It's been a long while since I've written anything, but Christmas inspired me! I've been working on this small, rather fluffy three-parter for a while but then found myself too busy to finish. I'm going to try and finish the second chapter tonight and get the third one up before no one wants to read about Christmas anymore. Enjoy! - Air

Baby, It's Cold Outside

December 24th, 2011: 10:00pm

"Where's Louis?" he asked as he found her underneath a thatched décor piece made of holly poking through white fencing. White Christmas lights were woven through it as well, and the glow illuminated her and reflected in her champagne flute. She wore a shimmering gold dress with black tights and fire engine red lipstick and she looked like a present.

She'd been deep in thought, or perhaps had just been staring down at her drink and she snapped up when she heard his voice. It took her a moment to place herself it seemed. In truth, she hadn't been the same since she lost the baby only about a month before. And she refused to act like it ever existed in the first place.

"Oh, at midnight mass. You know…Catholics," she said and he nodded in understanding and perched himself next to her and leaned his back against the holly before jumping away from its prickles. She smiled a weak looking smile at his expense but didn't say anything.

He looked at her and took in her sad eyes, devoid of sparkle. "Waldorf," he said. "What's wrong?"

She rolled her eyes. "I'm just taking a breather from the dance floor," she said in her most perfected lying voice. "The champagne went straight to my head."

He gave her a bemused look.

She rolled her eyes. "Ugh, your perceptiveness is incredibly annoying, Humphrey, has anyone ever told you that?"

"Your moods aren't often hard to detect. I'd hardly give me that much credit," he said and smiled his Blair smile at her.

"True," she said a bit forlornly. "What was I ever thinking?" and she tried to smile again, but it faded and sank away halfway through to its completion.

"God, this gala is just…the worst isn't it?" he said, trying to lift her spirits slightly.

This time she let out a little half laugh. "One of Lily's finest," she said.

"It's completely cold. Christmas should never be this stiff. And the music…it sucks," he declared before downing his champagne and placing it firmly on the high top table nearby. "Come on, let's get out of here," he said and held out his hand, palm up.

"What? Where?" she asked with a scoff.

"Waldorf, just shut up for a second and trust me. Do you want to save Christmas or not?"

She slapped her hand into his defiantly. "Don't try and martyr yourself, Mr. Grinch," she said and pouted as she followed him out.

She nearly threw a fit on the way when he told her they'd be taking a cab, their destination was off the grid. But for all of her protests and threats, which incidentally only made him happier, for some reason she followed.

When they got to the bar deep in Brooklyn, he knew he'd been right. The jazz lounge was decked out with white Christmas lights and rich mahogany wood. It even had a fireplace crackling. It was pure class, and he knew she loved it.

"It's not glamorous," he said.

"But it has class." Ha. He knew it and tried to hide a miraculously triumphant grin, but one out of true genuineness. "I would have drawn the line at colored lights though, Humphrey. You're lucky."

He lifted off her designer coat and hung it on the hook beside their booth. He ordered them hot whiskeys and roasted chestnuts. The place was in good cheer, bustling and boisterous, and yet it still felt intimate.

Once he got two hot whiskeys in her and she switched to champagne again, he side stepped the small talk and witty banter and dug in again. He didn't know why it was so important for him to know and to want to fix it, but he refused to let her wallow on Christmas Eve.

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong now that I've saved Christmas?" he said.

"It's stupid in hindsight," she shook her head to brush it off.

"Blair," he said in the way low and rumbling when she's being insufferable.

"He got me a Tiffany tiara," she finally blurted out.

Dan typically doesn't speak in high-end jewelry or unidentified pronouns, so he took a few moments to piece it together. She was talking about Louis, her fiancé, and her dissatisfaction with his gift? But why wasn't she livid? Why hadn't she schemed to make sure he got her exactly what she wanted? Why was she so…so…somber?

"Clearly," he said and scoffed, "the man has no taste. Off with his head!" he said sarcastically but she didn't budge, didn't look up.

"Why not an original Degas or a first edition of Les Miserables? Why not buy me a magazine to own or or…" she trailed off.

"Or an original 35mm print of Notorious," he said as he rolled a chestnut between his thumb and his forefinger. He said it absentmindedly, but she lifted her head to look at him for a moment. He felt her eyes on him and raised his head too and instantly locked in with her gaze. He couldn't seem to break it, like she held him under some sort of spell and only she could let him go. He was powerless to do it himself.

Thankfully the corners of her lips curled up and she grabbed his wrist. "Come on, let's dance."

He snaked his arms around her waist as hers wrapped around his neck. The floor was crowded and hazy, but the crooning of the saxophone and the not too loud, pleasant voices of the vocalists vibrated perfectly with classic Christmas big band and jazz tunes. No Mariah Carey, no Glee. He would have liked to hear some Frank Sinatra, but at least the style of the band was in kind, and he was content.

Hell, he would have been content with N*Sync if it meant Blair's hands clasped around the nape of his neck.

"You smell like peppermint," she said and crinkled her nose a bit.

"That's because my diet in December consists only of candy canes and peppermint mocha lattes," he said and she laughed before resting her cheek on his shoulder.

After a long moment of silence to "White Christmas", she said, "I don't want to be just a princess. Only a princess."

He didn't know what to say in return, for once in his life. All he could think to do was to pull her a bit closer to him, just as the song changed to "Baby, It's Cold Outside."

And softly, faintly, his left ear picked up on a soft voice following the words about a half beat behind the melody. It was lovely, even if only half-singing every other line or so.

"I really can't stay," she sighed and the note she hit on the prolonged 'stay' was as smooth as the finest whiskey to his ears. She would drop off, but pick back up again here and there. "...evening has been…so very nice….ought to say no, no, no sir…"

"Mind if I move in closer…," he chimed in, just as quiet, just as soft. "…the sense in hurting my pride?"

She stiffened a bit when she heard him, and all he wanted her to do was keep going. He was afraid he'd embarrassed her, so he continued, just on the level she was on, as if the words were like a secret they couldn't help but softly whisper under their breath.

She continued, "I simply must go…" She was behind the song, just a bit sadder and a bit slower than the true tempo of it, but he didn't mind at all.

"Baby, it's cold outside," he matched back.

"So nice and warm."

"Oh, baby, you'll freeze out there."

When the song itself picked up to reach its crescendo, they both stopped. Dan dropped his right hand from her waist and carefully untangled her arm from his neck, intertwined their fingers and held them out to the side, and began to sway her back and forth along with the slow, jazzy playfulness of the piano keys.

The song ended and "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" began, but Dan, feeling as if his hands would shake too much to hold her any longer, suggested they grab a drink from the bar.

"What'll you have?" Dan asked.

"Mmmm, I don't know another champagne I guess," Blair pondered.

"Free eggnog if you kiss under the mistletoe," the bartender said with a smile.

"Dammit," Blair said and elicited a side swept glance of confusion from Dan, who cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"Uhhh, no…no we're not…it's not…" he fumbled.

"You couldn't have picked a better spot at the bar, Humphrey?" Blair said in annoyance.

"It was a wide open spot!" he said.

"And I wonder why!" she cried out in annoyance before reeling back and taking a breath. Once she centered herself again she said, "You know I'm superstitious so let's just…okay?" and her voice went up high and strained on the last word.

All he could do was gape at her, his mind was foggy and muddled.

"It's not like we haven't done this before, right?" she said.

He saw her gulp, the way she did that night in her foyer.

"Right," he said and strummed his fingers on the polished wooden bar before sweeping forward in a flurry of movement. He entangled his hands in her hair around her face and swept his lips over hers. He didn't crash them, he didn't demand anything, but he wasn't hesitant either. He was fluid, and to his surprise, just when he was ready after a quick second to pull away, she matched him and danced along with him as she parted her lips slightly and curled her tiny hands into his jacket and pulled him just an inch closer to her.

He decided he wouldn't stop until her fingers loosened their grip. So when they did some seconds later, and recoiled from him and their lips parted, he wasn't surprised. But he felt colder and lighter on his own and didn't quite like the feeling.

He stared at her. Her hair was mussed in a way he knew she'd hate and he guessed some of her red lipstick must be on him as it was smudged and duller in its vibrancy. Her eyes were wide and searching his, he supposed for an answer. But what did he have? He had no answer except…

He had no answer he was willing to give, because in truth, he didn't want his heart broken on Christmas Eve.

When the clunk of the eggnog jolted him back to the business and ambience of the bar, he took off. He could hear the strained call of "Dan," from behind him as he wedged himself in between the crowd to the door and into the cold.

The next day he could barely focus on presents and family brunch. Serena's bubbly demeanor was giving him a headache and he couldn't shake this little twinge of panic whenever he thought about the night before. He had to follow up. By nature he was terrible at letting anything go.

By 3pm he made sure a basket was hand delivered to her penthouse, with presents professionally wrapped in red and gold. When she'd open it she'd find a package of Degas postcards from the Met, a 10th edition of Les Miserables, a copy of this month's VOGUE and a Criterion Collection copy of Notorious on DVD. He didn't leave a note, he didn't leave his name.

She should know. She should know by now.