Author's Note: Hannah, you asked for it. Hope this isn't too terrible, it's my first attempt at Blan/Dair. This is a love story with absolutely no dialogue. All the main characters are thirty-four or thirty-three, depending on their birthdays. Inspired by the season one episode of Criminal Minds, "L.D.S.K." Go watch it. Seriously.
Disclaimer: Still don't own anything from or relating to Gossip Girl.
TOO FAR GONE
-A Gossip Girl OneShot by: Honour Society-
NEW YORK, NY 2024
Completely enthralled, his eyes are glued to her pale fingers as she delicately twirls the pressed orchid around in the crisp February air. He finds himself unable to move from the green-painted park bench which has undoubtedly given millions of others before him chronic back pain and a one-way ticket to the chiropractor's. Her face is older now. Like a decades-older paperback novel, lines crease her forehead. And yet he cannot turn away. Her dark hooded eyes tell a tale of heartbreak and love and determination and vulnerability. He continues to look on, as she slips the flower into the book she's cradling. He assumes it's a scrapbook, but he can't be sure.
A black peacoat with big brass buttons that look vintage, though he isn't positive, covers her slim frame. She's all skin and bones. He bets that if he could make out the lines of every bone in her body if she shrugs off the coat. It's the middle of winter. Her hands pull the coat tighter around her petite, perfect-size-two body.
Seemingly out of the blue, her dark eyebrows form half-moons over her golden brown eyes. She brings her hands to the butter-soft leather purse at her hip and rifles through it, blowing puffs of air out her pink mouth. Wordlessly, she pulls out a red fountain pen and writes a quick note on the back of a Rite-Aid receipt. She then precedes to slide the note masquerading as a receipt across the bench to him.
No one's stared at me like that in a long time.
He nervously brings his dark eyes up from the flimsy piece of paper in his now-shaking mitten-clad hands. Their eyes meet. He hates clichés, he is, after all, a poet, but he swears he sees a smattering of sparks fly up over their heads.
She winks sexily, before collapsing into light-hearted giggles. He swallows his fear and opens his mouth to strike up a conversation. She denies him of this, by way of drawing a manicured finger to her parted lips. He nods and accepts the pen she passes him.
I can't imagine why not.
Boldness takes hold of him as he slides across the bench, till their hips just graze each others'.
He looks over her shoulder at the tome she's holding. It is, as it turns out, a scrapbook. Every page is colour-coordinated and special-ordered borders and stickers and frames decorate them. Most of the photos are black-and-white and the ones that aren't are frayed and faded beyond belief. He listlessly flips through them, skipping some, pausing on others. It's the ones devoted to the two children that he enjoys. They remind him of his own child, his own life, despite the fact that he very much enjoys being The Man on the Bench. A man without a past. Without a future. Only a present.
If these are, indeed, her children, she has two. A boy and a girl. The American dream. The boy's name is Elliot and he appears to be somewhere between the ages of nine and thirteen. The girl, Olivia, must be much younger than that, perhaps only four or five. They're both beautiful; both slightly-altered versions of the woman who sits beside him.
Almost making a mockery of it, he scrawls in his chicken-scratch a quick phrase.
They look just like you.
She snatches the pen from his hands before he's even looped the Y and their fingers tingle with electricity. She writes a question, asking if he has any children of his own. He replies that he has one, a daughter, named Stephanie. She says it's a beautiful name. They continue in this manner until her hip starts vibrating. He feels it, too. She smiles a regretful smile, pulls out her cell phone. A frown graces her elegant face when she checks the Caller ID. He finds his own features matching hers.
Hastily, all while grimacing sadly, her loopy cursive leaves the last words he'll ever read on the now covered-in-ink receipt.
I've got to go.
A reply is jotted down immediately.
Wait. Blair.
She frowns. He realizes she thought he didn't know her name. She turns to face him, wild-eyed. More roughly than anticipated, he pulls her chin to his. She looks up at him though long lashes. He exhales. She inhales. Her eyelids flutter shut and they lean in, till they're sharing air. Just when their lips are about to meet, he pulls back.
Because she has Nate Archibald and he has Serena van der Woodsen, they can't.
As if coming alive from the photographs he's seen of them, a petite tow-headed girl with her eyes and a tall, lanky brunet boy with a head of her hair approach the woman beside him. She comes alive, too, he notes. The wide grin on her delicate face is no lie. She picks up her daughter and seals the innocent young girl's pale forehead with a lipstick-coated kiss. Both giggle. As the woman leaves with her children in tow, he cups his chin in his hand. Just before she's out of sight, he produces a ridiculously-expensive camera from his leather messenger bag. With one push of a button, the image of her dancing brown eyes boring into those of another are preserved forever. This is the last picture he will ever take.
After that, he grabs the receipt. Twisting circles around her credit card number and the bar code for tampons, are a few lines of bittersweet poetry. It's then that the bullet comes out of nowhere, striking him in between the eyes.
His body crumples.
But, she's too far gone. She can't even hear him cry out for her.