He'd never asked to be haunted.
She seems happy, laughing at parties, poised and beautiful, and no one else can see that she's forced, too bright, too shiny. It's the only thing he can see.
He put a tiara on her head once, a chintzy plastic gaudy piece of play jewelry that little girls put on to play princess in their bedroom mirrors. The smile she gave him was the realest thing he'd ever seen.
Her smile is never real anymore.
She lurks in the corners, a ghost in the shadows, and when he turns she's never there, no matter how much he wants her to be. He thinks it's the whiskey, the amber liquid that burns his throat and makes his hands shake. He thinks it's his mind playing shiny tricks on him. He thinks it's hallucinations born from his heartbreak.
She throws charity events for Bass Industries, the perfect hostess and the newspapers run photos of her gripping oversized checks, standing with children in wheelchairs and only Dan can tell that the smile on her face never reaches her eyes.
He hopes she's happy. It's a genuine hope that her decision was the right one because he's a fool and still wants her to be happy, even without him.
He knows she's not.
He sees her down hallways, a figure in the distance disappearing around corners, always out of reach, and sometimes he thinks if he can run fast enough he might be able to catch her. He wants to grab her by the shoulder, feel her warm skin under his fingertips one more time, turn her to him and ask her why she never said goodbye. But she's never there and he wouldn't ask anyway.
He might kiss her. If he could catch her.
He ends up in a bar with yet another drink sweating in front of him after those episodes, those moment of mental weakness when his brain plays tricks on him, craving the numbness, wishing it would stop the pain. It never does, at least not enough. The pain aches through his body, a dull thud that goes along with his heartbeat.
Sometimes in the darkness of his bedroom when he wakes up gasping for air, another dream where he is drowning, he admits to himself that he misses her.
Everyone is worried. They look at him with sympathetic eyes, talking about the weather, telling him amusing stories about summer vacation, never talking about what he wants them to talk about, always avoiding the subject of her.
His ghost.
She haunts his dreams, and when he sleeps he can still feel her fingers on his skin, her lips kissing his shoulder, and he wakes up calling her name, his head cottony , his body crying out for her, burning like a live wire.
His other dreams are different, water pouring in and he can't breathe, clawing to find a way out and he wakes up screaming into the empty room.
He's drowning when he's awake too.
His dad stops by the loft and says all the usual things dads say when their sons are heartbroken and Dan knows he's worried. He's not there, sitting at the kitchen bar, gripping a cup of coffee. He's somewhere else, with her. All Dan can think about as Rufus hugs him and tells him that his door is always open is Blair, the way she smelled, the way her hair felt in his fingers, and he nods, pretending to pay attention, agrees to come to the next family brunch, to call if he wants to talk.
He lies.
Nate visits, tells him that despite many great writers being alcoholics, Dan doesn't have to emulate them. Dan laughs because he's actually entirely sober that day and he hasn't written a word in months. He doesn't drink so he can write, he drinks to keep back the ghosts. It doesn't work. No matter what he does, she's always there, whispering in his ear.
Everyone is worried about him.
There is no way out. Everywhere he goes, she's there, on the edges of his vision, and if he turns his head he might find her stand there, watching him, except she always disappears.
Until one day he turns his head and she doesn't.
"Dan."
They are standing in the hallway outside an exhibit at MOMA, Blair dressed smartly in a skirt and jacket, her hair pulled back in a simple bun, her sad eyes searching his as if he might have all the answers. Her voice is cracking and raw. His mind must be playing an elaborate trick on him because this hallucination seems so real and he wonders if he reached out would she be real or would she disappear? He laughs, an uneven, jolting sound, because he can't believe how far his imagination has gone this time.
His ghost has become real. He can smell her, watches the way her lip trembles before she opens her mouth and speaks to him. Dan is sorry he didn't stop for a drink before coming to the museum. This would be easier if he were a little numb.
"You hate me."
"I do." he says, his voice cold and cutting. He lies.
"I wish things had turned out differently," she says, wringing her hands.
"Doesn't matter."
He wants her, at least he thinks he does, unless it's the whiskey he'd slipped into his morning coffee still buzzing through his veins making him feel shaky and short of breath. He wants her so much it hurts. He wishes again for that drink, to dull the pain, but he knows it will dull nothing. It never does.
He aches.
"I miss you."
Blair's voice is jittery, edgy. He stares at her with eyes that are bloodshot from too little sleep and too much drinking and more than enough sadness. How can she say this. He wants to tell her that she can't miss him, not after what she did. She's not allowed. She's lost all privileges when it comes to Dan Humphrey. He gave her everything, she took it all and gave nothing back.
"Doesn't matter."
He says those words again. Her face falls, she looks hurt, and Dan has a moment of satisfaction from the pain he's caused that is quickly replaced by his own pain, and he wonders if he'll ever be free of her, because even now he doesn't want her to hurt, even if she deserves it.
"Don't say that," Blair begs, her hand coming out to touch him on the sleeve, tentative, wanting contact, wanting something to make this less painful. Dan flinches and pulls away. "We meant something."
Until they meant nothing. Not even enough to say goodbye.
"Are you happy?" he asks, steering the conversation another direction, changing the subject out of curiosity. Is she really happy? Was it the right thing to do? They are still alone in the hallway, his voice echoing off the bare white walls. She doesn't respond right away, just stares at him with her eyes wide and full of tears.
"I don't know," she answers after a long silence, her voice barely a whisper, looking away from him, staring at the floor. "I should be. I love him."
Her words hurt. Suddenly Dan wants to beg her to love him instead, to fall on his knees and grab her hands and ask her to never leave him again, to love him as much as he loves her. He closes his eyes because now everything hurts.
"I was happy with you," she whispers, so soft he almost has to strain to hear what she says, but when those words are absorbed into his brain Dan's eyes fly open. Before he can stop himself his internal monologue becomes external.
"You can't say that, Blair."
She can smile at him from across the room, make small talk, ask how his writing is going, talk about the weather, even tell him she misses him, but she cannot say he made her happy. Not after she left him. Not after she told him that happiness didn't matter.
"It's the truth. Don't I owe you that much?" she says, her voice cracking with emotion and he sees that her hands are trembling a little, just like his, and he really wants that drink.
"I loved you." Dan says quietly. "And that didn't matter, and now you tell me that you were happy with me? You can't say that."
He feels a tug toward her, the chain that ties him to her, the one he's been trying to break but he can never find a way. He wants her words to mean nothing but they mean everything.
I was happy with you.
"Nate says you're drinking too much." Blair says softly.
"Why should you care?" Dan snaps. His hands tremble at the thought of another drink and he wonders if he has indeed gone too far, if he has indeed become the stereotype, the heartbroken alcoholic writer numbing himself, drowning his sorrows.
His words hurt. He sees the way she jerks slights when he says them, the way her mouth opens to protest then shuts without saying anything. She speaks again, this time sounding defeated.
"You're my friend," Blair says. "Well, you were."
Anger wells up inside him and Dan grabs Blair's wrist roughly. She winces at his touch and Dan hates himself, loosens his grip a little.
"That didn't seem to matter when you left me." he spits out. "You walked away from our friendship, and everything else we were. You can't have that back now. You can't just use me when you need me and throw me away when you're done, then pick me up again. Why do you think I drink? Why?"
She says nothing. She just stares at him with eyes that aren't afraid, eyes that understand what he is saying, understand the need not to feel, understand that some pain is so intense that it's not possible to get through it without some way to numb it.
"I know." Blair finally says quietly. "I really do. We aren't that different, you and I. I've lost something too. I can't get through a day and feel normal. I cry myself to sleep every night."
She's not happy.
The significance of this hits him with force and Dan almost stumbles back. He realizes that things aren't as black and white as he thought they were, that it's not a matter of winners and losers, that maybe no one here has emerged the victor.
I've lost something too.
"Why?" he asks. He wants to ask more. Why didn't she stay. Why didn't she chose him. Why did she follow Chuck when he doesn't make her happy. Why won't she walk away. Why can't she say she doesn't love Chuck, that she loves Dan instead.
Blair shrugs. She knows what Dan is asking.
"I don't really know. Maybe I did once, but not anymore."
She looks tired. His hand his still holding her wrist but his grip is gentle now and he can feel her pulse under his fingertips, beating fast, steady, thump...thump...thump...
"I love you." she says, choking back a sob, and Dan can't breath.
no no no no no
Why now. Why when they are both stuck does she tell him what he's always known. He searches her face for an answer but finds nothing.
"Doesn't matter." Dan says softly, almost kindly. Blair chokes back another sob, her shoulders sagging.
"I know."
He wants to yell, to punch the wall with his fist until it hurts because it would distract from the pain that is ripping through his heart. Instead he drops her wrist and stands with his hands hanging by his sides, staring at her.
"Blair."
He says her name differently. The anger is gone, the resentment has been drained away, and he is left bare and exposed. He can feel tears stinging his eyes and he knows there is nothing they can do. They are stuck between the past and the future, and there is nothing left for them.
"I'm sorry." she says, tears on her cheeks.
There should be some sort of closure, a kiss on the cheek, a hug between friends, a handshake, but there is nothing. Minutes stretch between them, falling into the silence. Then Blair turns and walks away, Dan watching her until she turns the corner and is gone.
He didn't want her to be his ghost, but now it's all he has left.
~fin~