"What the hell is this?" Blair's heels came storming into his Brooklyn loft, clicking exclamation points as she waved his work in the air.
He smirked to himself, pivoting around to watch her fury. "That's not very princess-like," he said, half expecting those angry shoes to walk over and assault him themselves.
"This isn't about Serena," she snapped, continuing to wave it in the air accusingly.
"I never said it would be," Dan said slowly, calmly. She looked unnerved, and a lot like a wild animal, Dan wasn't sure what that meant or how she would react.
"Yeah," she sputtered. "Well?" she posed, rather inelegantly.
The question hung in the air. Waiting a moment, he sighed, and finally closing the door, he walked into the main room. "Yeah, well?" he repeated mockingly. "Well, what?" He knew it came across snippety, but to be honest, he was growing tired of waiting for Blair Waldorf.
Her lips formed a few words, but stopped short each time. Dan felt like he should grab his phone and take a picture. He could see the blast now: Cat got your tongue B? Perhaps life is mirroring your favorite movie and that darned cat is leading straight to the writer of your dreams.
"It's not about me either," she finally articulated.
He stared at her a moment, trying to figure out if she looked sad or just indignant. Settling on "not certain", he responded, "This princess thing is really going to your head." He walked over to the breakfast bar counter and busied himself with anything he could find. He looked up at those brown eyes glaring at him, but also searching. "Why?" he asked, trying to keep any hope out of his voice. "Did you want it to be?"
"Let's stick to the point I'm trying to make."
"Is your point to avoid my question?"
"Humphrey, shut it," she snapped, her frustration was clearly growing. "What is this, and why did you give it to me?" She pushed the aforementioned papers into his hands, releasing them almost with disgust before her own hand could touch his.
"I thought you wanted me to shut it." His emphasis on "shut it" was a tad antagonist, even he could admit that. A fire lit behind her eyes, and he knew best to just continue. "Ok, I'll bite. I thought I was pretty clear yesterday. I wanted you to read it and maybe get it published," he said matter-of-factly.
"It's not even a story Dan," Blair responded skeptically. "Magazines rarely publish descriptions. Especially cliché ones about the Chrysler Building." He tried not to winch at the word cliché. Sure it wasn't his best work, but he was working under a deadline and romantic stress. "Plus," she continued, "there are holes you'll need to fix before I'm willing to even consider submitting it for you."
"Excuse me?" Holes? It was rushed and bit heavy-handed with the adjectives, but there were no holes, he thought.
"This cracked vase in the lobby analogy - it doesn't make sense," she said taking the papers back from him and sitting down at the bar. She flipped to a page, pointing to the offending paragraph.
He smiled. The first genuine smile he had felt in a long time. "Oh that," he said warmly. "Blair," he stated, waiting for her eyes to fall on his, "something doesn't have to be perfect to be strong."
The air crackled for a moment, charged by the simple statement. Blair moved uncomfortably in the stool but didn't retreat. "But it's cracked," she retorted. "It has weakened structural integrity."
"It's weathered time and experience, but it still stays together," he said, his voice low but not a whisper. He moved a little closer, pointing to the same offending paragraph. "There's strength in its endurance," he said, now just moving closer to her. "There's beauty in the frailty." His hand brushed against hers, and she withdrew hers immediately. But he didn't take offense, because clearly, if Blair Waldorf had wanted to be anywhere but here in his Brooklyn loft going over his cliché description, she would be.
That thought boosted his confidence tenfold. He backed off for a moment, settling into the bar stool near her. "You know," he said, a glimmer in his eye, "the revising process can take awhile. Maybe even weeks. Are you planning on staying in New York and hoofing around the hot summer streets with us commoners to help me?"
"Hoofing?" she responded with revulsion, but the same glimmer matched his own. "I suppose slumming hasn't killed me yet, Humphrey," she said pointing to her surroundings, "and from what I understand, I can be pretty strong when I need to be." She placed her hand back on the counter, touching his words softly.
"Oh," he said, his hand grazing the counter as well, "so you did catch that particular reference?"
"Subtly is not exactly your strong suit," she smiled sweetly.
The glimmer in his eye sparking even more, he almost challenged, "Are you implying that I have a strong suit?"
"What you lack in couth, you occasionally make up in accidental charm," she said waving her hand in the air. "Of course, I'm assuming giving me this piece yesterday was not an accident."
Straightening up a tad, but still slightly drunk on her presence, he answered, "My dad said I needed to make a gesture."
"Did Cedric agree?" The red of lipstick as she gingerly smiled was driving him less than sane.
"What are you doing here Blair?" he asked, hopefully, not able to contain the smile that seemed to be erupting from both of them in the moment.
She tilted her head to the side, responding, "Louis and I decided it wasn't going to work." The smile slightly died from her lips, but not entirely from her face.
"I guess I should say I'm sorry, Blair," he half whispered. He wasn't but that was what one was supposed to say in these situations.
"Don't," she said, shaking her head. "He was right."
"Right about what?"
She looked down, somewhat breaking the spell that was being conjured between them. "That he shouldn't have to compete for my attention."
He sighed knowingly. "Chuck?" he asked, the tone harsher than he wanted. Standing, he pushed further, "Did he make some grand overture? Probably right in front of Louis, because he's just that kind of guy." The words were spit out. He slightly cursed his jealousy, but it was a part of who he was. Sometimes, he couldn't help it.
"He did," she responded. "He made a scene on the airfield, and it was extremely romantic in a Douglas-Sirk, cue-the-music kind of way." She looked back up capturing his shoulder as he paced back and forth. "But that's not who Louis was concerned about."
"What?" he paused. The words and her soft, warm palm on her shoulder broke him from his treacherous thoughts directed at Bass.
"When you asked me to read this," she said tapping his paper on the bar, "I honestly thought it was going to be about Serena. I was sitting in Louis's jet waiting for liftoff, and even reading over my shoulder, Louis could tell."
"What could he tell?" he asked, the weight of her potential answer pressing on his sanity.
She made a small indiscernible noise - halfway between a scoff and a laugh. "I don't know," she said letting go of his shoulder and seemingly searching within herself. "That I was relieved it wasn't about her or that I was overly interested in finding some obscure reference to myself. Maybe he could tell how angry I was that this wasn't completely about me. I mean really, would it have killed you to give me more than a broken vase?" she asked sharply.
"It wasn't broken," he corrected softly.
She stared at him for a beat. "Why am I so honest with you? I hate that. Even before we were," she paused, searching, "non-friends, I've been honest with you."
He didn't know what to say to that, so he just waited. Standing in front of her, no longer pacing, but still waiting. And really, he was growing tired of waiting for Blair Waldorf.
"There's beauty in the frailty." Her turn to speak softly. "Is that really how you see me?"
Perhaps the waiting was over, he thought moving closer to her. Pushing a wayward brunette strand away from her face, he stated, "Waldolf, you're brilliant, scarily so at times. Why do you need to ask if that's how I really see you?" His fingers swept against her impossibly soft skin, but instead of lowering them again, he just rested his palm against her face.
She didn't move this time or flinch. "Because I need to know if it was worth leaving an attractive prince on his private jet headed to Paris to come here and revise this inane story with you," she said smiling. "In Brooklyn, no less."
"For what it's worth," he said, "I glad you didn't leave."
"And why's that?" she asked, her impossibly sly smile growing even larger.
"It just wouldn't be New York without Blair Waldorf."
This time, he moved in. Her face cradled in his hand. Her smile inviting him closer than he had ever been before. He could feel her jagged breath. Her brown eyes slowly become hooded as they closed in anticipation. She whispered quietly, "I must really be cracked if I'm letting you do this."
He chuckled, mostly to himself. "I promise I'll be gentle." Warm lips descended upon warm lips.
Dan Humphrey was tired of waiting for Blair Waldorf, and he was glad he didn't have to wait anymore.