Somebody That I Used To Know

III

Summary: Serena ignores. Chuck blames. Nate hates. Dan runs. Blair emerges from the rubble of her past unscathed, but when she meets a mysterious bartender with a familiar face, will her world turn upside down once more? Post-GG.

Monday morning brings with it all of the doom and gloom that's accompanied by the comedown from a good weekend. The sky stretched over Manhattan is a pallid gray, and from it falls thick, heavy drops of rain, which splatter relentlessly upon the city streets. Bright pops of color in the form of umbrellas strike a stark contrast against the monochrome scene as they bob up and down with the motion of people walking. An outsider might consider the image postcard-worthy; however, an outsider has likely not experienced the sensation of dirty water splashing upon the front of his Tom Ford slacks as a taxi driver races past.

Though it's only eight o'clock in the morning, Blair is hard at work at Cornelia Galleria. She's hunched over her laptop, chestnut curls framing her face as she types furiously. Though the gallery isn't open until ten, Blair wants to get a head start on her week and catch up with unread emails and tasks from the week before left uncompleted. Lana Del Rey sings softly in the background as she works, husky voice mournful and appropriate for the dreary day.

The third email she opens is a request from a local artist to display, and hopefully sell, his artwork in the gallery. She scans the email quickly, readying in her head a response that will politely - but firmly - decline the request due to an existing high volume of art on the gallery walls. Her eyes widen at name on the signature line.

Dean Harrison.

"What in the Wal-Mart hell?" Blair murmurs to herself in disbelief.

Two days ago, Blair had been thinking that she'd never see the man again, and now, on a crappy Monday morning, she's staring at an email from Dean himself. She supposes it's a coincidence given the fact that she hadn't told him her name at the bar, but still, the little fairytale-loving girl inside of her can't help but wonder if serendipity is at hand. Blair leans back in her chair, crosses her arms. Chewing absentmindedly on her bottom lip, she ponders her next step.

Deciding to play it coy, Blair begins crafting her response letter. She types, deletes, and re-types the message several times before giving it one last look-over.

Dear Mr. Harrison,

Thank you for your interest in Cornelia Galleria. The Gallery is home to quite a number of works crafted by several prolific artists. As a result of acquiring many new pieces in a short amount of time, we are nearing capacity for display. That being said, one of the primary interests of Cornelia is to support and bolster notoriety of local artists. Therefore, I would be pleased to meet with you here at the gallery to view some of your works. Please reply with your availability this upcoming week so that we can set up a time that works for both of us. You may also contact me via telephone during normal business hours at 212-752-1080.

Best,

Blair C. Waldorf

Owner and Curator

Her index finger hovers over the mouse before left-clicking the "send" button. With a loud exhale, Blair reclines in her chair. She realizes that sure, she's playing a little bit of a game, but the rush of endorphins that flood her body when she thinks about Dean is exhilarating. After a moment, Blair minimizes the computer screen and picks up her phone, dialing her voicemail code.

No sooner than the first voicemail begins does the tinny bing! of an email notification sound from Blair's laptop. The brunette turns to her computer, immediately drawn to the (1) next to the inbox folder. As it turns out, Dean Harrison is not only handsome, but he's also prompt.

Ms. Waldorf,

Thank you for replying so quickly. I really appreciate the opportunity you've extended, and would love to show you some of my art. My schedule is wide open; I can come in as soon as noon today if that works for you. Please let me know. Thank you again!

Sincerely,

Dean

A squeal slips from Blair's lips and she quickly stifles it, crinkling her nose at her school-girl giddiness. Although there is no one around to see her, Blair drops her shoulders, sits up straight in a gesture of propriety.

Mr. Harrison,

Please come in at noon, then, and bring with you two of your art pieces.

B.C.W.

Dean's response comes in a blink of an eye.

That sounds great! I look forward to meeting with you.

Dean

Blair scowls. She quite enjoys the control of having the last word, but is stuck between her desire to respond and her desire to play hard to get. The latter proves to be more the more compelling choice, and so Blair closes her laptop and turns her attention back to listening to her voicemail box full of messages. Deep inside, though, she can hardly wait until noon.

As predicted, the rainy morning forces droves of people off of the wet sidewalks and into the gallery. Blair spends most of her time socializing with the patrons, a sickly sweet smile plastered on her face, causing her cheeks to hurt. That saccharine smile eventually pays off; she sells three paintings with hefty price tags to a salt-and-pepper-haired financier who practically begs to buy Blair too, with promises of expensive dinners and world-class trips. Blair certainly has no qualms about using her charm to bolster sales; her male patrons enjoy art in any form, and as Blair has been told many times, her beauty is, in itself, a work of art. In the case of this morning's sale, the three paintings have been created by the same artist, who will surely be thrilled at the paycheck he'll be receiving even after Blair takes her commission.

Noon comes quickly and the rain has died down to a soft mist. As Blair is preparing to lock the door for lunch, Dean suddenly appears, eyes concentrated on the ground. Chest heaving against his white Henley shirt, the man is slightly out of breath. Blair assumes it's from carrying the two enormous pieces of art sheathed in thick brown paper packaging.

"Do you need help?" Blair asks.

Dean's head shoots up at the sound of her voice. His gaze, undecipherable, lingers on Blair for a moment before he realizes she's asked a question. "Uh, no thanks," he mumbles. "I've got it…" his voice trails off as he struggles to prop both works of art on his thighs as he walks.

"Suit yourself," Blair shrugs, turning on her heel. "Follow me." As she walks ahead of Dean, tall on her jet black Christians, Blair finds herself smirking in amusement and anticipation.

She leads Dean to her office. With a grunt, Dean carefully sets both paintings on the ground. When he lifts his head, Blair can see the sweat glistening on his brow. "Have a seat, Mr. Harrison," she offers, gesturing to the plush red seat placed carefully in front of her desk. "I'm Blair Waldorf."

Dean clears his throat nervously. "Hi, Ms. Waldorf."

"Blair," she corrects.

"Hi, Blair." Buh-lay-er. Her name rolls delicately off of Dean's tongue, as if he is savoring its flavor in his mouth. It instantly makes her knees weak. He smiles, extends a hand. "I'm Dean."

Ignoring the gesture, Blair hurriedly moves past 'introductions'. "Would you like something to drink? You look as though you've had quite the workout."

A faint hint of color floods Dean's cheeks. "Water would be great," he answers.

Blair obliges. Handing Dean a crystal glass of San Pelligrino, Blair walks around her desk, manicured fingertips lightly tracing the wood as she moves. She's keenly aware of the sensuality in her motion and wonders - hopes - that Dean can see it as well. Taking a seat in her chair, she finds herself having to tilt her head down slightly to look at him. The elevated desk, the size differential between the chairs, it's all intentionally designed; a nod to Blair's commandeering presence. Dean certainly looks intimidated, she observes, but it's obvious that the man is surveying her as well. The way his brows knit together as he draws his espresso eyes down from her hair, to her eyes, to the bow of her lips… it's as if he's drinking her in, quenching a dire thirst.

"So, Dean," Blair starts. Her tone is purposefully curt and polite. Chaste words fanning lascivious flames. "What made you decide to contact this gallery instead of the dozens elsewhere in the city?"

Dean inhales. Exhales. "Your gallery is on the front page of every paper. On the top of every list. While you could be way more exclusive as far as the fame of the artists you feature goes... " He shrugs. "A lot of artists who wouldn't have gotten a shot at success have had the opportunity because of Cornelia and, I, uh… I just - "Abruptly, Dean stops. Shakes his head with an embarrassed chuckle. "I'm sorry but I'm getting really distracted."

"Why is that?"

"Your face."

Blair crosses her arms. "Well, gee, thanks," she drawls sarcastically.

Dean throws his hands up. "Nonono, that's not what I meant," he says hastily. "It's just... I remember your face. We met at the Rooftop last week. A face like yours is hard to forget."

Blair quirks an eyebrow but says nothing.

Dean leans forward, eyes narrowing. "You really don't remember?"

Blair shakes her head. Dean is practically stumbling over himself to elicit a response, which pleases Blair; the first time they met, she'd been pretty sure that it had been her eagerness that had been obvious.

Her continued display of feigned ignorance clearly throws Dean off. "Well, this is embarrassing," Dean says. "I must have confused you for someone else."

Deciding that she's tortured the poor man enough, Blair gives in. "You know… you really resemble –"

"Let me guess," Dean interrupts. "An old friend of yours? You told me the same thing last week."

Blair pretends to think. "Ohhh," she perks up, "now I remember! You made me that lovely martini with the sugared rim."

"That you didn't even touch," Dean points out with a smile. "I'm glad you remember. I was starting to think I was being gas-lit for a minute there."

"Oh, you'd know if I was gaslighting you," Blair replies, playfulness edging into her voice.

Dean laughs. "Easy there, Gregory Anton."

Gregory Anton? Blair's mouth opens in surprise. It shuts just as quickly as she composes herself with a barely perceptible tilt of the head. "You've seen Gaslight?"

"It's one of my faves," Dean says with a shrug. "Classic movies are kinda my thing."

Brows furrow. If Dean hadn't impressed her before, he had now. "They're kinda my thing, too," she murmurs. And they were kinda Dan's thing, she thinks in passing. "So you consider yourself a connoisseur of the arts and humanities, do you?" the brunette asks.

"You said it, not me." He's joking, but there's an edge of pride to his voice that indicates that the man possesses a wealth of knowledge on the subject. There's a pause, and then all of a sudden Dean's eyes light up. He opens his mouth to speak and then shuts it again.

Blair notices this. "What?" she asks.

"'What' what?"

"What were you going to say?"

"It isn't important."

Blair slides easily back into her commandeering persona. "I'll be the judge of what's important here, Mr. Harrison."

Dean chews on his lower lip in thought. "I, uh… Well, I don't want to come off too forward, Ms. Waldorf – "

"Blair."

"Blair," Dean corrects himself. He pauses, clearly debating whether or not to verbalize his thoughts. "Okay, like I said. I don't' want to come off too forward, and if you don't want to I'll understand, but…" He trails off.

Blair is practically on the edge of her seat as she leans forward expectantly, hands clasped tightly in her lap

"Would you want to go to a midnight showing of Rosemary's Baby on Halloween?" Dean finally asks. "Since you're classic film fan and all, I mean, and – "

Blair supposes it's uncouth, and perhaps a little too eager, but she cuts Dean off with her answer. "I would love to go."

Dean looks surprised. "You would?"

Blair flashes him a dazzling smile. "Who doesn't like getting the bejesus scared out of them on the scariest night of the year?"

"Touché," Dean agrees with a chuckle.

Blair's heart swells with an intangible feeling as she listens to Dean's laugh, warm and soulful, watches the soft lines around his eyes crinkle with his smile. It's as though she's known the man a million years. Dean's laugh soon dies down and silence fills the room. He's staring at Blair now, all traces of humor gone from his face, replaced with a smoldering intensity that has eluded Blair for years. She yearns to reach out and caress the sharp line of his stubbled jaw, to pull him close and bury her nose in the crook of his neck. To feel his two strong arms wrapped around her small waist in passion and protection. And Dean, he's running a hand behind the nape of his neck, drawing his tongue across his bottom lip. As if he is fighting the exact same urges as Blair. He leans forward, elbows propped on his knees. "I can't wait for Friday, Blair," he says lowly.

Blair crosses her left leg tightly over her right, particularly aware of the warm sensation growing in her lower belly. "Neither can I," she murmurs.

The tension hangs like static electricity, thick and heavy in the air.

"So…" Dean starts.

The corners of Blair's lips tug upward in a smile. "So…" She glances at the clock on her wall and realizes that they haven't even begun to discuss Dean's paintings. Not very professional, she thinks. "Show me what you've got, Dean." Dean looks taken aback. This amuses Blair. "I mean, show me your paintings," she clarifies.

"Not all of us are sophisticated enough to turn a blind eye to innuendos," Dean jests before growing serious. "You don't think there's a, uh, conflict of interest now, do you?"

"If I let just anybody hang up their 'art', this place would look more like the refrigerator of a middle-class mom with school-age children instead of the elite gallery that it is."

"Tough crowd."

"Exactly," Blair shrugs. "Not everyone gets a trophy, Dean."

"Fair enough." Dean turns to the bigger of the two paintings, unwraps it from its paper packaging. Blair can't see the painting in its entirety, as Dean is blocking it, but she can see bold gem-hued splotches along the top. After a moment, Dean steps to the side. The bright splotches of paint are actually city street lights – New York City to be exact, as made evident by the spire of the Empire State Building visible in the upper right-hand corner of the frame. An alleyway is in the center of the painting, sheathed on either side by dark apartment buildings with intricately drawn architecture. Walking along the alley is a blurry-faced man with a suitcase, back turned to the bright city lights. "It's called Leaving New York," Dean explains. "I've been working on this the better part of two years."

Crossing her arms, Blair studies the painting. She is amazed by the color and detail in the painting, but is particularly drawn to the feeling it evokes. "Hopelessness," she remarks.

"Excuse me?"

"To me, this man has given up on everything," Blair says softly, unable to tear her eyes away.

"Exactly," Dean nods. "The city swallowed him up and spit him out. Like it does to so many people in real life. It's essentially one man's failed American Dream."

Blair manages to break her gaze. She looks up at Dean. "Does he ever find happiness?"

Dean looks surprised by her question. "I guess I haven't really figured that out yet," he confesses.

"Well, I love it," Blair says. "It would be my honor to display this in Cornelia."

Dean breaks out into a huge toothy smile. His body relaxes in relief. "Oh, wow. I'm the one who's honored. I can't thank you enough."

"It's not a problem. Really."

"What about the other – "

Blair cuts Dean off. "I don't need to see the other one. If it's anywhere near as beautiful as this one, it belongs on the wall. Thank you for sharing, Dean."

Blair sticks out her hand, offering a handshake.

Dean obliges, reaching for her outstretched hand. Instead of shaking, he lifts Blair's hand and presses it softly to his lips. "The pleasure is all mine."

AN: Man, life really did get in the way the past few weeks. I got a full-time job in the career of my dreams! Needless to say, I've been really busy. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this chapter. Let me know what you think!

-C