clean
dan/blair
chapter one
—
The waiting room looks like any other for the most part. Chairs too hard for their asses, faux orange softness. All lined in rows of three or four. No one actually uses the white armrests; they're all clacking their gum and clicking their cell phones. A round mahogany sign in desk is at the right. Atop the desk is pages worth of tables filled with names and appointments. Humphrey writes in quick cursive: B. Waldorf. Blair is hiding behind his unbuttoned, plaid flannel shirt, only her head visible. The receptionist flirts with Dan, to which Queen B tugs at him a bit too aggressively, and asks them to take a seat.
"I'm going to the bathroom."
"Nope." Dan pops his 'p'. Blair slumps into her seat.
Whatever Blair does, Dan does; wherever she goes, he goes.
There are soft pastel painted animals. Tigers, bears and lions are cheerily munching on respective hays and grasses. They're living comfortably around bright yellow bees and fresh spring-budded trees, dripping golden sap and something about the realistic mural tranquilises Blair's nerves. A bright sun gleams in the upper blue corner and butterflies zoom between marshmallow clouds. It's a world she doesn't know—one where everything isn't falling apart and they're not sitting in a stuffy hospital waiting room, dreading. Blair taps her foot on the floor.
Dan doesn't have the heart to stop her.
"Don't pout, princess."
Blair forces a beam.
Tap, tap, tap. She pulls at his hand and plays with his fingers. One, two, three, four, five. Someone coughs. Blair sighs and rolls her eyes. Dan smirks. "This is worse than Mommie Dearest's attempt at being sentimental," she tells him, turning to see his face and sitting on her leg. He chuckles, and replies he's never seen it. "God, if there's anything good in you, Humphrey, please don't even; I can't imagine who would want to subject themselves to this movie. It's the most excruciating experience that drones on forever. In fact, we need to watch it just so you're not left out."
"No thanks, B. I, uh, think I'm alright."
She hits his shoulder. "Humphrey."
An in-her-thirties nurse in flower print scrubs arrives shortly showcasing a bittersweet grin. Reason number one Blair hates hospitals; everyone always looks at her with pity. "Good news, folks. Blair's up. Dr. Sherman will be out in a few to confirm Blair's appointment for an eating disorder evaluation, I suppose? So hang in there a moment."
Blair sits on the table's parchment paper, the scale directly opposite her. She knows how fat she is; she doesn't need this. It's not until Humphrey says, "We're not here to make you fat, we're here for help," that she realises she said the last part out loud. Then, he stands blocking her view of the wretched thing. Legs swing; eyes look him up and down. She curses under her breath. Dan squats in front of her: "Look at me—you are strong, intelligent, determined and fierce and I love you."
And before Blair could respond with some depreciating remark, in walks her doctor. Dan stands, still obstructing eyesight of the scale.
"Alright Ms. Waldorf, what's up?"
Blair stares, reaches for Dan, and looks back again.
Dan holds her hand, "If I may, sir. I'm Dan, by the way. I asked her to call. Her hair's falling out, she's barely eating. Do you see how pale she is?"
"Is that so?" Dr. Sherman paces between the two, as Blair blinks back tears. "Hm…up on the scale, then. Blind weigh-in?"
"Tell me," Blair whispers, stepping on the scale in nothing but her dressing gown.
A few moments. "95 pounds."
Dan helps the angel down. He wants to feel angry, angry at her for not taking care of herself, but he knows better. Instead, he feels anger towards her mother and her father and Serena and Nate and most definitely Chuck.
Doctor Sherman checks Blair's vitals and things. Her metabolism is slow; her BMI is 15.8 and her bones are prominent beneath her skin. Twenty-four bone caps are visible from the sides of her snow-coloured skin. Twenty-four bones are lining her back as if they were puppet strings. Dan tries his hardest to not breathe through his teeth or visibly cringe. But it's difficult. He actually has to turn away, go get a cup of hot coffee. God, he's so fucking angry.
He slams the door on his way out.
Coffee burns his throat on the way down, though he doesn't care. The weather is a stark contrast from the happy-go-lucky interior. Winds are raging—howling. Rain pours down like an opaque sheet. Branches are falling around passersby like rose petals off their flower. Another sip. His hands are trembling. He lets out a scream louder than he imagined. Kicks the wall in front of him. Fuck Chuck and his stupid pretty face. The bastard uses Blair like a pawn in his own twisted game, tells her he loves her and then leaves. One doesn't love someone without caring about them. That's not love. Another scream, Dan finishes his drink, and unclenches his fists.
Blair answers questions honestly; it was Sherman after all. And, besides he promised not to tell her mom.
"How often do you purge?"
"Once a week."
"Why?" The question is invasive. An invasion of whatever privacy she has left. It takes everything. Yet, she musters up the courage to spill with a smile, (She smiles because that's who she is—Blair fucking Waldorf, elite socialite. They were supposed to smile, smile, smile). Maybe in hopes of actually getting better. Maybe it's possible, maybe it's not. The only person who ever cared about her is Humphrey. He loves me for me. So, she says it.
"I don't know. I didn't mean for it to happen. I just need it to stop."
He pushes further, "what's 'it?'"
"Everything. My mom, Chuck. The world. It's spinning out of control; I don't know anything anymore."
"I see. Kind of like how you felt when your parents divorced.
"Yes," Blair is quiet. "As long as I say the right thing and act the right way, they're happy! No one really cares. I'm a fat, gluttonous pig and that's all I'll ever be. People keep lying to me."
Dan watches her speak with Doctor Sherman a bit before entering the room again. Both his and Blair's cheeks are wet. She notices his knuckles have turned purple on his left hand. An iced coffee, for her; she assumes, is in his right, pressed against the injury.
"Dan, I'm glad you join us. I was just telling Blair that I want her to start seeing a dietician to assist her in weight restoration, and to start seeing me for weekly therapy sessions again." Humphrey nods. "Now, you both are responsible for logging meals in here—" the doctor holds up a little black notebook. "I know you can do it, Ms. Waldorf."
She nods grimily, "yeah, thanks." Her mouth's a thin line, lips together.
Dan squeezes her frail hand—he can follow her veins, see the blue blood coursing through—in support. Serena may be sunshine, but Blair's a river. A little cold, though warmer once you get used to her. Got to jump in both feet first. He passes her the iced beverage and she slurps in a very non-Waldorf fashion. If this were normal Dan wouldn't laugh, but it isn't so he does.
Doctor Sherman grins at the utter happiness and dismisses them.
Humphrey kisses her hair and she pecks his lips, "you did so good baby; I'm fucking proud."
"Say it again."
"You did wonderful, angel; so very brave. So, so good," he tells her.
"Again, Dan." He eyes her sweetly, "what?"
"You just said my name," and he tells her how proud he is the entire way home between breaths and peeled off clothes.
