Hemingway, Hepburn, and Humphrey

Throughout the course of her existance, she has never met someone with more aggravating qualities and irritating habits than that of Dan Humphrey.
She is nearly positive that two people have never been more different from each other than the two of them.
He's so humble and corny (and sometimes a book snob with anything penned after the 1960's.)
And she's so clever and stubborn (and sometimes enjoys diner coffee on the outskirts of the city, completely despite herself.)
And they'll never admit it but here they are.
All she knows is that she really doesn't know anything at all.
Especially not about how or why they work the way they do.
But she does keep a secret list of all the things he does that she can't stand.
The way he rolls over in his sleep and wraps his warm arms around her shivering waist.
So annoying.
The fact that half of his wardrobe is just plaid shirts and hideously printed scarves.
Disgusting.
The constant waffles-and-old-books smell of his dingy loft.
His loft in Brooklyn, she might add.
Revolting.
The way he ruins every decent Hepburn movie with his over analyzation of it's script adaptation from the original work of literature which was far superior, in his literary opinion, despite how incredible Audrey was.
Irritating.
The shade of blue his face turns when he argues that Hemingway is and will always be the greatest writer in history.
(Even though she agrees, she'll always tell him that Hemingway is repetitive and bland and Fitzgerald is far superior, in her literary opinion.)
The gentle way he holds her hair back after a rough night with far too much to drink on both of their parts.
(No matter how much she thanks him for it the next day, it's still annoying.)
The silence she hears from him in the morning after the rough night when he doesn't say he told her so. He just hands her her coffee, telling her that her throwing up was quite refined as she hits him, scrunches up her nose, and asks for aspirin.
(Which he already has ready.)
The stale smell of liquor on his breath in the wee hours of the morning as he whispers slurry poems into her hair while she ices his sore and red knuckles that had connected with someone's jaw outside of the bar while defending her honor.
(Alright, she kind of likes this one. But only a little.)
The childish glint he gets in his eyes whenever he reads the vintage comic books stuffed under his mattress.
(She rolled her eyes when she found them hiding there while she was putting a new duvet cover on his bed, despite his objections.)
The undeterable focus he puts on his writing, even if she is throwing herself at him. (Which she would never do. Seducing him to bed is a better phrase for it.) And all he can say while she's doing this is "One more word," or "One more chapter, I swear," and then when she gets irritated and takes it upon herself to deter him all he can do is throw his hands up in the air with an exasperated sigh and say to her "Blair, you can't just unplug someone's computer like that!"
(Whatever. She can. And she did.)
The light snore he exhales when he's sleeping. No matter what, the airy and gruff sound never fails to interrupt her light slumber.
(She never gets any sleep in Brooklyn. Ever. And she doesn't know if it's the city noise, Dan's snoring, or the disturbing fact that she's sleeping in Brooklyn.)
The expressions that flash across his face while he dreams, as if losing himself in another world and gaining something entirely different in return.
(She only knows this because of the incessant snoring that takes place during the night, prompting her to watch him. She can't help it.)
The way he earmarks all of his books to the point that none of his favorite pages or chapters or scenes have the top corners of any of their pages.
(This only bothers her because how is she supposed to keep her place with all the corners already worn away and not there for her to fold?)
The cheesy texts he sends her when he knows how stressed out she is in class or in a meeting and she'll check them regardless of how undeniably corny they may be, "I know my poems are a little rusty, and my book shelf's a little dusty, but Hemingway is the greatest writer ever and you know it.-Dan."
(No, he will never let it go. But he succeeds in making her smile anyway.)
The knack he has for reading her mind and knowing exactly what to say and what kind of tea to make and what Hepburn movie fits the present mood she's in.
(He doesn't say anything about the adaptation of the original work to the screen this time.)
The way he challenges her in everything she does. He'll start a war within the walls of the loft (complete with thrown books and higher-level insults on her part) just so she can get worked up enough to tell him how she truly feels, what she's really thinking, what she wants to happen in the future, with them, with her company, regrets from the past. He makes her deal with all of it, he forces her to recognize that she is far greater and so much better than she ever gives herself credit for.
The looks he gives her when they're arguing that drive her absolutely crazy: a wink there, a smirk here, a playful eyeroll every so often while he sits in the vintage Sherlock Holmes chair rereading all her favorites while she berates him on etiquette and attention-span. He just lets her yell at him and refuses to partake in any of it. (Despite the fact that he's usually the one who's right.) He sits there and waits until she's done and then asks her if she would like to go get some icecream and argue some more there.
(He manages to get a smile out of her. And she takes his passiveness as a win for her. But she spends the whole night apologizing.)
And the most annoying thing written on this hidden list of Blair's, scrawled in dark blue ink are the words:
The most annoying thing? The fact that he's humdrum Humphrey and everyday he makes me fall in love with him all over again.
Every single day.

She doesn't know how she puts up with him or how he can even begin to handle her.
And neither one of them will admit it but they live to drive each other crazy.