Author's Note: This was inspired by the conversation between Chuck and Blair before the accident in episode 5x10, "Riding in Town Cars with Boys". It's a moment that strengthened my belief in Chair after everything they went through, a moment that makes my own heart quicken.

"What 'us'?"

"The 'us' that I should have fought for when you called. The 'us' that is not just you and me but you, me, and your baby."

"Then, why did you tell me to choose Louis?"

"I thought it was selfish if I was the one to tell you to break up your family."

"That was the moment you chose not to be selfish?"

"Timing has never been our strong suite. I had it all wrong. Just because Louis is the father of your baby does not mean that you should be with him – you should be with me."

"Why?"

"Because I am going to love your baby as much as I love you."

Her voice startles him, pulling his attention from the perfection on his chest to the perfection standing in the door frame. He looks at her intensely, sees through her composure and reads her like tea leaves. The meeting did not go well, but it's plain as day that she does not wish to discuss it. She dives into bed nest to him without concern for her dress or her perfectly coffered hair; another clue that things did not go according to her wishes. She leans over him, plants gentle kisses on the mop of dirty blond hair on his chest.

His gentle voice interrupts her shower of kisses, and her brown eyes meet his with an added glass from unshed tears. She presses her lips to his, cuts off his question and leaves the words lingering on his lips. She tastes sweet and pure and lovely until her salty tears reach his lips. He tries to break away but she fights for dominance. She needs this win; she needs to bring someone to their knees. He stops dueling with her, but victory isn't sweet. Not this time.

She breaks away. Normally, he would grab her, press her close, and remind her that he is here, that he loves her, that he is fighting for her. But he doesn't want to wake the baby – the sweet, innocent baby currently curled on his chest, radiating heat, and lulled to sleep by his father's beating heart.

"What happened, Blair?"

"Tomorrow," she whispers. Her answer is not satisfactory. This is not part of their deal; they don't wait until tomorrow to fight their demons. Secrets and hidden feelings have always been their downfall and they cannot lose this fight – the stakes are too high.

"Please, Chuck," she begs as she presses her soft hand to his rough cheek. The cool metal of her ring helps vanquish his fears because she is his and they are an "us" – her, him, and their baby. His eyes lock on to hers; the question he has been asked over and over again for the last five weeks tumbling out without hesitation as he faces their demons.

"Does the little guy at least have a name?"

The unshed tears begin to fall freely now, and he knows that this battle is the one she lost tonight. Maybe there are more defeats and maybe there are more victories, but those results can wait till tomorrow. Tonight, he has to know how this particular battle ended.

"Pierre Frédéric Harold…" her voice trails off uncomfortably. This is not the name he had hoped for, the name they had whispers together under the covers as he ran their clasped fingers across her belly.

Matthew Harold Bass.

The image of his little, wonderful son introducing himself as "I'm Matt Bass" is vanquished as her announcement settles over him. The little boy wearing a suit and bowtie is replaced with one in a beret introducing himself to people all over the Upper East Side in a French accent as "I'm Pierre Grimaldi".

"Waldorf."

The finality of her statement startles him out of the image. He fights to keep a grin (or, maybe, it's a smirk) off his lips, choosing instead to clarify before he gets ahead of himself.

"Not Grimaldi?"

"Not Grimaldi," she confirms with a slight smile on her lips (or, maybe, it's a smirk). The relief pours over him in waves. His son may not have the moniker Bass, but his son is not a Grimaldi and – there are no words.

"Pierre Waldorf," he says, trying the name on for size. It slides off his tongue like smooth liquid and sounds so right. "Pierre Waldorf."

"I know it's not what we wanted, but they wouldn't agree to anything but. And Sophie won't recognize him formally since Louis and I weren't married so no Grimaldi, but they wouldn't let him be a Bass because…"

He cautiously cups the baby – nay, Pierre's – head and still manages to capture her unaware, his lips cutting off her explanation. Her chest heaves when they break apart; the lack of oxygen and the heat of passion leaving her stunned and silenced.

"He's mine," he reminds her with a growl. "It doesn't matter that he is not a Bass because he is a part of you and I…I love him."

"Chuck," she replies, her voice breaking on the vowel.

"It may not be my blood that flows through him but…your blood does and I…"

"I know," she replies. Because she does. She knows that he loves her, he loves Pierre, he loves this "us". She strokes the back of the baby's soft head, careful not to wake him but unable to resist that maternal call. Three hours is far too long to be away from her baby. Her full breasts ache now, but her heart ached more.

"I need to pump." The words tumble out before she can stop them, and she blushes a deep red. He laughs because he's removed her filter, but there is still virginal Blair underneath it all.

"Go," he tells her dismissively despite the sharp glare of disapproval settling on her face.

"Should I put him to bed?"

"No," he replies as he settles back down into the plump pillows of their shared bed. "My son and I are just fine."

She smiles because that is all she can do. The response feels weak compared to him and everything he does for her and her baby.

"Go," he instructs with a smirk on his lips, "before you explode."

"Ugh," she replies with a roll of her eyes. She settles a final kiss on Pierre's head before stomping off in the direction of the nursery down the hall.

"Blair," he calls after her. She pauses in the door; afraid he's going to say something else that's immature and bound to ruin the moment. "Tomorrow, you have to tell me what else happened tonight. Whatever it is, I will fight for us."

She doesn't both to turn around. Rather, she relishes in the truth of his words and the love that surrounds her, surrounds her and her baby. Two aspects of the "us" that he loves equally, wholly, and unconditionally.