Summary: Sometime after 1x04 and their heart to heart. Oh yeah, Dan's already published in the New Yorker.
**
Almost time for class.
Dan Humphrey is closing his notebook when he catches sight of her rounding the corner of the school courtyard. Blair Waldorf is curiously alone, lacking her usual entourage of cronies and hangers on. Her makeup is meticulous, her stride perfectly planned, and her expression set in icy stone.
That is what he can see, what others can see, but he knows that underneath all her planning, all her intention, there is much more.
Outside, she is ice personified.
Inside… well, probably more ice, but that ice is as dirty and cracked and imperfect as everyone else.
The courtyard is empty and he catches her eye. She regards him strangely, almost curiously, like an ink blot image not yet fully formed.
He remembers their shared words on the hallway floor and the piece of herself that she shared.
The memory embiggens him. He walks up to her.
Her face falls as he draws closer.
He guesses the ink blot has now fully formed and that the image in her mind's eye is Brooklyn.
She keeps walking as he catches up to her. She does not stop for him, but surprisingly, she does not rebuff him as he falls into step besides her.
Side by side. Step for step. They are an odd sight for the students of St. Jude's and Constance.
**
"Humphrey."
"Waldorf," he says, "So, does this mean we're friends now?"
"Maybe," she looks at him, a mirthful expression curling her face, "Hell did officially freeze over yesterday."
"Of course," He grins for her, but not at her, "Me and you finding common ground. Definitely a sign of the coming apocalypse."
"You and I finding common ground," she nips back, "and you call yourself an aspiring writer? Pathetic, Humphrey."
"I write better than I speak," he defends automatically, but when her words fully sink in, "Wait, you know I want to become a writer?"
She shrugs, "I have a subscription to the New Yorker. I liked your short story."
She compliments him as if it means nothing at all.
Maybe they really can be friends.
**
He stumbles upon her in the courtyard later that day. She's flying solo again, seated at a table, reading a book, probably waiting for one of her cronies to arrive.
He takes a seat beside her.
"Allright, Waldorf, I'm set. Give it to me."
"Can't," she says, not bothering to look up from her book, "Sorry to disappoint you Cabbage Patch, but there's no cure for Brooklyn."
"Oh, I get it, Brooklyn is a disease," he deadpans, then, "I'm talking about my Upper East Side name."
That piques her attention. Her gaze lifts from the book and settles on him.
"Excuse me?"
"My nickname," he says, thoughtfully "Although, I don't know how I feel about being called D."
She stares at him for a moment, before the sides of her lips curl upward into a scary sort of smile. He guesses this is her playful face.
"What? Not a fan of Cabbage Patch?"
He eyeballs her, "Would anyone be?"
"Beside the point, if you expect to be called D, you are sorely deluded."
"Oh, the alphabet club is full on members?" he says, not skipping a beat.
"Only the D's. So sorry," Blair sings-songs shooting him down, "Besides, fairer sex only, unless--" she eyes him up and down thoughtfully, "--you have an anatomical secret you wish to share."
He raises his eyebrows, "I think I'll keep my anatomical secrets to myself, thank you very much."
She pounces then, metaphorically speaking, leaning ever so slightly closer to him; the tips of her elbows are touching his. "And here I thought we were looking for common ground."
"We don't have that kind of common ground," he says, holding her gaze and his ground, neither moving closer nor moving away.
A moment passes and he becomes acutely aware of the glances and attention they are getting from the school – the scrutiny stirs an odd feeling in the pit of his stomach and he is not quite sure if it's good thing or a bad thing.
Her ride home arrives shortly after. For better or worse, she leans away from him, ear marks her place in the book, and puts it away.
It occurs to him before she can leave.
"I'm amendable to Big D," he says.
"Excuse me?"
"My nickname," he smiles brightly at her, immensely proud, "Little J -- Big D.Get it?"
Her expression looks simultaneously amused and horrified. In retrospect, he might have imagined her amusement.
"For the sake of your writing career, I'm going to pretend you never said that."
"Does that mean no on the nickname?"
"That's a hell no."
**
THE END
**
Alcohol inspired one-shot. Fun times. Turns out I like to reference the Simpsons, imagine that.