185. my heart beats (you showed it how)
Title | my heart beats (you showed it how)
Rating | pg-13
Characters | Serena, Dan. Also Blair.
Summary | I've been rereading your story. I think it's about me in a way that might not be flattering, but that's okay. We dream and dream of being seen as we really are and then finally someone looks at us and sees us truly and we fail to measure up. Anyway: story received, story included. You looked at me long enough to see something mysterioso under all the gruff and bluster. Thanks. Sometimes you get so close to someone you end up on the other side of them.
Notes | Written for this ficathon.
The first book still stings.
She keeps her copy, for whatever reason, at the back of a bookshelf full of an array of miscellaneous things, most of which aren't books. She read it once. Once, but she can still remember the sharpness of those words, laid out on a page in black and white like they were true. She can remember thinking, is this who I am? She can remember wanting to answer that question so much, back then - wanting to answer it differently.
She catches sight of the spine of it sometimes, INSIDE spelled out in capital letters, Dan Humphrey written neatly toward the bottom. She used to throw that book in his face (mostly figuratively, once literally) whenever they'd fight.
This is why, she'd say. This is why we'll never work.
And later, in the aftermath of a fight, in the midst of the anger, hours before the quiet apologies, she'd think, is this who I am? She'd think, I'm trying to change.
Books two through six sit on the bookshelf in a neat line, ranging in size, ranging in emotion.
Two is that bittersweet thing, the one that catches her eye after midnight or on rainy afternoons. It makes her feel that old sixteen-year-old ache, the same one that made her cling to pages ripped out of a spiral notebook, that made her memorize his handwriting as if she were going to be tested on the shape of every letter.
Two is a lie. Two is called You. Dan paints a pretty picture, writes a perfect story. Dan writes about falling in love with her again, but does he, really? Serena doesn't think anyone else could tell the difference. You is about spaghetti on the living room floor, about snuggling on the same side of a diner table, about a boy who loves a girl no matter how many times she might disappoint him.
Dan writes their beginning. The second time might have been sly smiles to the paparazzi, might have been covert pictures snapped of them when they were making out in the foyer of a building, might have been speculation about the ring she wore on her left pinky and never seemed to take off, but Serena was there for the parts that took place behind closed door, the yelling and the storming out and the frantic need to make up before it was too late.
It hadn't been the same. It broke somewhere, and the cracks never went away.
Dan does not write about falling in love with her again. Dan writes about falling in love with her, period.
Still. The first time he put it in her hands and watched her open it up, she forgave him for everything.
Nobody's ever looked at me the way you just did.
Three.
Three made Ailie.
Other factors were involved, of course. There was the finality of their split, the signatures on the dotted line, and the way she couldn't do it, couldn't let go. There were those middle-of-the-night phone calls, when she would cry and cry and he would listen. He would stay on the phone with her until she fell asleep. There was the way she'd hated herself for letting down the teenage girl that still existed inside of her, the one that'd been so certain that they were going to last, that they were the exception.
There was the snow, falling gently from the sky. There was Dan's old car that wouldn't start. There were the foggy windows. There was the way he'd touched her cheek and asked her not to cry, and the way she'd curled her fingers around his wrist, like she'd never wanted to let go. There were her birth control pills, on the other side of the Brooklyn Bridge in the middle of a blizzard, and the total and complete lack of a condom.
But really, it was three. It was the book he'd published in the midst of their final break-up, the one they knew had to stick. It was his version of midnight crying jags, of throwing mugs across the kitchen. He mourned them on paper and he called it Elegy.
It would've broken her heart, probably, if Ailie hadn't come along nine months later, a bundle of perfection with downy blonde hair and hazy brown eyes.
You and I are forever. I know I was right.
She cried when she read the fourth one. She can admit that. Not to Dan, or to Blair, or to anyone, really - but she can admit it to herself.
It wasn't about her. It wasn't about anyone obvious, but Serena could tell.
Ailie was four, curled up on the couch with a teddy bear cuddled to her chest, brows furrowed as she watched a journalist review the book, listening to her father's name be repeated over and over again.
Mommy, she said. Who does Daddy love the most?
It had been easy, so easy, to smile and say you. To be honest, just like Dan had, in the book he'd ultimately called Vérité.
Ailie had laughed, sweet and young, and looked at her with Dan's eyes.
How do you kill a feeling?
Five was something new. Five was historical, involved extensive research, set New York back several hundred years.
It was nice, to read about a past other than her own.
Five came out during the holidays. The press tour took up most of December but Dan was back in time for Christmas, back in time to propose to Blair, back in time for her to say no and then yes. He was back in time to buy Ailie hot chocolate and walk through Central Park, escaping the posters emblazoned with Prime, Dan Humphrey's new novel!
Ailie slipped one of her mitten-covered hands into Dan's hand and one into Serena's, swinging their arms back and forth if they walk, asking Dan question after question: will you write a book about me, Dad do I get to be a flower girl? can we go to Disney World? will Santa come to both my houses? Dan answered them all, patiently, and Serena watched them, watched the way they had mirroring gleams in their eyes.
You're the best, Dad, Ailie decides with the quiet confidence she had to have inherited from him.
He smiled at Serena, lifted an eyebrow. I'm the best.
I heard, she said, smiling back.
He told her she was invited to Christmas. That they both wanted her to come. That Dorota was going to make pie. That their parents said they'd come, too. That she should be there.
And she nodded. She said she would, and she did.
This is the best Christmas in the history of Christmas.
The sixth was the most romantic. Serena read Bon Mots just the one time, just like the first - not because it hurt but because it was over.
She read it in bed, a lamp on at its lowest setting, Ailie curled up beside her, completely tangled in the sheets. She read the whole thing in one night and got a headache from narrowing her eyes, trying to read between the lines.
She dialled the Waldorf-Humphrey (or Humphrey-Waldrof, depending on who you asked) residence as soon as she was done, even though it wasn't light out yet. Blair had answered, grumpily.
Are you pregnant? Serena asked, half-aghast, half-amused.
There had been a pause, some muted, huffy grumbling, and then Dan said, Hello? When she asked again, there was another pause before a quiet, yes.
They were quiet together on the phone for a long time, like those days just after their breakup, when it had been so hard to sleep without him. She listened to him breathe, close her eyes.
Serena -
No, she said. No, I know. She knew what he was going to say; she didn't need to hear him say it.
There was another long pause. He started several sentences, finished none. She asked him not to hang up, and he didn't.
It was meaningful, with you.
The seventh space in her bookshelf is occupied by a DVD, much thinner than all of the novels. It's hers, not Dan's, but she sets it next to all of his books anyway, away from all of Ailie's things.
She was nervous about him seeing it. Much later, when she admitted that, he said he'd been terrified of her reading any of his books.
He didn't come to the premiere, but he saw it. He came over later that night and they watched Ailie sleep. Abruptly, at the same time, they said they wished she'd never grow up. Dan held her hand in the gentle, innocent way of their first date and she forgot that it was supposed to hurt.
Wait, your story's about me?
Hey.
Serena turns, brushing her fingers through her hair, an old nervous habit triggered by that familiar voice. Hey.
Talk about history repeating, huh? Dan asks with a half-smile. The latest van der Woodsen coming out to please her grandmother.
She rolls her eyes a little, reminds him, She's a Humphrey.
His smile softens a little. True.
Serena watches women gossip and tilts their heads in Dan's direction. She watches Blair chase her son through the crowd, casting a glance at Dan that seems to indicate that Dan's genes are completely at fault for this mischief. She watches Ailie twirl around in her gold dress.
You did good, she says softly.
Dan looks over at her. So did you. He nudges her. So did we.
She nods, her gaze tracking Ailie through the crowd, watching the boy she's dancing with make her laugh. This is where the story's led: to the other side of the mirror. She looks at Dan and he looks at her, smiles the smile of twenty-four years ago.
I love you, okay?
fin
Rating | pg-13
Characters | Serena, Dan. Also Blair.
Summary | I've been rereading your story. I think it's about me in a way that might not be flattering, but that's okay. We dream and dream of being seen as we really are and then finally someone looks at us and sees us truly and we fail to measure up. Anyway: story received, story included. You looked at me long enough to see something mysterioso under all the gruff and bluster. Thanks. Sometimes you get so close to someone you end up on the other side of them.
Notes | Written for this ficathon.
The first book still stings.
She keeps her copy, for whatever reason, at the back of a bookshelf full of an array of miscellaneous things, most of which aren't books. She read it once. Once, but she can still remember the sharpness of those words, laid out on a page in black and white like they were true. She can remember thinking, is this who I am? She can remember wanting to answer that question so much, back then - wanting to answer it differently.
She catches sight of the spine of it sometimes, INSIDE spelled out in capital letters, Dan Humphrey written neatly toward the bottom. She used to throw that book in his face (mostly figuratively, once literally) whenever they'd fight.
This is why, she'd say. This is why we'll never work.
And later, in the aftermath of a fight, in the midst of the anger, hours before the quiet apologies, she'd think, is this who I am? She'd think, I'm trying to change.
Books two through six sit on the bookshelf in a neat line, ranging in size, ranging in emotion.
Two is that bittersweet thing, the one that catches her eye after midnight or on rainy afternoons. It makes her feel that old sixteen-year-old ache, the same one that made her cling to pages ripped out of a spiral notebook, that made her memorize his handwriting as if she were going to be tested on the shape of every letter.
Two is a lie. Two is called You. Dan paints a pretty picture, writes a perfect story. Dan writes about falling in love with her again, but does he, really? Serena doesn't think anyone else could tell the difference. You is about spaghetti on the living room floor, about snuggling on the same side of a diner table, about a boy who loves a girl no matter how many times she might disappoint him.
Dan writes their beginning. The second time might have been sly smiles to the paparazzi, might have been covert pictures snapped of them when they were making out in the foyer of a building, might have been speculation about the ring she wore on her left pinky and never seemed to take off, but Serena was there for the parts that took place behind closed door, the yelling and the storming out and the frantic need to make up before it was too late.
It hadn't been the same. It broke somewhere, and the cracks never went away.
Dan does not write about falling in love with her again. Dan writes about falling in love with her, period.
Still. The first time he put it in her hands and watched her open it up, she forgave him for everything.
Nobody's ever looked at me the way you just did.
Three.
Three made Ailie.
Other factors were involved, of course. There was the finality of their split, the signatures on the dotted line, and the way she couldn't do it, couldn't let go. There were those middle-of-the-night phone calls, when she would cry and cry and he would listen. He would stay on the phone with her until she fell asleep. There was the way she'd hated herself for letting down the teenage girl that still existed inside of her, the one that'd been so certain that they were going to last, that they were the exception.
There was the snow, falling gently from the sky. There was Dan's old car that wouldn't start. There were the foggy windows. There was the way he'd touched her cheek and asked her not to cry, and the way she'd curled her fingers around his wrist, like she'd never wanted to let go. There were her birth control pills, on the other side of the Brooklyn Bridge in the middle of a blizzard, and the total and complete lack of a condom.
But really, it was three. It was the book he'd published in the midst of their final break-up, the one they knew had to stick. It was his version of midnight crying jags, of throwing mugs across the kitchen. He mourned them on paper and he called it Elegy.
It would've broken her heart, probably, if Ailie hadn't come along nine months later, a bundle of perfection with downy blonde hair and hazy brown eyes.
You and I are forever. I know I was right.
She cried when she read the fourth one. She can admit that. Not to Dan, or to Blair, or to anyone, really - but she can admit it to herself.
It wasn't about her. It wasn't about anyone obvious, but Serena could tell.
Ailie was four, curled up on the couch with a teddy bear cuddled to her chest, brows furrowed as she watched a journalist review the book, listening to her father's name be repeated over and over again.
Mommy, she said. Who does Daddy love the most?
It had been easy, so easy, to smile and say you. To be honest, just like Dan had, in the book he'd ultimately called Vérité.
Ailie had laughed, sweet and young, and looked at her with Dan's eyes.
How do you kill a feeling?
Five was something new. Five was historical, involved extensive research, set New York back several hundred years.
It was nice, to read about a past other than her own.
Five came out during the holidays. The press tour took up most of December but Dan was back in time for Christmas, back in time to propose to Blair, back in time for her to say no and then yes. He was back in time to buy Ailie hot chocolate and walk through Central Park, escaping the posters emblazoned with Prime, Dan Humphrey's new novel!
Ailie slipped one of her mitten-covered hands into Dan's hand and one into Serena's, swinging their arms back and forth if they walk, asking Dan question after question: will you write a book about me, Dad do I get to be a flower girl? can we go to Disney World? will Santa come to both my houses? Dan answered them all, patiently, and Serena watched them, watched the way they had mirroring gleams in their eyes.
You're the best, Dad, Ailie decides with the quiet confidence she had to have inherited from him.
He smiled at Serena, lifted an eyebrow. I'm the best.
I heard, she said, smiling back.
He told her she was invited to Christmas. That they both wanted her to come. That Dorota was going to make pie. That their parents said they'd come, too. That she should be there.
And she nodded. She said she would, and she did.
This is the best Christmas in the history of Christmas.
The sixth was the most romantic. Serena read Bon Mots just the one time, just like the first - not because it hurt but because it was over.
She read it in bed, a lamp on at its lowest setting, Ailie curled up beside her, completely tangled in the sheets. She read the whole thing in one night and got a headache from narrowing her eyes, trying to read between the lines.
She dialled the Waldorf-Humphrey (or Humphrey-Waldrof, depending on who you asked) residence as soon as she was done, even though it wasn't light out yet. Blair had answered, grumpily.
Are you pregnant? Serena asked, half-aghast, half-amused.
There had been a pause, some muted, huffy grumbling, and then Dan said, Hello? When she asked again, there was another pause before a quiet, yes.
They were quiet together on the phone for a long time, like those days just after their breakup, when it had been so hard to sleep without him. She listened to him breathe, close her eyes.
Serena -
No, she said. No, I know. She knew what he was going to say; she didn't need to hear him say it.
There was another long pause. He started several sentences, finished none. She asked him not to hang up, and he didn't.
It was meaningful, with you.
The seventh space in her bookshelf is occupied by a DVD, much thinner than all of the novels. It's hers, not Dan's, but she sets it next to all of his books anyway, away from all of Ailie's things.
She was nervous about him seeing it. Much later, when she admitted that, he said he'd been terrified of her reading any of his books.
He didn't come to the premiere, but he saw it. He came over later that night and they watched Ailie sleep. Abruptly, at the same time, they said they wished she'd never grow up. Dan held her hand in the gentle, innocent way of their first date and she forgot that it was supposed to hurt.
Wait, your story's about me?
Hey.
Serena turns, brushing her fingers through her hair, an old nervous habit triggered by that familiar voice. Hey.
Talk about history repeating, huh? Dan asks with a half-smile. The latest van der Woodsen coming out to please her grandmother.
She rolls her eyes a little, reminds him, She's a Humphrey.
His smile softens a little. True.
Serena watches women gossip and tilts their heads in Dan's direction. She watches Blair chase her son through the crowd, casting a glance at Dan that seems to indicate that Dan's genes are completely at fault for this mischief. She watches Ailie twirl around in her gold dress.
You did good, she says softly.
Dan looks over at her. So did you. He nudges her. So did we.
She nods, her gaze tracking Ailie through the crowd, watching the boy she's dancing with make her laugh. This is where the story's led: to the other side of the mirror. She looks at Dan and he looks at her, smiles the smile of twenty-four years ago.
I love you, okay?
fin