Blame It, a gossip girl fanfic

A/N: This begins pre-pilot and ignores the majority of canon; it's a compilation of all the moments that Chuck and Serena could have almost-maybe-kinda hooked up, but instead chose to blame it on the a-a-a-a-a-alcohol, hence the title. Reviews are lovely.

.2006.

blame it on the goose, gotcha feeling loose

blame it on 'tron, got you in the zone

blame it on the a-a-a-a-alcohol

-- Jamie Foxx ft. T-Pain, Blame It

Chuck has never been the academic type – why bother studying, when you can simply pay someone to take silly things, like the SATs, for you? there are much better things to spend your time doing – but it doesn't take a genius to notice that Serena van der Woodsen is a pretty girl. She and Blair Waldorf, with their short seersucker skirts and polished flat shoes, are the prettiest thing (thing, singular, because that's how they are)in Constance Billard's courtyard from their first day of kindergarten onward.

It takes him a while, however, to realize that Serena is actually pretty hot. It doesn't happen until one humid night in June, when Chuck is fourteen and Serena is still thirteen, will be for another month or so, and she finds him just as dusk is settling over New York City.

"Chuck!" she says when she sees him, her voice bright, full of half-broken optimism.

"Serena." He says her name far more dully, with much less inflection, but it doesn't seem to faze her at all.

They're in his home, the penthouse suite of his father's latest hotel investment. He's not sure how Serena sweet-talked her way here, to the doorway of his bedroom, on a Thursday night – but then again, he supposes Lily's probably off in Croatia or something and Serena's too old for the nanny to care now, and she could work her way past any doorman with a flash of her smile and mention of her surname.

"I wanna go out!" she declares in this perky voice that sounds misplaced in the stillness and quiet of the entire penthouse. Chuck's father is, as usual, nowhere to be found.

"Go out?" He lifts his eyebrows but does not bother moving from where he's lying on his bed, attempting to watch some action movie Nathaniel recommended – a recommendation that was way too enthusiastic considering its lame entertainment value.

Serena plants her hands on her hips. "Yes, go out," she repeats impatiently.

"And do what?"

She stares at him as if it should be obvious. "Get drunk."

He finally gives her all of his attention, ignoring the movie. "You want to go out and get drunk," he summarizes slowly, partially to give himself thinking time, and also because he knows it will annoy her.

And it does. "That's what I just said, Charles."

"Don't call me that," he snaps at her.

"Don't stall," she snaps right back.

He's going to tell her that they can't. That there are better things for her to be doing at thirteen years older, safer things, smarter things. He's her friend, after all. He's supposed to tell her stuff like that. Nate and Blair would tell her stuff like that. Serena's never exactly been one to play by the rules, though he thinks this might be pushing the levels of irresponsibility. But then she throws that retort back at him so quickly that it catches his full attention, every shred of it, and he takes a moment to just look at her.

What he finds that she doesn't look like his friend, like the girl who grew up alongside him. She hardly looks thirteen. She's in this satiny, strapless dress, and it's tight and low and short – and Serena's got boobs and curves and legs that he's never really noticed at all before. She's got heels on, too, these pale teal-coloured ones that show her toes and are easy to miss when contrasted with her electric-blue dress and wild yellow hair with the sparkling clips in it.

After looking (ogling) at her for a minute, he finds her eyes with his again, and he ends up doing a double-take. The Serena he knows is full of smiles that stretch her mouth and fill her eyes, but right now her lips are overly glossy and set in a straight line, and her eyes, usually the warm blue of summer skies…they look sharper, dangerous, edgy. It makes him blink a few extra times.

"I will go with or without you," she warns, the ghost of her most playful look slipping over her features, haunting momentarily before it disappears again.

In that moment, he cannot categorize her. She is not his childhood friend, not the little girl who used to ask for his help tying shoelaces; nor is she one of those women, like his last Austrian au pair, all sultry eyes and revealing outfits – she is the strangest hybrid of the two.

He nods, swinging his legs over the side of his bed. "Alright, let's go out."

She grins: that unstoppable, beaming thing that he's used to. "Yeah?"

Chuck rolls his eyes. "Yeah, Serena. I just said so."

But she ignores him, bounces over to his closet and rummages around. "What're you gonna wear?"

He rolls his eyes again, touches her shoulder and gives her a gentle shove away. "Guys don't do that whole thing."

"But you do." She snatches two shirts out of his closet and holds them up for his inspection. "Choose!"

He picks the blue – completely unintentionally matching her outfit.

Serena let's Chuck pick the club, one that he's vaguely familiar with, and he doesn't know when she started drinking tequila shots, but she downs five of them in the space of about three minutes, and then turns to him, licking lemon juice off her lips.

"Better catch up, Chucky," she says, eyebrows arched like a challenge, and he glares,

"Don't call me – "

"I'm dancing," she interrupts, slipping off the stool and tugging the hem of her dress down. "Find me when you're drunk and ready to have some actual fun."

"Hey – hang on." He doesn't want to lose her in the crowd next, so he does two shots of him own, grimacing at the taste but refusing to bite into a slice of a lime. He grabs her wrist, and then her hand, just because it's more comfortable. "I'll come with you."

She hugs him impulsively, laughing right next to his ear. "Chuck! You're my favourite."

He pushes her away, but he reaches for her hand again. "Yeah. Whatever. Lead the way."

"Another!" Serena cheers. She's smiling again, all sultry and coy this time, and it makes him grin back at her.

He pulls her a little closer so that she'll hear him. "What this time?"

"Grey Goose martini," she requests, eyelashes fluttering. "Thaaaaank you."

Chuck rolls his eyes as he leaves her, but his grin stays in place. This night has actually been kind of fun – definitely more fun than the movie he was watching earlier. Serena's the life of the party; all enthusiasm, all the time. Plus, she dances really well and really close, which he can't exactly complain about.

Except when it's with some other guy, who has got to be almost a decade older than her, his face close to hers and his hand slipping further and further down her back. Chuck scowls and steps away from the bar. He didn't sign up to play babysitter.

"What do you say we get out of here, hmm?" Sleazy Guy smirks at Serena, his hand on her cheek.

"I'm with my friend – " Her hand flies outward, gesturing.

"Boyfriend?"

"No, just friend, but – "

"So you don't need to stay with him, right?" No answer, so he tries, "How about I buy you another drink first, and you think about it?"

"Yeah, maybe – "

"Sounds like a plan."

"But my friend…"

"I want you to myself." Sleazy Guy laughs. "You can't blame me, can you, honey? You're so beautiful."

Serena doesn't reply to that, either, but she reciprocates readily when Sleazy Guy leans down and plants his lips on hers, his hand slipping onto her ass.

"Hey! What're you doing, man?"

"She's a kid," Chuck says firmly, glaring hotly because this is possibly the lamest thing he's ever done. He steps in front of Serena a little.

"Chucky."

"Serena," he snaps back, still glaring. "Will you shut the hell up?"

She pulls out of his grasp, jerks away from him; her eyes are cold and her smile is gone.

"Will you mind you own damn business?" she retorts, but it's quiet and lacking venom, almost sad. She looks down, her hair falling into her face.

"Did you bother finding out this guy's name before you let him feel you up?"

"What are you, her brother?"

"No." He hates this guy for taking advantage and he hates Serena for being to naïve to know how to take care of herself and he kind of hates himself to agreeing to this whole thing in the first place.

"Let's go." Serena hooks her hand around his elbow and pulls. "Chuck. Let's just go."

Outside, she whirls on him, fiery all of a sudden. "What the hell gives you the right to act like that, huh? I thought we came here to have fun! I was having fun!" She blows out her breath. "What gives you the right?"

"I came with you," he says, and he's reasoning with her but also shouting, and Serena is drunk and angry and heartbroken, he can see it in her eyes; she is a force of nature on the city sidewalk, drawing attention without meaning to.

"So what does that mean, then?!"

"It means you don't kiss guys like that! You're thirteen."

"Shut up!" she yells back, and she's gasping and her eyes are wet and he's never seen her like this before. It scares him, to think that this might be who she is, when you rip away the layers of smiles and silly jokes.

"What? You don't want people to know?" He turns to a passerby, says calmly as he points to Serena, "She's thirteen."

"Chuck!"

She's breathing kind of desperately, arms crossed tightly, fingers digging into her sides as if she needs to hold herself together. It's obvious, then, how she really is thirteen years old, how this entire night was a bad idea, how she's really just a lost little girl who's falling apart without anyone noticing.

Except Chuck, right now, at two o'clock in the morning. Right now: he is noticing.

"Who am I supposed to kiss if not those guys?" Serena's voice has lost its bite, is just raw and honest, seeking answers.

He glares at her, repeats, "You're thirteen."

"Don't act like you're so much older than me!"

"I'm not! You're just – you're – " You're too young to be this jaded.

She flips her hair over her shoulder and levels him with a glare. "I'm going back in."

"No." He grabs her wrist. "No, you're not." He is not going to explain to Lily van der Woodsen how he let her only daughter wander off with a creepy twenty-something guy. He is not going to tell his father about how he took a thirteen-year-old girl to a club. He is not going to be the jerk who should have stopped her when the police are investigating her disappearance. He certainly is not going to be the one to tell Blair Waldorf that he could have stopped Serena from making a stupid decision and didn't.

"You're not the boss of me!" she cries petulantly, trying to tug away from him.

"S, you don't even know that guy's name, and you're out here crying because I pulled you away from him – none of this it worth it."

"He likes me," she spits back, and the way she says it makes it sound like some wonderful, magical thing that has never happened before.

Chuck squints at her, shaking his head slowly. "No, he doesn't."

"You ass – "

"You know he doesn't. I know that you know that."

"He wants me."

Chuck snorts disbelievingly. "If by want you mean he wants to sleep with you and ditch you somewhere, then yeah, he definitely wants you."

A tear falls from Serena's eye, tumbling down her cheek and leaving a trail in its wake. She teeters a little in her heels and Chuck moves his hand smoothly from her wrist to her elbow, pulling her a little closer as he steadies her. She takes a shaky breath and presses her hand over her mouth for a second; she doesn't look at him.

He clears his throat a little awkwardly, says mutedly, "Other people want you, you know. For better reasons."

She rolls her teary eyes. "Do not."

Chuck smirks, not quite bitterly. "Would it make you feel better if no one wanted me either?"

She giggles a bit, leaning the slightly bit closer. "People want you. You're Chuck Bass."

Smirk still in place, he replies, "And you are too drunk."

"That guy bought me shots," she murmurs.

He narrows his eyes. "Straight from the bartender? Let you see someone pour them?"

"Can't remember."

He sighs heavily, says sarcastically, "Great."

"I'm sorry about tonight." She glances at him, looking up through her eyelashes. "I made you come out with me and I made you take care of me. I didn't mean for the second part to happen."

"It's okay." He laughs, surprising them both. "I wanted to come with you."

"No, you didn't. I made you, I – "

"Serena. I wanted to."

"Shut up."

Chuck smirks a little. "Make me."

And then she does, which he really should've expected, because Serena never backs down from a challenge – but he's too stunned to really think about it, because she's kissing him, one of her long arms around her neck and her chest pressed right to his. He'd like to say he's never thought about it, doing this, but the truth is that he's thought about it a few times tonight. And a few times before that, too, because she's always been pretty and he's heard stories about this girl; stories which he thinks are some kind of falsified truth, if such a thing exists.

So he kisses her back, rests the hand that's not cupping her elbow on her hip, and she makes this little sound at the back of her throat when he coaxes her mouth open with his own.

"Get a room," a random passerby growls at them, and Serena's the one who really hears it, the one who breaks the kiss, laughing breathily. She blinks, eyes glistening, and bites her lip like she might actually be considering it.

But then her other arm slinks around his neck as well and she falls into him a little bit, her head pressed against his shoulder.

"Will you take me home?" she murmurs.

He takes her home, slips the doorman a twenty as they make their way past him.

She kisses him once more after he sits her down on her bed, and he kisses her back, he can't help it, even if it's kind of sloppy and he's leaning down awkwardly toward her.

"Thank you," she sighs, her mouth just a breath away from his. "Did I tell you you're my favourite?"

He snorts out a laugh. "Yeah. You did."

He doesn't see her again for a day and a half.

And once (twice, then thrice) while he's smoking up in Sheep Meadow, he wonders if maybe she thinks it meant something.

Did it mean something?

He sees her again at school, toying with Blair's necklace and laughing about something, hair flying wild around her face because of the wind.

Credit where credit is due: when she sees him, she makes eye contact instantly, doesn't back down or look away for even a second. Her eyes narrow a little, locked on his, and he watches the way her lips curl. She doesn't say anything, though, nor does she make any move to come talk to him. She stays where she is, half-listening to Blair and nodding in all the right places.

"Hey!" Nate calls out boisterously to the girls, bounding over to where they're sitting on the Met steps and dragging Chuck along with him. He elbows Chuck on the way there, mutters, "Dude, what's up with you…?"

"Hi," Blair purrs at Nate, eyes flicking toward Chuck in a silent acknowledgement as she gently pries her necklace from Serena's fingers.

"Hey, Natie," Serena pipes up brightly, shielding her eyes against the sun with one hand as she grins up at him. "And Chuck. Hey."

"Hey." He clears his throat a little as he repositions his scarf. Serena would make out with anyone. They barely even kissed. It definitely didn't mean anything.

Blair frowns as she gestures to the spot next to her, nodding toward Nate to show that he should sit there. "What's wrong with you today, Bass?"

He glances at Serena. She's looking steadily back at him, lazily curious. She props her chin in her hand, parrots Nate rather than Blair: "Yeah, what's up with you today?"

Chuck smirks at her even as he answers Blair. "Nothing at all."

"Look, S – "

"I was drunk," she says flippantly. "It didn't mean anything. I can hardly remember that night at all."

Her locker slams shut and he winces. He looks like a complete idiot right now, having ventured into the girls' hallway and sought her out to talk about this.

And he's eighty percent certain she's blatantly lying to him right now.

"Yeah. I was drunk, too."

Serena sighs. "Come on, Chuck." She leans against the row of lockers, smiles half-heartedly. "It's not like you like me."

He frowns. "Obviously."

"Right. I mean, I know you slept with Georgina."

Taken aback, he blinks at her. "You do?"

She's not looking at him; her gaze is fixed somewhere else in the empty hallway. "Of course. She's my friend. She told me."

He clenches his jaw. Georgina's kind of…well, to put it lightly, crazy. Yeah, Serena's hot, and he wouldn't kick her out of his bed – but he doesn't like-like her anymore than he does Georgina, especially if they're going to be comparing notes behind his back.

"Oh," Chuck mutters.

"Never would've happened if I wasn't drunk." Serena shrugs, offers, "Sorry."

"You should be." He smirks. "You were all over me."

"Please." She doesn't deny it any further.

"You were." And for a minute, it was awesome.

"I have class," Serena says softly after a long, lingering silence, scuffing the toe of one of her shoes against the polished floor.

His gaze slides down her body, takes in the pale blue shirt and short skirt and legs, legs, legs. "What about you?"

"What do you mean, what about me?" She smiles at him, the smile he's always known, sunshine and butterflies and all that other happy shit. She doesn't exactly look like the girl from the other night.

Nonetheless, he leers at her. (He remembers what her lip gloss tasted like: vanilla.) "Who're you fucking?"

Serena laughs, sharp but genuine, and tosses her hair over her shoulder. She leans in close to his ear. "Not you, Chucky."

"Don't call me – "

But she's halfway down the hall already, skirt flouncing and hair glinting under the fluorescent lights. He tilts his head the slightest bit, watches the sway of her hips.

Yeah, still hot.