Somebody That I Used To Know


Summary: Serena ignores. Chuck blames. Nate hates. Dan runs. Blair emerges from the rubble of her past unscathed, but when she meets a mysterious bartender with a familiar face, will her world turn upside down once more? Post-GG.


There is nothing as stereotypically picturesque as Mid-October in Manhattan. The thick layer of brightly-hued foliage that covers the ground confirms it, as do the herds of young women clad in the ubiquitous fall uniform of thin leggings and Ugg boots, who clutch their pumpkin spiced lattes for dear life as they make their ways home from their respective college campuses. The late-afternoon sky is painted with violent streaks of deep orange, the final breath of a sun that's threatening to die another day.

It even smells like October, Blair Waldorf thinks, perched on a bar stool at The Roof Garden. She's nursing a chocolate martini, having decided to treat herself for a job well done hosting one of the city's hottest art exhibitions at her Park and 71st Street gallery the night prior.

At thirty-five years old, Blair's life has thus far been a unique mixture of success and regret. Six years ago, she'd returned the figurative keys to her mother's fashion house, Waldorf Designs. Eleanor had been disappointed at the time, but not shocked; over the years, Blair's obsession with fashion had waned to more of a middling interest and she had started to spend more and more time at the Met again, studying and admiring the timeless works of art like she had done as a young child.

A year later, Cornelia Galleria had been born. The initial success of the moderate-sized art gallery had been instantaneous due to the notoriety of its creator - and her husband, the billionaire hotelier Chuck Bass. "The saga of Chuck and Blair" (an often used tabloid headline) had spanned for nearly two decades. Long periods of turbulence had been dotted with intense moments of bliss that had become more frequent since the opening of Cornelia and the discovery of Blair's pregnancy. With news of the latter, Blair and Chuck had both thought they'd finally overcome their marital difficulties; they'd even planned a renewal of vows ceremony in St. Lucia.

That was, until the miscarriage. Blair had been four months along when they'd lost the baby due to a chromosomal anomaly. The aftermath could have only been described as chaos. Blair and Chuck, they'd both played the blame game. Vicious, even-toned accusations eventually turned into full-blown screaming matches, and the crystal Kate Spade wine glasses and precious Aalto vases that they'd received as wedding gifts had been the first to pay the price. After another six months, Chuck Bass had filed for divorce. The Waldorf-Bass union had been decimated, in the end, by a whisper of a defeat: "I can't do this anymore."

Blair hadn't quite been the same since the miscarriage and the divorce. She had isolated herself from friends, from family, from most aspects of life. The last time she'd spoken to her best friend Serena van der Woodsen or to her first love Nathaniel "Nate" Archibald had been at the former's thirty-second birthday dinner, wherein Blair had ruined the entire affair by imbibing one too many cosmopolitans and accusing the golden-haired girl of wishing ill of her pregnancy because "you wouldn't know which guy was your child's father if you got knocked up because you're such a slut!"

Nate had tried to step in and quell the argument. A drunken Blair, she'd taken this as a pledge of allegiance to Serena, and in retaliation, had announced that he had been cheating on his wife Delia with his lithe young intern. The field day that the tabloids had following the fiasco had been legendary. The Times, People Magazine, the New Yorker, they'd all skewered Mayor Archibald for his infidelity. Despite the revelation, Mrs. Delia Archibald had stuck by her man's side, intent on preserving the picture perfect image of the All-American couple. With that, plus the cheesy, PR-penned apology Nate had delivered on the steps of City Hall, New York City had quickly forgotten about the cheating scandal.

Nate hadn't, though.

After effectively burning nearly all proverbial bridges, Blair had fallen even harder into her depression. Her bulimia had resurfaced, evident in her puffy cheeks and watery eyes. Eleanor had tried to force her into inpatient treatment, but Blair had refused and instead immersed herself in Cornelia Galleria. She had begun working non-stop, renovating and networking and marketing and developing, and eventually, she had elevated the gallery to the number one spot on The New Yorker's "Burgeoning Businesses" list. The moment she'd found out had been the best in a long time. After reading a spotlight article on the business she'd built from the ground up, she had finally decided to take better care of herself in order to preserve her legacy.

After several months of intense outpatient treatment and countless meetings for nutritional and family counseling, Blair had begun to feel like her old self, full of acerbic wit and renewed hope for a fairytale ending. Three square meals and two snacks a day had kept her even-keeled, as did her weekly sessions with Dr. Sherman. On her thirty-third birthday, Blair, ready to make amends, had picked up the phone and dialed Serena's phone number, memorized since her teenage years. She hadn't uttered more than a "hi" before the blonde hung up. As for Nate, Blair had come to find out that he'd blocked her phone number after what tabloids dubbed "MistressGate".

So, despite having rehabilitated herself, Blair had still lost her friends. As a final attempt at preserving some sort of thread to her old life, she had tried calling Dan Humphrey. Unfortunately, Blair had quickly discovered that his number was no longer in service. Any line of contact to Dan had seemed to have disappeared with the writer eight years before.

For the next two years, Blair had continued to live, eat, and breathe her business. She had grown close again to her mother and had spent countless evenings visiting with and babysitting for her old family maid Dorota. She'd taken up Pilates and adopted a puppy, a Wheaton Terrier that she'd named D'Artagnan. Life had finally seemed to stabilize for the brunette, despite the seemingly unquenchable void that remained.

Blair shakes off the cobwebbed memories as she finishes off the rest of her cocktail. As she's learned in recent years, the ghosts of her past will always be in her mind's shadows. The October sky, once on fire, has slowly burned down to a dusky blue-violet. The canvas awning that shields the bar is lined with wires of little white lights, which now sparkle in the nightfall and reflect like diminutive moonbeams off of the rim of the crystal glasses. Glancing around the bar, the company around her seems to have diminished, happy hour effectively over. To her left is a middle-aged businesswoman with flaxen hair styled in a long bob. She is hovering over her cell phone, fingers furiously moving across the touch screen. A glass of scotch, neat, sits in front of her. Blair wonders what the woman's story is, what kind of struggles she's endured, how many lovers she has entertained. Blair knows, after all, that there is more to most people than meets the eye.

The brunette is jolted out of her thoughts as the bartender props an elbow on the bar-top and asks if she'd like another martini. "Sure," she replies absentmindedly.

"Alright, I'll have that right up for you." His voice is friendly, polite.

Shifting her gaze away from the businesswoman, Blair soon realizes that the original bartender, an older gentleman reminiscent of Andy Williams, must have ended his shift during her trip down memory lane. This bartender, well, he's nothing short of handsome. Full lips and sharp brown eyes are punctuated by angled cheek bones and a chiseled jaw line. His dark hair is cut short and parted to the side. Dean, as his name tag reads, looks like a handsome soldier from the World War Two era. He looks like someone else, too.

Blair narrows her eyes. It couldn't be. Could it? "Hey, Dean," she says, his name dripping from her tongue like honey, slow and sweet and a little bit calculated. "You got a last name?"

The bartender shoots her a bemused glance. "Harrison" he replies as he pours the necessary liquors over ice and gives everything a good shake in his mixer. "Why?" He shakes the mixer once more for good measure before removing the top and pouring the cool concoction into a fresh new martini glass.

Blair is suddenly aware that she's been holding her breath all this time. "Just wondering," she shrugged, the corners of her lips tugging upwards into a smile. Not wanting the bartender to think she is hitting on him, Blair adds, "You remind me of somebody that I used to know."

Dean Harrison sets the freshly-made martini square in front of Blair, who accepts the drink with a polite smile. She anticipates him walking away to help the next customer. Instead, Dean grabs an old rag and begins wiping down the granite in front of her. "Ah," he answers, concentrated on his task. He pauses a beat, then looks up. An amused grin ghosts across his face. "Well, I hope that's a good thing."

Blair feels her cheeks color. A flip of her stomach indicates that she's feeling something she hasn't felt in quite some time: butterflies. It's been just over three years since Blair has last been with, or even thought of being with, a man, and this feeling? It scares her. Blair clears her throat, reaches into her purse for her wallet. "I shouldn't be asking you personal information while you're working," she deflects with a stiff smile as she hands Dean her AmEx Black Card. "I apologize."

"Don't worry about it," Dean says warmly as he accepts the card. Blair eyes him as he turns around and runs it. Handing the card back to her along with the bill to sign, his fingertips graze Blair's and her breath hitches ever-so-slightly. She withdraws her hand as quickly as it happens. Dean doesn't seem to notice. He leans forward on the bar-top, propped up on both elbows. "Between you and me," he continues, voice lowering, "I'd rather people try to get to know me as opposed to treating me like a servant. It's part of the territory, I get it, but a little humanity is always appreciated. So, thanks."

Blair scribbles in a generous tip and signs the merchant copy. "You caught me on a good day," she says with faux bravado.

"Oh," Dean chuckles, "is that what it is?"

Damn it. Her stomach is doing that weird flippy thing again and Blair is practically using superhuman strength not to stare at his lips. Drawing in a deep breath, Blair straightens her back and tucks her card back into her purse. Business as usual. She clears her throat and shrugs. "Can't be the Iron Lady all of the time. And speaking of time, I've got to run," she lies, unsure of what to make of the nervous sensation in her stomach. "Nice meeting you, Dean."

"But you haven't even touched your martini, Ms. Thatcher," Dean replies, gesturing to the full-to-the-brim martini glass.

Blair suppresses a smirk, impressed that the bartender understood her reference. Uncrossing her legs, she slides off of the stool and gathers her purse. "I hope you'll forgive me," she says as she makes her exit. The words, though innocent, come off far more coquettish than she intends.

Oops.

The brunette takes long, lean strides across the stone floor, entirely too engrossed by the encounter with Dean to admire the sparkling view of the city from the rooftop. She remembers a similar sensation in the early stages of her romance with Chuck. As she reaches the glass door of the elevator, Blair glances over her shoulder towards the bar and finds Dean looking back at her. The bartender raises an arm, gives a short wave. Blair ducks her head in response, doing her best to contain the smile that's threatening to spread across her face. Just in time, the elevator arrives with a soft ding. Blair slinks through the doors and rests against the wall, the cool glass feeling refreshing to her warm skin. She sighs and runs a hand through thick, dark curls.

What the hell was that?


A/N: I haven't written a GG fic in a while and had a little down time at work. Though I'm not certain anybody will even read this given how long it's been since the show was on the air, I had fun with this. Those who have read it, please review and let me know what you think.

-C