She doesn't fit against him very well.
His hands are awkward around her because he's never had to love someone like her; someone so delicate and expectant and prepared and determined and high-maintenance.
Her hair isn't the right colour or the right length, and her skin is too soft. He's scared to touch, to feel, to breathe. This isn't right, he knows.
She watches him with dark eyes. He knows they can be tempting and sexy and beautiful at times, but not now. Now they're waiting for him, watching him curiously and impatiently, with only a tinge of fear around the edges.
He never gets to see her in broad daylight; never in public. But sometimes she visits him in his NYU dorm at three in the morning, her hands clasped together and her lips pursed. She's often wearing a pair of his pants and her favourite silk camisole, and whenever he comments on it, she tells him it's an analogy of them, together. Mismatched and all wrong, but some sort of comfortable. Definitely a sort of comfortable. The pyjamas – and they themselves – make her feel good.
She often sneaks away before daylight hits the New York sky, a robe wrapped around her so no one sees his pants. Another analogy, he thinks.
He watches her go without really complaining, for there's nothing to complain about.
He's writing one day on his laptop in a downtown café. A poem about a mysterious girl with no face. He doesn't know where she came from, who she is, what she likes and what she doesn't like. She came from nowhere.
She dresses in gold and talks like velvet
She wears pretty things and dances calmly
Breathe in, breathe out
Her crown is slightly broken
A hand on her stomach as she takes a breath
A luckless dreamer in an empty world
And does she look away from this?
She meets him out on boundary line
He taps his fingers below the keys, humming gently. He doesn't feel like it sits right with the girl. It's hard to write in the perspective of someone who never lets anyone in; someone he doesn't know well enough. He tries to picture a face for her, an identity, but he can't think of one.
Vanessa slides into a chair next to him, crossing her ankles on the table and looking at him curiously.
"What are you doing, Daniel Humphrey?" she asks lazily, brushing a finger along the length of his laptop screen. "It's such a cold day out. I thought you'd be bundled up at home."
Haiti had treated Vanessa well over the summer. She had told him she had seen terrible things, helped only the worst-off people. But the sunshine had done well for her complexion, at least. They were strictly friends – that had been agreed when she returned. Besides, he had been sort of been seeing Blair while she was away, and, for his own selfish reasons, couldn't break it off.
"I'm trying to nail this character. I just can't get the personality," he grumbles, staring at the screen blankly.
"Let me take a look," she says, snatching the screen from the table and laying it in her lap. Her eyes scan the page briefly, her eyelashes fluttering curiously as she tries to find the depth in his words. She laughs after a few moments. "You know, Dan - and don't hate me for this – but your character sounds like Blair."
"Blair Waldorf?" he chokes out, taking the computer from her grasp. He laughs too, looking away. "Don't be ridiculous, V. The only way I could write about Blair would be if I wrote her in the form of a soul-sucking, cunning, heartless vermin monster serpent," he says bitterly.
Vanessa shrugs. "But still. Maybe if you picture her, you can picture the character. I don't know Dan, I really got to roll. Mr Hudson is hammering my ass about this assignment. What a prick," she grumbles, waving over her should and walking out the door.
Dan looks at the computer, slightly dazed. He hadn't written poetry about a girl he knew, a girl he was with, since Serena. That was ages ago.
He pictures Blair. Her face, her small hands, her small body, her fierce personality, her laugh . . .
He deletes the document and starts again. It was all wrong, anyway.
Blair knocks on his door. It's late.
"A cloak?" he laughs, rubbing his eyes. She shoves him grumpily.
"I wanted to be discreet. You don't seem to mind if the whole effing world hears you, Humphrey. I don't think it would be so good for your reputation if we were to get caught either, so next time, keep your mouth shut."
"Is that a threat, Blair?" he murmurs, settling down into his desk chair.
She kneels onto his bed. "I don't know," she murmurs, eyes flickering back up to face him before lowering to the bed sheets again. "I think I must be going crazy."
"Why's that?" he says, mocking her only slightly. He likes to think he can play games with the queen of all mind-games herself (he's so, so, so wrong).
The blush spreads over her rose-petal pink cheeks, down her long neck and across her collar bone. "Don't hold this to me forever Humphrey; I'm sure we won't last that long anyway," she pauses, looking up at him to study his reaction. He doesn't have one. "I miss . . . This. During the day, when I'm in classes and you're not that far away . . . Oh God, I can't believe I just admitted that to you."
He raises an eyebrow in her direction, watching her bury her face in her hands. Her words suddenly make him aware of how very little time they have, how they only have the dark hours, how there's this aching feeling in his chest that makes him think they shouldn't be discussing forever, just enjoying now.
He locks the door, settling down next to her. "I'm sorry," is all he can say, before trailing kisses across her jaw and down her neck.
Soft, not hungry.
She pulls the edges of her camisole up, letting the kisses trail further down, right to the waistband of her pants.
"You know, this has to be the most tragic thing I've ever worn," she sighs, fingering the fraying edges of the blue flannelette. "But my favourite." Her eyes light up. He trails the kisses back up her abdomen until his lips are hovering above hers.
He brushes his lips against hers before pulling away, ignoring her whimper of complaint.
"Since we're saying unusual things," he says slowly into her ear, "I have a request."
She raises an eyebrow delicately, and he rolls his eyes. He forgets sometimes she was once very intimate with Chuck Bass, and so her mind must be far beyond his when it comes to dirty thoughts.
"Not like that," he says softly, and she finds it odd that a chill runs down her spine. "I was wondering if we could just lie here . . . Just sleep, you know . . ." He doesn't think she'll agree if he uses the term he was going to use.
"Cuddle?" she says with a small smile. He nods in unison with her, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her down to the bed, under the sheets.
She faces his chest and breathes in the scent of soap and deodorant and something so terribly sweet that she just can't put her finger on.
She can't help but remember back when she had to be the one to be romantic like this; to ask for something so simple that couples should do. She spends the remainder of the night/morning listening to him breathe in and out gently and comparing which time was better.
She has yet to come to a conclusion.
He wakes up to a beeping in his ear and a squeal from Blair.
"Look at the time! What if someone sees me sneaking down the halls? This is terrible," she mutters, scrambling across his floor, throwing her top on. "Where's my cloak? Where is my cloak, Dan?"
The way she says his name is almost enough for him to grab her wrist, pull her into a hug and tell her to fuck it, fuck it all, and let them just be for a day.
Blair shakes her head and flings his door open. "I'll run. I don't know. I'll find my way. Do you really think I'd ever let someone see me in this tragedy? With that and slow, mysterious smile, Blair is out of his dorm.
He misses the feeling of her body next to his.
When he sees her talking to a boy from Yale, he turns down the next hallway and calls Vanessa to go watch an old black and white film. This afternoon shall be a Blair-Waldorf-free afternoon. He likes the sound of that.
(No, he doesn't.)
When Vanessa suggests having an Audrey Hepburn marathon because its part of her Media assignment, he groans. Of fucking course.
So they sit and watch Roman Holiday and Breakfast at Tiffanies before he tells her they need food. He really just couldn't take analysing Audrey's every move and comparing it to Blair's anymore.
(They were the same in many ways, but Blair was different. More edge, more fire.)
They go to Burger King, where he is reminded of the time he dragged her through a MacDonald's drive through at four in the morning because he was hungry. She groaned at the smell, wondering how he could possibly tell whether the potatoes the chips were made of were organic. He rolled his eyes and ordered her this salad stuff from down the road.
Vanessa is hardly a Blair Waldorf, but she knows him.
"Are you going to eat that?" she asks slyly, hiding her smile.
"Go for it," he replies distantly.
She snorts and rolls her eyes. "Oh please, Dan. Like you'd ever give me something, especially food." She's watching him with mocking eyes. "You don't share."
"What are you talking about?" Dan murmurs, his eyes flickering back to his friend in front of him. "I share. I'm an excellent sharer."
Vanessa flicks her wrist, a blunt expression of boredom painted on her face. "Humphrey, you never have and you never will. I don't know what's up with you – or rather, who she is – but this game is getting mighty boring. So get over yourself for a night, please, or just go get it out of your system."
He rolls his eyes at her sex comment, to keep up the affect. He was still on edge trying to decide whether to go see her tonight. It wasn't like he was pissed or anything, he was just-
Okay, so he was pissed. He was jealous and annoyed and hello, who the fuck is Mr Yale to get all up on her?
"Dan, seriously. You're acting as prissy as the queen herself," Vanessa says to him, referring to Blair. His head snapped up. "Eat, boy, before you waste away to an emotional ball of Brooklyn nothingness." Her fingers creep along the table, edging towards his fries. He slaps her hand away.
"See? You're too possessive."
And that is how Dan comes to realise that Blair is fucking his, by night. So Yale boy can whisper pretty comments about his campus and his bachelor of what-fucking-ever, he can stay away as soon as the sunset fades.
"Fine then, I'm going," Vanessa sighs, picking up her bag and slinging it over her shoulder. "Just hurry up and tell whoever it is whatever you need to tell them. You like you're about to have a breakdown."
After a good five minutes of staring out the window, he calls a cab and heads back to NYU. He's got some issues to sort out.
He tears open her door to find her innocently studying in jeans that probably cost her hundreds of dollars and a shirt that had no doubt caused a cat fight in the middle of Bergdorf's or wherever the heck girls like her shop.
(He knows her favourites. He hates that he does and he always wonders why, but he does.)
"Who is he?" he demands, placing his hands on the bed posts. She looks up at him blankly, her lips pursed as she pretends to wonder what he means.
"Henry Lumberman. He's a Yale junior who's visiting Dianna Franklin, his cousin. He was born in the mid-west of-"
"I don't care," Dan interrupts, frustrated. Blair's lips turn upwards slightly.
"I'm kidding, Humphrey. He bored me too much to even get past five minutes worth of conversation. Almost like you. You're excruciatingly boring."
He frowns at her.
"A good type of boring," she tells him, but he figures it's all lies. "The boring where you talk about interesting things that don't interest me at all."
"Whatever," he shrugs, settling down beside her, throwing her books on the floor and kissing her. When he pulls back, the look of murder is written all over his face. "Don't talk to Yale guys. Ever. They're snooty liars who'll break your heart."
"You don't know that," she whispers, highly amused. She'd known he was possessive, but seriously.
"I do too know that," he says gruffly, flicking the light switch.
When Dan wakes up one morning to hear Blair's phone ring, he groans and mumbles and watches as she paces the room. She looks frantic in a cool, calm, collected way. The way that tells him she's screaming on the inside, because (somehow) he knows this girl.
"Mm hm, mm hm."
That's all she says for a long time, and he's busting for the can, but he stays put because Blair is obviously having a major breakdown that she refuses to actually feel.
The phone snaps shut and it's on the floor in one fluid movement; one singular crash. She's lying next to him in another, facing the other way, and he's not quite sure what's going on here.
"Blair?"
No reply.
"Blair . . ."
No reply.
"Blair," and a shake of her shoulder.
Nothing.
"Blair, you want me to read you some poetry to make you feel better?"
Okay, it was a long shot to make her laugh. Blair's head rolls around lazily as she opens one eye before hunching back over to face the wall. Dan doesn't move, just stays there and watches her squirm under his gaze.
"What do you want, Humphrey?"
"I want you to talk to me."
"How lovely. Are you thinking about taking a course is psychology? Because I just need someone to talk to about every little thing that goes on in my life. I have so much pent-up emotion, you know? I'm so emotionally stunted." He can practically smell the sarcasm in the air.
"Blair-"
"Look, this was fun, but I have to go," Blair sighs, pulling her favourite cashmere coat over her shoulders and heading towards the door. "I'll call you next time I'm in the mood for sad and pathetic fling."
And by that, she meant: You aren't my boyfriend; you'll never be my boyfriend, so stop trying to make this work.
Also, that he was sad and pathetic.
"Yeah," Dan mutters as the door slams behind her.
Blair runs into him in the hallway, and as they only have one class together, it's the first time she's seen him all week. Dan's trying to look her in the eye; trying to send a telepathic message that she'd never understand.
But Blair doesn't even glance his way when her shoulder collides with his as she passes. He mumbles an apology, but he doesn't get a response, and he wonders who she's actually mad at this time. Him or the rest of the world or, even though she never admits it, herself.
"Watch where you're going, Waldorf," he shouts down the corridor at her retreating figure. Blair's head turns just slightly as she walks, and he can see the small smirk fighting itself.
Turn around, turn around, turn around.
She's terrible at telepathy.
Blair is threading her fingers through materials, deciding on the softest and matching her creamy skin tone to only the finest. She skims over the silk – she isn't in the mood for silk. It's like choosing something to eat, really – hard, because she doesn't know what she wants, but in the end, utterly essential.
The bell above the door chimes, simultaneously to Blair's head snapping up. Little Jenny Humphrey, with her scrawny chicken legs and thick blond curls and eyes as blue and cold as her heart, walks in, chatting away on her phone. She waves to the thirty-something cashier and walks straight past the blacks – thank God that trend was left in the past. Blair thought she was a Nun one day, in her thick black dressings. Or a racoon dressed up as a Nun. A skinny, girl-sized racoon wanting to join a convent.
But what kind of church would want Jenny Humphrey?
She reminds herself that, even if Dan and Jenny are almost separate species, she's been with – no, that sounds all wrong, she's been sleeping with – her brother for who knows how long now, and she's got to stop being a bitch.
Oh, please. She knows that's not happening.
"Little Humphrey," Blair says sweetly, flicking her sunglasses up to the top of her head. "What a surprise to see you in here! I thought you would've gone to the discount craft store."
"Blair," Jenny replies, squeezing her eyes shut before opening them again. "Really, I have missed your melodramatic episodes."
"Fun times," Blair says flatly, raising an eyebrow. "So what are you doing here?"
"Picking out the material for my dress. You know, for the ball coming up."
"Oh."
They both study the fabrics nearest to them, the awkward silence nothing out of the ordinary but still annoying.
"You know what? I think I'm going to go to the discount store." Jenny hitches her huge brown handbag back over her shoulder and head towards the door. "If you see my brother, tell him I said hi."
"What do I look like, an email?"
"Nice seeing you too, Blair."
Blair laughs coldly and turns her back on Jenny has the door slams behind the seventeen-year-old. The cashier stares at Blair for a long time, before she finally snaps. "What? Are you sure you shouldn't be working? And maybe not staring at your customers?" The cashier opens her mouth to speak, but Blair jumps in. "You know what? I have a feeling the discount store would be better suited to my needs than here."
She flips open her phone as she heads out the door, scanning through her new texts and breathing in the summer air. God, New York was nice in summer. And winter. All round, really.
Her phone buzzes with a new message, and she recognises the ringtone straight away. Gossip Girl incoming. Really, still? She had been receiving texts on and off in the past few months, but she had deleted most of them. He nerves grow uneasy as she realises that she has a terrible secret that would create an outburst of gossip.
Waldorf Drama!
Well, nothing new of course, when isn't there panic over B and her loved ones? But if my sources are right, we hear Mama Waldorf is sick as a dog. And B is taking it out on Starbuck's breakfasts and fabric cashiers. Really, B, maybe you should get some help.
It wouldn't be the first time, would it?
X O X O.
Blair catches the eyes of several passing people – all who have already read the news flash and all who are judging her behind their hands in hushed whispers.
Honestly, though, she can't do anything without it hitting the social notice board. It used to be fun, and flattering, of course . . . But the sources were getting quicker. That one had to have been sent in at least two minutes after she walked out the door. They must all be record texters.
The worst part is the last message. What would people think of her? Blair had managed to keep the eating disorder under wraps since Gossip Girl first targeted her, but what now? Did she know? Was she going to spill it just as things were going good, or make a situation worse?
Blair feels sick, and so continues on home.
"This is why you wouldn't talk to me? Why you called me sad and pathetic?" Dan hisses, slamming her door shut behind him. He has his laptop resting in his arms, the screen facing her, Gossip Girl's website up and a picture of Blair going off at the cashier right there on the homepage with all the latest news. "And what does she mean, 'it wouldn't be the first time'? Has your mom gotten sick before?"
"Would you shut up?" Blair snaps, flicking through her magazine.
"No! Talk to me!"
"Why should I? Oh, wait, before you continue to harass me – your witch of a sister says hi. How sweet."
"Well that's- What?"
"I saw her in the fabric store today, just before Gossip Girl put this up, and-"
"She didn't send the blast," Dan says defensively, narrowing his eyes. "She's changed –inside and out. The dye washed out and she's changed her clothes and she's a good kid. Jenny left Gossip Girl behind, and she's still in high school. I don't know why you keep going."
"Me? Humphrey, they follow me everywhere! How am I supposed to control what they say about me? I didn't even accuse your stupid sister, so stop getting all brotherly in my face." Blair throws her magazine onto the floor and sits up. "And you really don't know people if you think Jenny's changed. Humans don't change – it goes against nature."
"What did she mean, 'it wouldn't be the first time'?" Dan repeats, ignoring her.
"Does anyone around here ever listen to me?"
"I'm done listening to you!" Dan growls. "All I ever do is listen to you bitch and moan and then we have sex. Do you even know what you fucking want from me, Blair? Or would like everything, just because you know you can't have that?"
"Humphrey," Blair sighs, strolling over to his side and playing with his collar. "I want exactly what you just said. Sex and bitching and moaning. What is it with you and deeper meanings?"
"There's always a deeper meaning!" he argues, pulling away from her.
"Not with us. There never will be, and the never has been. I suggest, if that's what you want, that you give up on it now. I'm not looking for my future husband."
As he storms back down the hallway, it occurs to her how much she's changed. She doesn't want a big mansion and a rich husband and tiny little kids dressed in beautiful designer clothes. Blair just wants to get through college without the complications.
And yet, she gets them. What kind of universe is this again?
She's painting her toes a deliciously warm colour to welcome the new spring when someone barges through her door, gold locks trailing behind the unknown body, a hand placed on their hip.
"Serena," Blair welcomes, barely glancing up. She'd know that sweet scent anywhere. Serena doesn't say anything, just seethes in the corner, so Blair continues. "How are you this fine New York day? How's France? Nice of you to call. Yes, I did get my hair trimmed. What? No. Kati's a lesbian? Big surprise. Drowning in assignments, but what else?"
Serena's lips fight to stay firm and pouted, but Blair raises an eyebrow at her, so she laughs. "Okay, okay. How's NYU?"
"Terrible," Blair grunts, placing the nail polish on her shelf. "But clearly, you get precedence what with your barging in unannounced, so go ahead. Spill all."
"Gossip Girl. I swear I-"
"That thing's still going?" Blair interrupts coolly, tilting her head. She reaches for her phone and presses in the URL like lightning, before turning to Serena and waiting for her to continue.
"Have you been under a rock?" Serena asks, irritated, tapping her foot. "She's still following me! Following me everywhere! Where I'm studying in France – she's got all the girls hooked. I met this boy – this wonderfully scruffy, fun, artist and-"
"Oh God. Again?"
"Shush! He's a bit of a hippy alright?" Serena pauses as Blair snorts. "He's so opinionated and brave, that's what I like about him. Except now he doesn't like me, because of all the bullshit she is posting in! It's like Dan all over again . . . You know what? It's like nearly every relationship I've ever had. She always manages to meddle. I'm so sick of her!"
Blair bites her lip. She knows she's been a terrible friend, not writing or calling or texting Serena. She's so behind on the rest of the world, all because she's been so caught up with . . . Well, him. We'll leave it as that.
"Blair, you'd just love it there. So romantic. Imagine going for a picnic on your first date! It's stunning. Imagine shopping almost better than New York!"
"New York is better," Blair snaps, crossing her ankles subconsciously. "You've just lived here all your life."
"B, what's wrong with you? You complain that you hate NYU, but you're sticking up for it. I mean, what the hell?"
Blair lets out a huff and rolls onto her back, allowing her cotton shirt to ride up over her jeans, revealing her smooth, flat stomach. She wishes she could look like she was laying down forever. Eyeing Serena's skinny legs, she's reminded that Serena was always the first one. Every boy Blair has ever truly liked, Serena got their first. Nate, Dan . . . Even Chuck! Back when they were in the second grade, he used to kiss her hand and give her a wilting flower he found on the ground at the school gate. But Blair doubts Serena even remembers that . . . It was so long ago. Nothing seemed to matter back then. Blair could have anything she wanted and never had to worry what label it was, where it came from, who else had it and who else wanted it . . . And this thought pattern circles back to Dan.
"Things changed," Blair spits, because she's still balancing out whether a secret sex life with Humphrey is for better or worse. "You were gone, and things changed."
"Tell me," Serena murmurs earnestly, leaning down on the bed, taking Blair's cold fingers into her own long, warm ones. "Tell me everything Blair."
Blair hates this drama; hates this moment right here, right now. Usually, she would have cried and bled her heart out, staining the designer silk covering Serena's tanned shoulders, whining and reciting the sorrow she had fed her mind late at night. But not today. She just couldn't today, couldn't bear the sincerity of Serena's angel face. "Moot point, honey." Blair runs a hand through her chestnut hair, exhaling. "Maybe some day I'll tell you it all."
She likes this better. This is more elegant and Hepburn-esque of her to wave the drama off, to save the tears for a time when she really needs it. Standing confidently, Blair grabs her favourite pair of glossy black Manolos and links arms with her ever-untouchable, ever-lovable best friend. "Tell me all about France. I'm in the mood for Starbucks and a trip past Tiffany's."
Blair watches the surroundings, eyeing the trashy teenagers hanging in the park. There's a group of boys and girls all huddled up, occasionally yelling 'oh!' loudly and exaggeratedly as if something disgusting or particularly cruel had just happened. Obviously, they were not the fortunate ones born into high society.
Clearly, she has too much time on her hands. But Blair is perfectly content on sitting on the bench alone, watching the girls in midriff tops and shorts running around after boys. It's almost nice to be alone.
She must have spoken too soon. Someone's shadow appears behind her, overtaking her own. Tall and broad shouldered male – she doesn't bother to turn around.
"Blair."
"Humphrey."
"Please, don't sound so please to see me."
"I won't. I'm not."
Dan sighs quickly and sits down beside her. He opens his mouth to talk, but Blair silences him. "Do you know how many people are in Central Park? Practically all of New York!" Dan looks around at the empty park, except for the huddle of teenagers and a few dog walkers. "I don't need our faces plastered over the internet for all of the world to see."
"Maybe I do."
Blair closes her eyes. Of all things, this is what she loves most about Dan Humphrey. Likes – what she likes most about him. She likes the way he talks about her, the words he uses, the voice he says it in. He's so sad and smouldering sometimes; romantic. Not hungry and horny, like most guys. "Tell me what you like about me," she demands softly, turning to face him. "Please."
Startled by her order, Dan pulls back slightly. Running a hand over his face, he shrugs. "Sorry. Can't think of anything."
Blair glares at him, but it turns playful. She's getting a little bit sick of the bitchy attitude, but its all her. What is she supposed to be – grateful? An earth-loving, spiritually connected hippy? No thanks. "Really. Tell me."
Dan hesitates, but leans forward to speak. "I like your hair." She frowns – she was hoping for something a little more deep than that. "I like the way that you play with it, and you don't even realise it. And I like the way it brushes against my chest when we . . . When we have sex," Dan finishes confidently. "I like the way you walk. You're always going somewhere more important than where you already are. I like the way you could have no care in the world like any of your other rich friends, but you choose to anyway." The words are spilling out of him now, he can't stop it. "I like the way you breathe at night when you're laying next to me. I like the way you value things other people could never value. I like your expectations, and your smartass little witty comments. I like how you have an opinion on everything; no one ever catches you off guard. I like the feeling of your skin against my skin."
Blair's eyes sparkle up at him. She swallows quickly and breathes against his neck, "Okay. I-"
"I like when you do that," Dan interrupts. "When you talk like that."
Blair stands up and wraps her fingers around his wrist. "Let's go, Dan."
He likes the sound of his name on her tongue, too.
B's Dirty Little Secret!
No, seriously – we don't know where he's been. B has been caught practically dragging D across Central Park and back to NYU, come-to-bed-eyes all ablaze and breathing heavily. We all know S and D are old news, but could this be some twisted, S-had-it-so-I-have-to-have-it-too episode on B's part? Or maybe B is super desperate now that all our high class boys of NY are out of her grasp. Seems almost impossible, doesn't it? Blair and Brooklyn Boy?
May I gag for all of us?
You'd think a person could only take so much drama, but B seems perfectly content on turning it up a notch every day. No word on Mama Waldorf as of yet . . . Really, does anyone have the real scoop on that bunch of crazies? Maybe B's new daddy murdered her – he certainly could be the creepy type.
Hey there, GG!
So, I like, go to school with B and she's always sneaking out. I've caught her once or twice, but never said anything. Wonder who she's seeing . . .
honey_I_was_made_for_gucci
To honey_I_was_made_for_gucci
See above – I think you'll get the shock of you life. Really. Keep 911 close at your side, this one is a biggie.
Always, GG.
S'up, Gossip Girl?
So, I hear B is preggers. My girlfriend heard her chucking up her guts in the ladies room before class yesterday – hello, morning sickness. And she's always fooling around late at night apparently, like, getting so pissed she can't walk. Maybe she's in denial or some shit like that.
ElectroLoveBite
Dear ElectroLoveBite,
B certainly is a hard nut to crack. So many rumours over the one drama queen! She is a favourite of ours, though. I suppose you could be right, but then we'd have to wonder, 'Who's your daddy, B?' And surely, that would lead to her knickers in a twist. If she's wearing them, from the sounds of it – could this really be B and D, horn dogs' edition? Bleck. Thanks for the scoop though, just don't forget, B's never kept her food down. Ever, apparently.
Gossip Girl.
Wow, long post, much? I want some truth, damn it! I think we all deserve a little of that. So come on B, choke up the rest of your sad love story for us. And yesterday's lunch.
Love me forever, I know you will.
Gossip Girl.
Blair slaps down the screen of her laptop angrily. How fucking dare she do that! That Gossip Girl bitch has it coming for her . . . Serena was right, this has got to stop. Surely Dan would find out, whether through his shameless little sister or his wannabe uni friends. And why was she bringing Blair's issue back into this? What was it, pick on Blair day?
Blair wheels around in her desk chair. Dan is lying peacefully in his boxers, his legs intertwined with the sheets of his bed. Her stomach churns. She's starting to like him more than she thought she would.
And really, she didn't think she could ever like him at all.
Dan stumbles down the halls one night. The lights are off, and his phone is dead, so finding Blair's dorm is proving to be trouble. He stops in front of the first one on the left (he can smell her perfume from here) and places his hand on the doorknob (this is her room, and he's about to enter; this is worth the secrets and lies). He halts when he hears crying.
Her room lights up. "Blair?"
There stands Dan in her open doorway, his eyes falling on the tear-stained pillow. "Fuck off," she hisses at him.
"Nice to see you to," he grumbles, settling down next to her. There's a question on his tongue ('what's wrong?') but he forgets it, and whispers instead, "I'm in love with you."
Her head snaps up. No one loves Blair Waldorf. "What?" He doesn't reply. His throat is dry and his body frozen. "What did you just say, Humphrey?"
"Holy mother of fuck!"
Blair and Dan both whirl around to face the doorway, where two NYU girls are laughing, cameras pointed at the ready.
The blond one shakes her head while the red-head takes the picture. "So it's all true, Blair? We were so sure Gossip Girl was bullshitting us. She's going to love this."
Blair has gone a sickly green. They sit in silence while she seethes.
"Blair?"
She looks up at him, her wide doe eyes glistening with tears. "Humphrey," she whispers, letting a tear slide her cheek. "I think my mom is dying."
He hates himself. Right then and there, he feels nothing but hate.
Gossip Girl has officially unleashed her biggest scandal. All of Manhattan was talking about the unlikely pair. Blair could feel eyes on her where ever she went; could hear whispers taunting her as she passed by people with her head held high.
"I corrupted you, you know," Dan says in an attempt to slide in the apology that is burning his tongue. She refuses to listen to him.
Blair swallows. "Who needs friends, anyway?" she murmurs, blinking up at him. "Fuck them. Fuck them all."
Serena is coming back in two days, so they decide to just let their relationship (ugh, Blair doesn't know if she can handle the thought) cool off until their friend rolls back in and let her judge.
It doesn't last a night. It's four in the morning and neither is sleeping, even though Blair has a huge exam tomorrow and Dan has an oral he still has to write.
A quarter past four in the morning and both are shirtless in his bed.
Serena comes back to Blair and Dan holding hands, and the gossip dies away, and everything is just perfect.
Hah! When is it ever that simple?
Serena comes crashing through the door like a flustered angel, while Blair is crying and yelling and throwing things at Dan. He's trying to fucking help her with all her problems and she's going full-out Waldorf crazy at him.
"What the fuck is going on here?"
Blair's head whips around, sending her chocolate hair flying; Dan can just smell her vanilla/raspberry/baking cookies/floral perfume/honey/candy-shop scent from halfway across the room. Blair folds her arms over her chest while Serena waits impatiently.
"Serena!" Blair coos finally. "It's so good to see you? How's Paris, these days? Did you bring home another pair of those lovely stockings?"
"Paris is lovely," Serena says flatly. "But apparently, New York is what's happening right now. Dan?"
Dan looks up uncomfortably. "I- Well I- I- I-"
Blair sighs rather audibly and turns to her best friend as if she was clearly missing the point. "You left, and Humphrey and I started sleeping together. Must I really go over the details?"
"What?" Serena squeals, leaning onto the bench for support. "You and Dan? The Dan that you hate? The Dan that you said should go and crawl up a-"
"Okay, so, I'm thinking I should go," Dan interrupted, holding his hands in the air, surrendering. "I'll let you two talk . . . Or fight or whatever."
"I'm not done, Humphrey!" Blair screams furiously at his back as he scampers out of the room. She turns to the blond with a sharp exhale. "Really, how's France?"
Serena stairs at her with her lips forming a perfect, peach-coloured O.
When Dan returns to Blair's dorm room, he finds the two girls laughing over cups of hot chocolate and Vogue – or some magazine as equally right for them as the local newspaper is for him. Looking between his ex and his . . . And Blair, he wonders why he has such a thing for high-maintenance, upper-class girls.
"So . . . Should I go, before I ruin your good mood?" he asks rather dangerously, though he doesn't realise his mistake until Blair's glare lands upon him.
She takes a deep breath before murmuring, "No, no. I need to talk to you."
She takes him up to the roof top, where she decides is the best place to tell him everything. The eating disorder, the lies, the sick mother in a hospital bed. She tells him about her gay father and when Roman came over and the Freddie Parnes fiasco. She tells him about losing her virginity to Chuck in the backseat of a limo. She tells him every bad thing she's every done; every little regret and heartache and wrong thing in the world, and he doesn't jump, much to her surprise.
"And the very, very worst thing I have ever done," she whispers, the words hurting her heart as she thinks them, "is that I fell in love with you."
"What?" he breathes, turning to look at her incredulously.
"I'm in love with you," she replies, slightly louder, terrified of his reaction. She straightens up, though, when she remembers who she is.
But Blair Waldorf never usually puts her heart on the line. Not like this; not with him.
Dan swallows. "You're in love with me?"
"That's what I just said, isn't it? Really, I thought you were supposed to be clever," Blair hisses, like the previous half hour hadn't just happened.
Suddenly he has her pinned against the wall to their left, his brow furrowed as he takes it all in. "I love you, too," he frowns, leaning down to kiss her.
Fuck it all.