A/N: So I debated back and forth whether to make this just a one-shot and then make this another new story, but I've decided to make the first chapter more of a prelude. So consider this the true beginning of sorts. THIS DOES NOT PICK UP FROM WHERE THE PRELUDE LEFT OFF. It's a tad jumbled, as is my writing, but I think it conveys the message that I want. As for timeline, it starts right before Blair leaves for Monaco. Those parts longer than a sentence in italics are memories, because completely linear story lines are quite as interesting. Oh, and spoilers through the finale.
Disclaimer: disclaimed.
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a cautionary tale of Humphrey and scotch
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Six months ago, had you asked him what would become of a quasi-friendship between him and Blair Waldorf, the answer would have included yelling, bickering, the occasional old movie or art opening, and a migraine. Surprisingly, leaning over the kitchen counter, NYU mug of scotch in hand, he finds this not to be even close to the truth. He thinks, in this setting, drinking over a lost girl, his melodramatic and tormented writer side is taking reigns of his life.
A long, fluid knock echoes about the loft and his drunken head looks up to the outline of someone outside his door. Door open, a whirlwind of blonde sweeps past him, spilling words into the air and placing a bottle of something bound to kill his liver on the counter.
"Why do I never choose me?" She pauses, looking his direction with some sort of lost hope, that he may somehow know the answer to her all together unanswerable question. He says nothing, but plops another mug on the counter.
Drink one (he's had a head start but it's really all the same in the end). She's unhappy. He's unhappy.
Drink two. She can't believe all her relationships have failed. He wishes he'd had one recently.
Drink three. She misses spending time with him. He agrees.
Drink seven. She should have chosen between him and Nate. He shouldn't have let he string him along.
Drink nine. She should've gone to Brown. He should've stayed in Brooklyn.
Drink ten. She shouldn't have believed man X, Y, and Z when they told her they'd love her forever. He shouldn't have ever become friends with Blair Waldorf.
He remembers two (three, four, six, it's all a blur) hours later, they're on the floor, sitting and sloppily drinking and ranting. She weaves drunken tales of her failed romances and decisions. He slurs on about unintended and unreturned feelings. They laugh and complain and remember, and there might have been a kiss at some point, but it's all meaningless and comfortable and old.
In the morning, he finds a lack of blonde radiating in the sunlight loft; a post-it note sticks to the counter, and scribbled on it reads:
Some day, you'll get the girl, and she'll be yours forever.
The post-it note then finds itself tucked away, stuck to one of the few Audrey Hepburn DVDs in his collection.
…
Private jet to Monaco. Departure time 9:00 AM. Her computer screen has a harsh light on her eyes at this time of night. Leaning back slightly, she catches a glimpse of her ring flashing in light and it all seems so permanent. She hears talk of flowers and place settings, sees images of cream and champagne fabrics so luxurious they should melt between her fingertips, and feels Louis's slender hands sliding down her arms while he whispers sweet nothings. It's both terrifying and exhilarating.
She closes her eyes to the light, and remember the past hours. Her mother is sketching like mad, throwing fabric left and right, and yelling in French at frightened twenty-something interns; she did promise she would practice her French for her visit later that summer. Her step-father is pulling all of his ornithology books from the library (along with a French to English dictionary, should the interns not provide enough practice). Chuck is sending her a note (that reeks of whiskey and pot) from some country in Europe with best wishes for a safe trip, along with a picture of him and Nate in front of some statue – a picture she's sure they only took for her approval. Serena is flouncing around the city, readying herself for her self-exploration vacation by picking up copious amounts of sunscreen, paperback romance novels, a yoga mat, and a few items that won't make it past airport security. Louis is taking her to every store on 5th Avenue, smiling the entire way, even as his arms begin to numb from all the bags.
She realizes her day was only missing one brown-haired Brooklynite – one who she hadn't heard from in quite some time. Cell phone pressed against her ear, it took four rings for him to drawl out a hello.
"So I was thinking a comedy might be a fitting choice for my departure. Leave things on a humorous note."
"A comedy? Blair, what are you talking about?" His exasperation echoing against her ear, and she's not sure what she did to deserve it.
"A film, Humphrey, honestly, what else would I be talking about?"
"Oh, well I assumed you didn't want Nate, Chuck and I to perform some sort of Three Stooges skit to send you off. Although the idea of hitting Chuck Bass in the face with a cream pie does sound alluring…"
"You're rambling." She's pretty sure a giggle accompanied that statement.
"Yes, right, so a comedy. Any particular one you had in mind." She can hear the clicking of his keyboard dancing in the background.
An hour later, she's curled her legs up with his voice humming in her ear as movie plays on in the darkness of her bedroom. As she watches the black and white couple kiss on the screen, she stuck with a empty feeling that his voice alone can't seem to fill. When her eyes finally close for the night, she sees a very different couple kissing in black and white.
She boards her flight the next morning with hand firmly intertwined with Louis's and a goodbye text from him.
…
He calls her that night, just to make sure her plane safely landed; honestly though, his fingers were on autopilot when they dialed her. She answers with a "Bonjour" and he knows to not call as much. She didn't get kidnapped by some evil billionaire for the summer, but flew away with a genuine prince to a far away land. He remembers, as he sips his coffee in shop just obscure enough to be cool, that a princess doesn't need saving from her fairytale ending.
He wishes her a good time and manages out a semi-decent "au revoir" before he's back to staring at his laptop, waiting for inspiration that isn't in the form of a brunette in a pink dress kissing him in the dark.
But none else comes, and his mind is too tired to do this run around, so he lets his muse lead his fingers skipping over the keys. Even in imaginary form she's controlling and pushy.
He's heard in copious lectures, and the occasional over-dramatic movie about the trials of being a writer, that the best writing comes out of the writer's life; experience dictates art. Right now she's his experience.
His fingers sprint to keep up with this memory running far ahead to a future he's dreaming about all to much for the past couple weeks.
Pink all over, she's standing there (yes, actually standing there) waiting for him to kiss her, and no he's not dreaming and she's not running, and the world has stopped. They've been here before, and he's struck in the face with the obvious similarity of it all – she's waiting, he's inwardly freaking out.
"Okay, I think I caught a glimpse of him just behind us. Now, I think if we stand right about…here, he'll get a good view." She's grabbing his lapels and pushing him into position, and oh yes, he's been here before.
"Humphrey, hello? Are you listening to me?"
"What?" Eyes are refocused on her in the present, because he can think of the past all he wants later, when he's not kissing her.
"Kiss me." It's a demand like most all sentences that her perfect lips form.
And so, because he really can't say no – and he's pretty sure he really doesn't want to, sadly – he does what he should have that night. If fate was giving him a redo, he was going to run like hell with it. Pushing every ounce of nervousness out, he's pulled her up against him and kissed her before her startled breath can leave her lips.
Like warm champagne with a splash of bourbon, she's sweetly intoxicating with a taste of bitterness. Her small hands are sliding up his chest to his neck and her tongue is suddenly warring with his own. They are once again alone in their own world, and he's forgotten why they are here in the first place, but he's wondering, as his hand threatens to mess up her nearly perfect hairdo, how much closer they can get without having to take something off – a thought only furthered by her small body pressing even more into him.
Finally there's a need for air and space and thinking because, damn, that was not supposed to be like that. She's standing once again in front of him, cheeks now flushed from more than just her make-up, and drawing in ragged breaths so unladylike. He's trying to catch his running breath, the memory of her body against his imprinted in his bones. She draws in one long breath, and her body calms as he watches the tension – that he's pretty sure him and his hands put there – seep off her pinked skin.
"We should probably…" and "yeah, we should…" follow in quick succession and he's following her (like always).
…
The warm sun trickling in the window does nothing to keep her awake. The clouds rolling softly along beside her are like the proverbial sheep and all she's missing is a fence. Louis presses a gentle kiss on her forehead before slipping off to talk with some Embassy guy who was accompanying them. She can faintly hear the fluid French in the background as she slips away.
Her feet ache. Her pink dress was becoming increasingly constricting. Her hair had fallen some time before and she really should be anywhere but here.
It's close to five in the morning and she's slipped out of Louis's hotel room before any eyes can fall on her, and with an angry blonde sulking at home, her tired body carries her to a place she's become all to familiar with.
"Do you know what time it is?"
"Of course, I do. I'm not a moron." Normally, she would have barged in already, but she's letting him control the board right now.
"And, you thought, well I'm up so the rest of the world must be as well."
"You're hardly the rest of my world Humphrey."
"Since when am I even a puzzle piece of it Waldorf." There's more than playful witticism lacing his words for his (just recently realized) handsome faced is screwed up in almost an exasperated scowl and it's far too Chuck Bass for her comfort.
"I came to say thank you."
"Do you want a drink?"
"It's five in the morning Humphrey."
"Well at least I know now that you recognize the absurdity of your timing."
"It's a little early to be drinking."
"I thought I'd get a jump start on that alcoholic-writer stereotype." He's downing what she's pretty sure isn't coffee from a ceramic NYU mug. "You haven't changed yet?"
"Neither have you."
"You know, it's a quite a dress Blair."
"Why thank you Carson, will the rest of the Queer Eye guys be joining us later to compliment my stellar application choice of shoes?" A smirk to lighten the progressively darkening mood.
"Ha, verrrrrrrry funny." Her feet have only made a couple inches in the door over the span of their conversation but suddenly he's a couple breaths away from her.
"Exactly how much have you drunk?"
His answer was less of a thought and more of an action, because his hand is trailing up the satin of her pink dress and his lips are brushing faintly across hers. Lips to ear, he mumbles softly.
"We could have been great."
She can't feel the pain in her feet as she races out on to the sidewalk, sucking in all the morning air she can. Leaning against the wall (that she's temporarily forgot is in Brooklyn and probably festering some sort of mutated parasite), she lets her heart pound in her chest, helpless to stop it; she entirely hates everything about Brooklyn.
The squeeze of her hand jolts her from her memories, and her eyes adjust to Louis's face before her.
"What were you dreaming about?" She finds his slight mispronunciation of each work endearing.
"Oh, nothing." She smiles, laying her free hand on his smooth cheek and kissing him demurely.
She had asked called him later that night, for reasons she didn't want to think too much about. He had sounded like he'd been run over by a taxi, a fact she relayed to him and was met with a hearty laugh and a complaint that she was hurting his head by being funny. He had confessed he didn't remember much from the past night and had laughed once again. She had said thank you (again) and he had laughed about how he'd thought he'd never get a thank you out of Blair Waldorf without some serious coercion.
…
A/N: and would you review, she asks kindly.
