour and then she’s on the phone with room service. They tell her that Mr. Bass has given her carte blanche to order whatever she wants and she laughs quietly to herself, orders a three hundred dollar bottle of champagne, and leaves a tip she knows he can afford.

If she has to drink away her problems she may as well do it in style.

***

Motherhood is the most rewarding job she’s ever had.

Henry was a dream child, now a child of twelve with the wisdom of someone much older. Her pregnancy happened quickly and the following years with him were easy and carefree, up until he decided to grow up and become a preteen.

It never occurred to her that things might not go as smoothly the second time around.

After months of expensive invitro, they finally conceived. When the doctor told them they were having a little girl Blair swore her heart was going to burst from her chest. Audrey, named after her idol of course, was born happy and healthy right on time.

Now she’s four and runs their entire household. The girl has Chuck wrapped around her dainty little pinky, just like Blair always knew a daughter would. She has a penchant for pink princess dresses, which Blair indulges probably more than she should.

“Mom!”

Henry calls to her from his bedroom and she rolls her eyes, because he’s a great kid but sometimes he’s a little too spoiled for his own good.

“Henry,” she sighs as she pushes open his bedroom door. “How many times do I have to tell you not to scream at me from the other room? Sending a text would be less rude.”

Her son rolls his eyes and she cocks an eyebrow. “Sorry, mom. I just need you to sign this permission form.”

“Permission form for what?”

She watches in amusement as he visibly stops himself from giving her another eye roll. “The Paris trip, remember? My class is going for two weeks over summer break.”

He hands her the paper and she skims it, remembering only vaguely him asking about this. “Does your father know about this?”

“Duh,” he says and she scolds him. “Sorry, yes. Dad knows and he said he doesn’t care if you say it’s okay.”

Blair sighs and signs it, hands it over to him so he can put it in his book bag for the next day. She’s not the biggest fan of her son traveling overseas without them but it’s not as if four of his grandparents aren’t already there.

Three weeks later they are sending their son off to Europe, not for the first time but for the first time without them. Blair sniffles, holds her hands to her heart and Chuck laughs and presses a kiss to her temple.

“Blair, he’s going to be fine.”

“I know that,” she snaps. “We’ve never spent this much time away from him. Aren’t you the smallest bit sad about it?”

His hand tightens slightly on her shoulder. “Of course. He’s my son, I don’t want him an ocean away. But he’s growing up and we have to let him do it.”

Blair sighs, buries her face in her husband’s suit jacket. “I hate it when you make sense.”

A few hours later they are sitting at the Empire bar when Nate and Serena walk in holding hands. Blair smiles sadly at them, having called them to come commiserate the first night of Henry’s trip.

“You two look miserable,” Nate says with a chuckle, bending down to kiss Blair’s cheek. “You know he’s only going to be gone for two weeks, right?”

“Shut up,” Blair says, motioning for the bartender to bring her another mint julep. “I’m going to drown my sorrows and pretend like my son isn’t having the time of his life in my favorite city without his mother.”

“Aww,” Serena says, wrapping her arm around Blair’s shoulders. “You’re such a good mommy, B. I miss him already too.”

Chuck claps his hands once to get everyone’s attention. “Hey! Can we stop sitting around like a bunch of sad assholes and just drink? I feel this may be the only way to get my wife out of her slump and I, for one, would like to get laid tonight.”

Everyone laughs when Blair hits him in the arm but she’s thankful for him trying to lighten the mood.

They sit and drink for hours, Blair stopping to sniffle only a few times. Serena wipes the tears from her cheeks and promises her that Henry will be just fine.

The drinks help wash away her worry but it’s not what calms her down and assuages her fears. It’s the moments like these with her best friends, the people she loves most in the world, that makes her raise a glass in a toast.

“To us,” she says. “May we always have each other for the good times and the bad.”

Everyone raises their glasses and meets in the middle.

“To us.”

[dcbicki]

I'm sorry to double dip but could you do danxamy for 14 and Jonsa for 6? Those are my two fave pairings!

I did the Dan/Amy one, but (if you’re still interested) could you send me a different message for the J/S one - it makes things easier to post? Also, I love how this was supposed to be a ‘few short paragraphs’ meme but I went over 3k words with this… Enjoy! :)

14. Things you said after you kissed me | Post-s6, in which Amy is ready to give birth, and Dan’s feelings are semi-ready to express themselves.

-

“If I find even one picture of this on that phone, you’re a dead man.”

“Ah, come on, Amy,” He starts, grins - that prick! - and then he’s scrolling through what she can only guess is a new photo album on his fucking iPhone. “Don’t you wanna have something memorable to show people, to commemorate this joyous occasion?”

She can’t tell if he’s fucking with her, or if this is actually all just a part of his stupid fucking plan.

“I think the probable sociopath I’m squeezing out of my fucking vagina is gonna be enough of a souvenir, thanks.” Her teeth grit and she’s frowning, reaching for something to hold onto other than the railing of the hospital bed.

She’ll commemorate this joyous occasion by chopping his balls off and force-feeding them to him through a tube. That sounds like a pretty solid revenge scheme right now.

“Dan! Can you just put the fucking phone down and get me some ice chips? For fuck’s sake.”

Amy doesn’t notice the two cups already on the side, chips melting. So, he just smiles, picks one up and hands it to her. There, hold that.

She doesn’t though – instead she finds herself grasping at his shirt, knuckles whiter than usual, face a pretty picture of sheer agony, “You’re gonna pay for this, you dick.”

“So you’ve said.” He’s rolling his eyes, and he laughs (because he’s not the one forcing an infant through his genitals) like the asshole she knows him to be.

And then he smirks, because he’s Dan, because he can, “You can only kill me so many times, you know?” The threat count is probably nearing the two hundred mark at this point.

Apparently, within the next couple hours, she’s castrating him with children’s craft scissors, gauging his eyes out with bendy plastic spoons, ripping his hair right from his scalp with just her bare hands, carving out his shrivelled up black heart and proceeding to feed his carcass to a pack of wild dogs. Oh, and she’s gonna feed him his ballsack through a fucking tube. Whether that’s pre or post heart failure, he isn’t sure.

Sure thing, Ames.

“I still get to torture you beforehand.”

“True. But you know I’d just consider that brutal foreplay.”

“Oh, fuck off.” She’d let go of his shirt sometime in the past minute, and her palm is wrapped so tightly around the frame she’s sure, he’s sure it will snap. Fuck, it’ll probably shatter.

Dan looks over at her then, (attempts to) run a hand through over-gelled hair, phone finally shoved inside his back pocket, “D'you want me to leave? I can just wait in the hall. I mean, I’ve got some calls to make and-”

Yeah, Dan, you’re not good with hospitals or empathy, I know.

“You’re staying right here.” Her blue eyes are like frozen blocks of ice, and her lips draw thin, cheeks puffing as her face flushes, neck tenses. “You’re gonna stand there, and only there, and you’re gonna hold my fucking hand like the nice man your mom thinks she raised.”

He nods, complies, shuffles forward so he’s leaning over the side of the railing. Even when she’s sat and he’s slouched, he still towers over her, still doesn’t loom. What kinda bullshit-

“Okay.” Dan sighs, adds, “Your mom’s outside, by the way.” As though that will get her to change her mind.

Oh, yes, Dan. Yes! Go get my mom, and you can wait in the hall with fucking Gary! That’ll make you happy, won’t it? Go!

“Well, then, that’s where she’ll stay.” She huffs out, eyes closed since he agreed to stay. Her head’s thrown back, blonde hair askew, face pink, lips plump. God, he wants to fucking straighten her hair. She isn’t her.

“Really?” He frowns anyway, confusion clear across his face, “Don’t you want some other woman here? I thought that was like a… thing.” His nose crinkles, “What about your sister?”

He doesn’t quite understand why she wants him here, especially with her mother right outside and she’s always seemed closer to her than anybody else in her family. Hell, Gary’s probably better suited for this kind of thing than he is - he’s into all that feminine crap, right? And he’s just-

Well, he wasn’t even all that great when they went for checkups. He just sat there in the chair and smugly grinned like an asshole whenever the doctor pointed at the screen, at the bean-sized, peanut-sized, melon-sized spawn of his that Amy was incubating.

Come to think of it, he’s not even sure he’s ready for the little bugger to be born yet. Then again, him not ready being ready isn’t the worst thing. Amy’s the one having to do all the work.

Push, scream, push, push, scream, cry, push, sweat, cry, sweat, scream.

Hopefully, she doesn’t die. Hopefully, she won’t leave him alone with a newborn. That would be some serious fucking divine retribution right there. Dan, you take this. You deal with it. Have fun, fucker.

“That’s not a fucking thing, and if you ever fucking bring up Sophie again, I swear to God I will have you murdered in your sleep.”

He’s brought back then, all wide-eyed and lost-looking.

With a sigh, he concedes. He is the father. (Wow, that’s fucking weird.) He’s the one who did this to her, with her. He’s the one who fucked her, and subsequently fucked them both over.

“Nah, you wouldn’t.” He glances down at Amy, raises one eyebrow pointedly in that way she really, really, truly fucking detests, “You wouldn’t deprive yourself of that pleasure.”

His gaze shifts to the door then as it swings open, allowing Amy’s (midwife? obstetrician? fuck knows!) doctor to walk through. A nurse follows, and Dan catches a quick glance of Amy’s mom talking to Gary in the waiting room.

Are they deciding which one of them is going to watch over the kid first so that Amy can catch some sleep, and Dan can go home and change out of his day-old shirt? He’s actually surprised that, for once, Gary isn’t at Selina’s side like a fucking half-turtled turd.

Amy’s been here for fucking hours – all bed-ridden and shit in a sweaty dull-coloured hospital gown, and (truth be told) he’s still pretty pissed about the blue balls she’d left with him earlier. (Granted, she went into labour, but still.)

Going home to stroke one out might actually come in handy. Pun fully intended, he grins. Just as long as he doesn’t catch a view of her child-baring vag beforehand-

“How are we feeling?”

He’s flicking open the chart the nurse hands him - Dan’s forgotten his name because it was some European-sounding bullshit and he had more important stuff to do than learn it - and he smiles up at Amy, all red hair and freckles and glasses.

“Just tell me if I’m fucking dilated.” Amy writhes on the bed, focuses her attention on the patterned ceiling, and Dan’s damn sure she’s gonna pull a fucking Exorcist in a minute and start levitating. It doesn’t look comfortable. Maybe Mike hadn’t been lying about his surrogate’s birthing story, after all.

The doctor shoves his glasses up his nose, snaps the chart shut and smiles (like a fucking teenage boy who’s gonna get his first upfront look at a woman’s privates).

He leans forward, does his thing (and Dan watches him out of the corner of his eye because focusing on that is a little more personal than he’s willing to get right now, or ever.)

He’d rather not see some guy - trained professional or not - put his hands anywhere near Amy’s crotch. (Unless it’s in a mirror… and he’s the guy.)

“Looks like I was right on time. You’re just about ten centimetres.”

The blonde sits up in her bed then, neck muscles still tense, shoulders raised and bony, “So the little fucker’s finally ready to come out?”

“Amy.”

“I can… start pushing?” She corrects herself with a sigh, half-ignores Dan’s burning stare. Fuck you.

“Seems so.”

She briefly relaxes then, lets herself fall back for only a moment, but then another contraction hits her again, only it’s worse this time, and Dan’s hand is actually there for her to hold and bruise and fuckin’ crush. Jesus, woman!

“Whenever you’re ready.”

“If we’re waiting for that, the kid’s never coming out.”

It’s intended as a joke, but Amy just tightens her hold around Dan’s hand, waiting until his knuckles crack before finally softening her grip.

Prick.

He holds up his other hand (semi-apologetically given the proud look on his face) before lowering it down to the side of the bed, wrapping it around the metal post and leaning closer to her.

“Okay. Push.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Just fuckin’ push, Amy.” He sounds ticked off, worked up, “Jesus, it’s not hard.”

Despite herself, she finds herself reassured when his hand reaches for her own, and then she’s going for it.

-

Turns out, it’d been harder than he thought it would be.

That epidural – no, those two epidurals – clearly hadn’t done shit because she was still in pain throughout, and her body was on the brink of a fucking collapse. Maybe that’s just what happens though. How the fuck is he supposed to know? He didn’t even wanna be here for this until she roped him, forced him into it.

Watching Amy Brookheimer give birth (to his child) hadn’t ever been on his bucket list, and now, he notes, there’s a reason that was. The whole thing had been brutal. She screamed, in his face, into his shirt. She cried, in his arms, into his shirt. She sweated, like a fuckload.

She’d been all red and warm and horrifically in pain, and Dan’s pretty sure he’s going to picture her mid-labour face whenever he’s holding himself back from coming from now on.

At least now she’s calmer, and quieter, and she’s finally fuckin’ let go of his hand. Honestly, childbirth turned out to be much more of a team sport than he’d thought it would be. He didn’t think he’d ever have to be someone’s punching bag, or actual fucking support system, so that was an experience.

At least now she looks like herself, and her blonde hair is straight again because she (post-labour, of course) practically assaulted a nurse until they gave her a hairbrush. Type A, confirmed.

At least now, he can run his hands through pretty, long, straight blonde hair and grab it, tug it, pull it. Maybe once she’s out of here, and he’s changed out this bloody tear-stained, snot-ridden sweaty mess of a striped shirt, they could-

Honestly, she’s really fucking glowing and he’s kind of enjoying it. Is she supposed to look this fuckable after just giving birth? He’s probably a mess himself, all bruised knuckles from her death grip, and aching legs from standing up for so long. Oh, well.

Their son is born at a healthy weight, with blueing grey eyes and a patch of light dark hair atop his head. But he’s all gunky and gooey and just plain fucking gross, so the nurse takes him away to be cleaned up when Amy’s had just about a minute with him.

He was actually kind of… cute? Fuck, she hates that word.

Cute in a way that meant if she stared at him for too long, she’d fucking vomit. Cute in a way that meant he was cuter than most babies – but then again, that’s just their genetics.

“You did great.” Dan’s grinning (again, like a dickhead), “You know that, right?”

“Doesn’t feel like it.”

“I’m serious.”

It’s not the first time he’s complimented her skills, competence. But it’s a strange kind of sincerity, one with a little more meaning, depth behind it than she’s used to receiving from him, from anyone.

Pushing herself up on both palms, her back aches as she stretches, props herself up into a comfier position against some square pillows. It’s not soothing, though, and she has to readjust the shitty cushions behind her to find some kind of comfort. She’s fucking sat on one, and it’s doing nothing to alleviate the pain she’s feeling down below.

“When do you think I can leave?”

She wants to be working, walking about, running around, doing things. Being cooped up in a hospital bed is not fun, is not productive, is not rewarding. Granted, she can still talk and call and email but it’s not the same as being up and about, out where the action is, where she’s actually useful.

Dan gets to leave whenever he likes. Dan doesn’t have to remain on bedrest for an undetermined amount of time. Dan doesn’t have to deal with a sore vagina and everything else that entails. Dan is a man, got the ‘get out of jail free’ card when she drew the one that forces her to take five places back.

Dick, she scowls.

“Probably tonight. That nurse said there weren’t any complications so we can probably go home later.” He reasons, shrugs as though it’s nothing major. Dick.

“We?” Amy lifts a brow, sniffles, “You can go home already, you know.”

“What, you think I’m just gonna fuckin’ leave you here?” Dan stares down at her, runs one hand along the cool railing, “Jesus Christ, Amy, you just had my kid. Even I’m not that fuckin’ cold.” He almost looks appalled at the idea – he’s desperate to leave though, to go home. Fuck it, he’s half-tempted to pack her bag, get her dressed, grab the baby and make a run for it.

“I’m just saying, you don’t have to wait for me-”

“Shut the fuck up.” His head ducks, eyes closing. What the fuck is he doing?

“I can have my mom bring me back to the apartment later. It s fine-” Because she’s still here, because Grandma B likes being involved in all things Baby Brookheimer-Egan related, because she’s just that kind of person. At least they’ll have someone to babysit for them that isn’t hired or fucking Gary.

“Amy, seriously. Shut up.”

“Why?” She smirks, figures she can get a rise out of him and whatever the fuck he’s trying to conceal. Is that… fucking emotion, some kind of weird display of fucking devotion? What- “Or Gary. It’s not like he has anything better to do anyway, other than trim Selina’s nails or wipe her ass.”

“You’re not going home with Gary. For fuck’s sake, Amy. Is it so hard for you to just shut your fucking mouth every once in awhile?”

You getting worked up there, Danny?

He sighs (deeply, strangely), and then he’s leaning down and kissing her before she can even say anything else, anything at all.

It’s a weird kiss, different from their normal, their usual. There’s no tongue shoved down her throat (which she almost sadly longs for), no hand on her neck (which is oddly irritating), no hair-pulling or shirt-tugging (which she really fucking craves).

It’s just a kiss on her lips (soft, surprisingly bland yet somehow charming), and then it’s over.

“What the fuck?” She exclaims when he’s pulled back, scratching the space between dark furrowed brows. “What, did you develop some kind of sappy dad hormones as soon as the fucking baby started kicking and screaming?”

“No, I-” He begins, shifts his gaze from the white sheet of her hospital bed to her face, all pink lips and flushed face. “I don’t know, Amy. Fuck!”

He doesn’t know why he kissed her - like that - save for the fact that he wanted to (almost desperately), so he did. Fuck, he feels feverish. He’s flushed, more than she is, has been, and he doesn’t understand why. His breathing is faster than it was a moment ago, and he wants nothing more than to take that kiss back.

“Sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” Amy leans back against her pillows, hitches up the bottom of her gown and stretches out her legs. “Fuck.” Her eyes close and she swallows a breath, way too calm for his liking.

Why isn’t she on edge? Why isn’t she begging to be let out of this room? Why isn’t she bribing nurses?

Why isn’t she Amy?

“You know I like you, right?”

“You like me?” She grins despite her eyes remaining closed, and her neck reddens, “Wow, Dan. What a revelation.”

“As in, I like you more than I like anybody else.” Dan shrugs (for no good reason), and he clears his throat with one hand smoothing along the bed railing, “As in, I say I like you, but it’s more than that, and you know it.”

“Oh, I do? Because you’ve made it so blatantly obvious over the years?” She laughs, once, practically hiccups. “Sure, Dan. You like me like that.”

His fingers dance along the thin mattress, curling around the hem of her gown, all pale skin and pastel blue cloth.

Why is she Amy?

“You never wondered why I stayed?”

“Because you think you’re getting something out of this.” She reasons, peeks one eye open and looks at him, flicks both eyes open when she notices his frown. “Jesus Christ, why do you look like someone just reported you as a sex offender? Sort your face out.”

“I mean, you’re not wrong.” He nods. He did get sex out of this. He did get Amy out of this, in some way, in some capacity. He did get a mini version of himself out of this, and his narcissistic ass kind of really loves that part of the deal. “Not entirely.”

“Oh, go on.” Amy smiles, “What am I missing? Why did you stay?”

“Because it’s you.”

Why is she Amy?

Because if she wasn’t, he wouldn’t be Dan.

“Is this the part where I swoon, and you get down on one knee, and the whole hospital staff applauds when I agree to marry you?” She’s smirking - that bitch! - and she licks her lips, holds her breath for a second.

“Is this where we elope and move to the suburbs and fuck maybe once every three months and I don’t let you finish?” Biting her lip, “Is this where you say you love me?”

She drags out that word, and Dan’s face near drowns of all colour. Fuck her.

“You’re a real cunt, you know that?”

She just nods, sheepish, lets the hand in her lap move to brush against his own, toying with her blue gown, “You love this cunt.”

“I do.” His palm runs along her stomach, stops just above the space between her legs. “And you love this dick.”

Amy smiles, ducks her head, understands him straight away yet doesn’t exactly deny it, “Fuck you.”

“Oh, believe me, you will. I’m just waiting until we can leave and they clear you for sex.”

“You’re seriously fucking turned on by this, aren’t you? That’s some next level, twisted mommy-issue shit right there, Dan.”

“Babe, the only mommy I’m thinking about right now is you.”

“If you start calling yourself ‘daddy’, I swear your balls are getting the chop.”

“Daddy Egan?” He boasts, beams.

“Just my luck.”