Disclaimer: I don't own Gossip Girl.
Summary: The pages are bent, flipped through too many times to keep their original crispness, but the content is the same. And, with the old and ragged copy of 'Inside' sitting innocuously on her lap, Blair allows herself to remember. DanBlair, set post-series, oneshot
This idea just struck me randomly. I still love Dair - this much is painfully obvious - and I just couldn't get rid of this particular idea. So, here it is! My latest venture into the angsty wonderfulness that is the ship of Dan and Blair. Please enjoy this little ficlet! Thank you so much for reading!
Turn the Page
The very notion of what she is about to do is a bad one.
Blair tries to reason herself out of it, tries to reach deep into the recesses of her mind where she loves her husband unabashedly, and tries to deny the urge that has dwelled within her for the longest time. Each day, it gets stronger. Each day, it batters against the carefully crafted walls of her perfectly porcelain veneer. Each day, she loses just a little bit.
As her eyes gaze across the room, she wonders just how much of a mistake it would be. Certainly it wouldn't be unforgivable, right? It wasn't a massive faux pas, right?
Blair supposes the fact that she even has to ask herself that is reason enough against it.
But, then again, she has never been good at doing what she has been told - even if her right mind wants to will her against it.
She has the house to herself that day. Her husband and son are off to work and school respectively, Dorota is at her place with Vanya... Really, there is nothing to stop her from doing this one, simple, stupid act.
Almost as if she were a burglar, Blair swiftly slides across the lavishly carpeted floor of the home she shares with her husband, looking from corner to corner as if expecting someone to come jumping out at her, marveling at her childishness as well as her complete lack of respect for her marriage.
She kneels at the foot of her nightstand placed by her side of the bed and pulls open the bottom drawer. There is nothing there to raise suspicions from anyone - just a few old birthday cards, a copy of Jane Eyre, and a random Audrey Hepburn DVD. Typical Blair things. But beneath all of that, there is something else. Her eyes rake across the book at the bottom of the drawer, the booksleeve worn from use, pages only slightly yellowed. The title rings across her mind like a bell.
Inside by Daniel Humphrey.
Her fingers hesitate before coming into contact with the cover. Foolishly, a chill runs down her spine as she picks up the book, the very book that started so much and ended even more.
Blair almost contemplates re-reading the entire thing on the spot, when really, she could recite certain passages by heart. It is something that she finds intensely traitorous, something that questions her loyalty to her husband. She doesn't like it. She doesn't like having her perfect fairytale questioned, but...if she didn't, then why does she keep bringing out this one, tattered book?
Why does she insist on remembering the way she was once loved?
She sits on the floor. Something about sitting on her marital bed with something so taboo at this junction in her life seems like it would qualify as adultery. And, while she has that experience firmly under her belt, some part of her does not want to associate this simple book with that very complicated action.
Her fingers are trembling as she folds her legs beneath her, not caring - for once - that her expensive, designer dress is becoming wrinkled in the process. She has no idea why this has such an effect on her. It is almost as if it is a drug, and she hasn't had a hit in so very long.
Blair opens the book, the spine cracking faintly as it falls open to the space that has seen the most use. Words leap out at her, words that she does not want to see but they are words that she craves.
"I love you," Dylan said, eyes fierce. "I'm selfish and stubborn and I need you."
Her heart is in her throat, even after all these years. Even after he has married her and she has married him. He still haunts her, through his work, through the characters of Dylan Hunter and Clair Carlyle and she can't think straight as she continues to flip through the pages.
He kissed the corner of her mouth; she looked up at him, indignant and yet willing at the same time...
"This was a bad idea," she mutters to herself, her eyes tracing over each letter with strange precision, as if they were works of art and she was trying to decipher the meaning when, really, the meaning was blatant. Obvious. A slap to the face.
He had loved her, once.
Blair's fingers are shaky as she stares down at the page, no longer seeing the words, only seeing the image of a boy with dark hair and darker eyes studying the laptop in front of him, fingers frantically typing away, caught in the moment.
Oh, her chest hurts.
She closes the book, realizing that her hands are shaking. Really, she feels as if her whole being is one giant, shaking mess. Blair leans her head against the side of her bed, closes her eyes, and tries to ban the thoughts from her head - thoughts of the man who loved her, the man who had understood her more than she understood herself, the man who was desperate and blind and foolish -
The book on her lap suddenly feels as if it is made of lead, heavy and pressing deep into the flesh of her bare legs.
"Blair?"
She tenses. He's home early.
Her fingers scramble to place the book back where it belongs, hidden beneath everything else she holds dear is the thing that matters to her most, and only she knows where it is. Something about that provides her with a little thrill that she immediately feels guilty about.
"Blair?" he calls again.
Blair hastily rises from the floor, smoothing her skirt and trying to look as if she had been doing anything else - anything else except looking through that book.
"Back here!" Well, there's something. Her voice hardly stutters as she calls back.
And then her husband is standing in front of her, a bouquet of peonies in one hand and a smile on his face, looking every bit the changed man that she knows he is. Somewhere. He steps forward and his mouth curves into that dangerously charming smirk of his.
"I had time off for lunch," he said.
Blair smiles. A forced one, but it must look convincing because her husband leans down and presses a kiss to her temple. All the while, she tries to not look at the nightstand drawer where her dirtiest little secret hides, waiting, taunting her, pulling her under.
It never happened, she tells herself, as she had told herself a thousand times before. It never happened.
End.