Gossip Girl Fic: when you’re stranger
when you’re stranger
there are no musical numbers in a roman holiday - by now, it’s about trying to remember how to forgot her lines. gossip girl. blair/dan. season two spoiler; future college au-ish thing. 3,544 words, pg.
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It happens that a tiny white lie is what really lands her here to begin with, at his door and with her bag, clutching the history book that she's got to devour before eleven tomorrow. Blair's not exactly sure why now or him, other than her fear of a blinding white-rage that might cause her to burn down her building with Georgiana Sparks in it, but desperate times call for desperate measure. So there's no Yale, but she's neither bitter nor is she interested in a felony. And really, Humphrey won the coin toss. She’s definitely sure she'd kill Vanessa in her sleep anyway.
“Serena offered,” she says smoothly when he opens the door. S is an easy way in and for a moment, Humphrey falls into a blush. It’s kind of sad and sweet in a way. Confused and bewildered, he seems to stand outside of the conscious circle of all things that she doesn't need. Which is what she needs. It sounds so much better in her head.
“Offered what?”
She picks up her bag to show him. “I’m staying with you.”
The nonchalance is simple. Behind him, she can see the shadow of a roommate in the room. He’s moving furiously, searching for something. There is music and the smell of cigarettes waving in the door. There is someone waxing philosophies about nonsense down the hall too. She doesn't care and she doesn't really have the energy to say she cares either. All she needs to do is study. She can tune them all out.
She watches him though, waiting, and he’s watching her back, as if he were waiting for her too.
She’s not going to say it again. She doesn't say things twice. Or three times. There are four years of high school to think of, and a summer of Chuck Bass and Paris, that she'd rather forget; in the end we make ourselves, her mother told her once. This is all still a ridiculous learning process too.
“With me?” finally, he blinks.
He’s still confused and hesitant, picking at the sleeves of his shirt. He sneaks glances at her book and bag, waiting to see if she'll disappear. There’s a glimmer of interest in his gaze, but that's it. Humphrey still looks like Humphrey. Cheer up, she almost says. And there's this sudden need to open all the windows in his room and see if he and his roommate melt in whatever’s left of the day.
She can't remember the last time she's seen Humphrey, but it was probably in the dark. It’s usually the strange, occasional party. It’s not that she cares either, but she has to admit that it’s been an odd year; it hasn’t hit her, the whole idea of being a freshman and in school that she hadn’t planned to be in. She’s facing it though, better now than before.
“That’s what I said.”
She doesn't offer anything else either. She remembers how S was with him, stars in her eyes and giggles with that strange, cute smile. She doesn’t speak that language. It was the lashes and her legs, that stupid blonde Amazon thing that is probably working for her at Brown too. She’s not angry with S, there's Chuck Bass and their summer affair still, and Yale, without a doubt. It’s like NYU has further written her into an identity crisis.
She gives him a look and he sighs. He nods then too, “Um - er, okay.”
It’s easy not ask why.
He’s quiet for the most part. Which she can appreciate, for the most part too.
She sits on his bed without asking, drops her bag by her feet and spreads her books over the mess of sheets and clothes that make her want to weep for mankind. She doesn't believe in the excuse that boys are boys and these, the golden years, give them every excuse to be as gross and disgusting as they can.
But she can feel him watching her, at his desk, as if he were still waiting for her to say something to him. His roommate has long since left them for a meeting; something about the universal saviors of a brave, new world that makes Blair snort and bite back a smirk. She thinks about introducing him to Georgiana, but that would be, like, animal cruelty or something.
"You're staring," she finally says. She gives, but only a little bit.
"I don't know why you're here," he says back.
It’s curious how he sort of unravels carefully, leaning back in his chair only to shift and shiver from side to side. He’s like a child and almost reminds her a little of Nate, how restless he always was in a lie. She ignores him and looks around the room again, biting her lip away from a reply.
There are music posters all over his side of the room. She expects the New Yorker but gets a few clippings on the wall from magazines that she doesn't really recognize, and photos of family and Vanessa living in a corner. She sees one of S too, but doesn't say anything. It’s a yearly thing, S and Humphrey, even if they've got this weird, incestuous visage that she hopes her best fried will stay far, far away from.
"Serena is - "
"And you're lying," he cuts her off sharply. "Because I'm pretty sure that you and I only have a run in when it's absolutely necessary or the sky is falling - so is the sky falling?"
She scoffs. "No."
"Then?"
He’s staring at her and she's getting uncomfortable, drawing herself to sit up straighter. She drops her pen in the bed and rubs her hands against her jeans. She hates jeans. But here, in school, they're functional and she's not going to be that idiot that goes to class in her pajamas. She’ll do denim instead.
Besides. It’s a sacrifice and a precaution, as Georgiana is her roommate and she'd rather not risk it. All her good things are at home, safe and away. Under lockdown, she thinks.
She looks over at him.
"I don't like that girl."
"What girl?"
"Your friend," she shrugs. "Vanessa."
She rubs her hands over her knees and then leans forward to avoid looking at him again. She’s nervous. She doesn’t know why. She picks staring at the carpet instead of him, her eyes wandering around. It’s an odd yellow and it seems to take a mirror of the other side of the room, where Humphrey's roommate's space is. It still smells like smoke too, but she'll live.
"This isn't high school."
He snorts. "I'm well-aware of that."
"Just making sure." She shrugs again too. And she supposes she should be wasting her time with a thank you and then a I appreciate it, as it would be the polite thing to do. But she doesn't want to give a chance of even thinking that she remotely likes him, or wants to like him, and to her, if anything, they'd be the same thing.
The truth is that she's sort of fascinated by him anyway; it's not that he's not Nate, and it's definitely not that he's not Chuck, but she can see why and how S found herself falling into their bizarre, romantic entanglement. She appreciates a good love story. She’s seen Roman Holiday too many times to count for her not to.
She finds herself unable to get back to her books, however, still staring at the carpet. Humphrey snorts and stands, walking past her and to one of the closets. He pulls open a door, and curses quietly, leafing through a few records. A few hit the bed and she counts some jazz and a few bands from the eighties that scream parental influence. It should be funny to her, but she’s quiet until he puts something on.
The room seems tinier then, filling with the slow, almost lazy sounds of a trumpet. She tenses, pulling her hands back and then shifting further onto the bed. She curls her legs underneath her. Her shoes are still on and they fit against his blankets, as she picks a few buttons of a dirty shirt.
"I'm going to kill her, you know."
He stops. And she looks back up at him, watching as he shakes his head.
"Vanessa?"
"No," she snaps, looking up, "Pay attention - Georgiana."
"Seriously?"
There’s a laundry list of things that she can pull out, but she chooses not to. She doesn't know why she's so hesitant; it's S and then it isn't, it's that everybody else is more than a phone call away and she's stuck at this school, unsure and full of second guesses. It’s not that she's not doing well, or that she can't be okay. What scares her is that there's so much about herself that she doesn't know, and that she'd like to know, but yet again, here she is and waiting.
She doesn't want to wait anymore.
It’s that idea of the summer all over again, of the year that passed - they have their separate memories, of course. There’s Nate, and then there's S, and then Chuck, of course, to round up the last two years of a roller coaster than never wanted to end. She can talk about her parents too and their weird affection for everything but letting her out of that pseudo-make believe world they liked to keep her in. It’s not their fault either because Blair is still very comfortable when there's a plan.
And it’s the first time, really, that she’s facing the idea of being uncomfortable and working with it. She just doesn’t know how to be excited about it, if she should or should expect herself to be - should she?
He shrugs then, unfazed. "I'm just surprised that you haven't."
"Class, Humphrey. I've got class."
He smirks at her, amused as he flashes a shy grin. She can feel herself flush, maybe a little. It feels weird too. But he says nothing though and just watches her, shaking his head and then turning back to the music in front of him as it place. She tries to get back to her reading. It’s just not working.
Finally well into reading about early Victorianism, Blair begins to appreciate their silence. She’s not entirely sure why, but she does. And she's beginning to suspect that she might even like it - of course, that's just jumping ahead. She could be bored.
But his bed doesn't smell as bad as it looks. She could do without the shirts and his roommate's somewhat obscure and strange corner of the room, staring back at her and waiting, if anything, to flay her alive. It’s too dark on that end and she almost prefers Georgiana to it, wondering how Humphrey does it all the same.
"He hates me," he says, catching her gaze.
They both look over to the other side of the room. Humphrey's taken up at his desk again, his feet resting at the end of the bed. She’s settled against a poster and somewhat into the nook of his bed and the wall, letting her book spill over her legs. It stares back at her and for a moment, she considers just giving up entirely and going home.
The thing is she's kind of comfortable.
"We could give him to Georgiana," she tells him. "She gets bored a lot."
She suspects too that that Georgiana is waiting for one, big moment to do something to her. Blair's waiting too, if only to have the excuse for retaliation and to eradicate the other girl from the planet. Their room is something akin to a minefield. S, understandably, won't set foot in it and the others are just wise enough to stay away - even her mother and Cyrus are reluctant to enter the foray of a visit for parents' weekend.
“She needs a friend too,” she adds dryly.
It’s joke and a terrible one at that. But Humphrey laughs and she likes the sound, the way it shorts into a low chuckle, almost warm all the same. She finds herself smiling, just a little, as she shifts and closes her book. It gets pushed off to the side and she looks at him, studying the way that he seems to have forgotten his work too.
The music is still soft and playing with the space of the room, keeping them close but not entirely too close. He shrugs, his fingers running over his knee in sync with the music.
"She would eat him alive."
Her mouth curls. "Could be good for him - the alternative is a haircut and a shower."
He smirks again, then. "He might kill me in my sleep. We could start a club or support group. Could be good, Waldorf. You never know."
She snorts, but finds herself amused. She shakes her head, not entirely sure where any of this is coming from. It’s a bizarre feeling, and she's trying to ignore it - or really, she's hoping that it'll pass the course, and some obscure illness will take Georgiana out of school so that she can her space again and life would go on as it should be.
But she's comfortable, and she's not sure what to do with that. She hasn't been sure since this summer, since the end of the year and Chuck Bass was that kind of fixture in her life. She still loves him and it's not the kind of thing that she's going to forgot or forgive him for; apart, it seems, is the only way they belong. She wonders if that's how it is for S and him. S never talks about Humphrey with her, not in the sense that she trusted S with her Chuck issues.
In part, she wonders if it's because he exists outside their circle of things. She can understand that need, how it shifts between selfish and necessary, to protect something different from what everybody expects of them. She gets it more than she realizes, and more than she shares. Yale was going to be that space for her and Chuck, to an extent, was supposed fall into line with that idea. It’s hard now, really hard, being in this city and trying to figure herself out.
"I think - "
She stops, and then looks back up at him. "I think I'm having an identity crisis."
He shudders. "Because of Georgiana?"
"No, idiot," she snaps. She's almost amused though at the look on his face. "I wouldn't give her the time of day, Humphrey. You know me better than that."
He snorts.
"I really don't."
"Don't?"
He shrugs, pulling his feet off the bed. He stands and she half-expects him to wander over to the record player. It’s Rufus’, she remembers but she's not entirely sure why. She hasn't been here before or has, but outside. The early part of the year is still a little hazy, as Gossip Girl made her the end of a few love potion jokes and the Jennifer Aniston of a Chuck and new conquest triangle.
The funny thing is that the less invested she became; the less speculation seemed to bother her. Of course, an end is an end and there are things, yet again, that she's not ready to forgive. But she's beginning to appreciate the anonymous nature too. It’s a new world to her really, people not caring and not even caring herself. Until the holiday breaks, of course. Then, yet again, she returns to an open season.
"I don't," Humphrey says again. "And you know I don't. While I know you'd probably kill Vanessa in her sleep, I also really don't get why you're here. Or why you would want to be here."
He walks to her corner of the bed and then stops. He doesn't sit, although she carries somewhat of an expectation that he might. She’s seen him in action and there are these weird, almost familiar habits that she's ready to accuse him of - even though she's not sure why she would.
His gaze, however, softens and he shifts his hands into his pockets. He’s awkward and it seems to carry too her, her shoulders hunching back as she leans into one of his posters.
She sighs, but doesn’t look away. She finds herself honest too. "I don't know."
It’s only later that he does, in fact, sit next to her with his books.
He’s quiet. She half-expects him to push all his clothes off the bed, but he sits over them and rests against the wall with her, diving back into his work. The music has since ended and neither of them makes a comment to why - for her, she's been getting used to it. It’s not what she likes, but she can listen and somehow, she suspects that his lack of movement is a gesture of appreciation from him too.
They are knee to knee for a little while, his legs longer and hanging off the bed at the angle that they share. Her legs are curled, if only for comfort, and she’s trying hard to not pay attention to the way she finds herself leaning into him a little. She turns her pages faster than he does, but Humphrey seems to explode here and there, furiously with a pen over his notebook.
He hasn’t asked her about her answer either, and she’s not sure why. From what she does know about him, he’s persistent and assuming. This makes all of this even stranger in the sense that she’s comfortable and he’s comfortable with sitting wit her. It’s almost fascinating and she's not entirely sure that she wants to admit that she even likes it too, leaving herself at a telling end all over again.
But they're interrupted when his roommate slinks in, two girls in hand and the smell of a series of drink. It’s all in bad taste and he grins at Humphrey, causing the other boy to sigh and her to wrinkle her nose in distaste. Humphrey gets up first, in mutters, only to slide him into a pair of shoes and grab a bag that is half-open and nearly ready to burst with clothes and books.
"I'm heading to Vanessa's," he says. On the other side of the room, the guy falls into bed with the two girls and she doesn't really get it. They’re giggling and she’s starting to really smell the beer. It’s like trying to explain a college version of Chuck Bass. Who writes poetry.
She nods, almost sympathetically, and gathers her things together. She’s being kicked out and she gets it, almost reluctantly embracing the idea of heading home to her mother and Cyrus second-wind honeymoon phase. It’s gross. It’s something she doesn’t want to think about. She only hopes that she's not doomed to become a vegan like Aaron as a result of it.
They quietly finish with their things then. She steps out first, into the hallway, and turns to watch him back out of the room. There’s a mix of amusement and irritation written into his gaze, as he shuts the door, and he turns back to her, opening his mouth. She expects an apology, but it doesn't come.
His hand thrusts forward. "Here."
Blair blinks. His fingers are curled over a thin piece of paper with dan's number and call next time! written into a corner with a series of numbers. It’s cute. And then, it’s not. She looks up at him, then back down at his hand, to look up at him once more. She reaches forward and pulls the paper carefully from his hand.
She’s not exactly sure what to say to this, as she came and he let her in - although, she still hasn't figured out why or knows if she should ask. Somehow, it seems better not know. Instead, there's this idea of a second time and the way dan's number is carefully written into the corner seems to offer that kind of chance. She’s wary at that idea, the idea of chance and change and the way this whole NYU thing is turning out to be something that is a little bit okay. This week, she thinks, at least.
"You're almost a poet."
Her voice is low, dry, and she leans up and into his space, kissing his cheek. She means it to be some sort of chaste gesture. She doesn’t anticipate well and lingers, instead, if only to catch her balance. She lets her lips open over his skin and feels herself flush. Her hand curls around his arm and she thinks that this might be the appropriate place to say something else. Thank you, maybe.
She doesn’t know what to say. She swears she hears him laugh, just a small sound of nervous amusement. He seems to get it too. She wonders if she should be worried about that. But she pulls back as he nods.
He pulls his bag over his shoulder. "Just call me next time, okay?"
He doesn't smile. She doesn't either. She fidgets, but she won't offer. She can still remind herself. They’re not friends.
In the cab home, she keeps his number in her hand.
there are no musical numbers in a roman holiday - by now, it’s about trying to remember how to forgot her lines. gossip girl. blair/dan. season two spoiler; future college au-ish thing. 3,544 words, pg.
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It happens that a tiny white lie is what really lands her here to begin with, at his door and with her bag, clutching the history book that she's got to devour before eleven tomorrow. Blair's not exactly sure why now or him, other than her fear of a blinding white-rage that might cause her to burn down her building with Georgiana Sparks in it, but desperate times call for desperate measure. So there's no Yale, but she's neither bitter nor is she interested in a felony. And really, Humphrey won the coin toss. She’s definitely sure she'd kill Vanessa in her sleep anyway.
“Serena offered,” she says smoothly when he opens the door. S is an easy way in and for a moment, Humphrey falls into a blush. It’s kind of sad and sweet in a way. Confused and bewildered, he seems to stand outside of the conscious circle of all things that she doesn't need. Which is what she needs. It sounds so much better in her head.
“Offered what?”
She picks up her bag to show him. “I’m staying with you.”
The nonchalance is simple. Behind him, she can see the shadow of a roommate in the room. He’s moving furiously, searching for something. There is music and the smell of cigarettes waving in the door. There is someone waxing philosophies about nonsense down the hall too. She doesn't care and she doesn't really have the energy to say she cares either. All she needs to do is study. She can tune them all out.
She watches him though, waiting, and he’s watching her back, as if he were waiting for her too.
She’s not going to say it again. She doesn't say things twice. Or three times. There are four years of high school to think of, and a summer of Chuck Bass and Paris, that she'd rather forget; in the end we make ourselves, her mother told her once. This is all still a ridiculous learning process too.
“With me?” finally, he blinks.
He’s still confused and hesitant, picking at the sleeves of his shirt. He sneaks glances at her book and bag, waiting to see if she'll disappear. There’s a glimmer of interest in his gaze, but that's it. Humphrey still looks like Humphrey. Cheer up, she almost says. And there's this sudden need to open all the windows in his room and see if he and his roommate melt in whatever’s left of the day.
She can't remember the last time she's seen Humphrey, but it was probably in the dark. It’s usually the strange, occasional party. It’s not that she cares either, but she has to admit that it’s been an odd year; it hasn’t hit her, the whole idea of being a freshman and in school that she hadn’t planned to be in. She’s facing it though, better now than before.
“That’s what I said.”
She doesn't offer anything else either. She remembers how S was with him, stars in her eyes and giggles with that strange, cute smile. She doesn’t speak that language. It was the lashes and her legs, that stupid blonde Amazon thing that is probably working for her at Brown too. She’s not angry with S, there's Chuck Bass and their summer affair still, and Yale, without a doubt. It’s like NYU has further written her into an identity crisis.
She gives him a look and he sighs. He nods then too, “Um - er, okay.”
It’s easy not ask why.
He’s quiet for the most part. Which she can appreciate, for the most part too.
She sits on his bed without asking, drops her bag by her feet and spreads her books over the mess of sheets and clothes that make her want to weep for mankind. She doesn't believe in the excuse that boys are boys and these, the golden years, give them every excuse to be as gross and disgusting as they can.
But she can feel him watching her, at his desk, as if he were still waiting for her to say something to him. His roommate has long since left them for a meeting; something about the universal saviors of a brave, new world that makes Blair snort and bite back a smirk. She thinks about introducing him to Georgiana, but that would be, like, animal cruelty or something.
"You're staring," she finally says. She gives, but only a little bit.
"I don't know why you're here," he says back.
It’s curious how he sort of unravels carefully, leaning back in his chair only to shift and shiver from side to side. He’s like a child and almost reminds her a little of Nate, how restless he always was in a lie. She ignores him and looks around the room again, biting her lip away from a reply.
There are music posters all over his side of the room. She expects the New Yorker but gets a few clippings on the wall from magazines that she doesn't really recognize, and photos of family and Vanessa living in a corner. She sees one of S too, but doesn't say anything. It’s a yearly thing, S and Humphrey, even if they've got this weird, incestuous visage that she hopes her best fried will stay far, far away from.
"Serena is - "
"And you're lying," he cuts her off sharply. "Because I'm pretty sure that you and I only have a run in when it's absolutely necessary or the sky is falling - so is the sky falling?"
She scoffs. "No."
"Then?"
He’s staring at her and she's getting uncomfortable, drawing herself to sit up straighter. She drops her pen in the bed and rubs her hands against her jeans. She hates jeans. But here, in school, they're functional and she's not going to be that idiot that goes to class in her pajamas. She’ll do denim instead.
Besides. It’s a sacrifice and a precaution, as Georgiana is her roommate and she'd rather not risk it. All her good things are at home, safe and away. Under lockdown, she thinks.
She looks over at him.
"I don't like that girl."
"What girl?"
"Your friend," she shrugs. "Vanessa."
She rubs her hands over her knees and then leans forward to avoid looking at him again. She’s nervous. She doesn’t know why. She picks staring at the carpet instead of him, her eyes wandering around. It’s an odd yellow and it seems to take a mirror of the other side of the room, where Humphrey's roommate's space is. It still smells like smoke too, but she'll live.
"This isn't high school."
He snorts. "I'm well-aware of that."
"Just making sure." She shrugs again too. And she supposes she should be wasting her time with a thank you and then a I appreciate it, as it would be the polite thing to do. But she doesn't want to give a chance of even thinking that she remotely likes him, or wants to like him, and to her, if anything, they'd be the same thing.
The truth is that she's sort of fascinated by him anyway; it's not that he's not Nate, and it's definitely not that he's not Chuck, but she can see why and how S found herself falling into their bizarre, romantic entanglement. She appreciates a good love story. She’s seen Roman Holiday too many times to count for her not to.
She finds herself unable to get back to her books, however, still staring at the carpet. Humphrey snorts and stands, walking past her and to one of the closets. He pulls open a door, and curses quietly, leafing through a few records. A few hit the bed and she counts some jazz and a few bands from the eighties that scream parental influence. It should be funny to her, but she’s quiet until he puts something on.
The room seems tinier then, filling with the slow, almost lazy sounds of a trumpet. She tenses, pulling her hands back and then shifting further onto the bed. She curls her legs underneath her. Her shoes are still on and they fit against his blankets, as she picks a few buttons of a dirty shirt.
"I'm going to kill her, you know."
He stops. And she looks back up at him, watching as he shakes his head.
"Vanessa?"
"No," she snaps, looking up, "Pay attention - Georgiana."
"Seriously?"
There’s a laundry list of things that she can pull out, but she chooses not to. She doesn't know why she's so hesitant; it's S and then it isn't, it's that everybody else is more than a phone call away and she's stuck at this school, unsure and full of second guesses. It’s not that she's not doing well, or that she can't be okay. What scares her is that there's so much about herself that she doesn't know, and that she'd like to know, but yet again, here she is and waiting.
She doesn't want to wait anymore.
It’s that idea of the summer all over again, of the year that passed - they have their separate memories, of course. There’s Nate, and then there's S, and then Chuck, of course, to round up the last two years of a roller coaster than never wanted to end. She can talk about her parents too and their weird affection for everything but letting her out of that pseudo-make believe world they liked to keep her in. It’s not their fault either because Blair is still very comfortable when there's a plan.
And it’s the first time, really, that she’s facing the idea of being uncomfortable and working with it. She just doesn’t know how to be excited about it, if she should or should expect herself to be - should she?
He shrugs then, unfazed. "I'm just surprised that you haven't."
"Class, Humphrey. I've got class."
He smirks at her, amused as he flashes a shy grin. She can feel herself flush, maybe a little. It feels weird too. But he says nothing though and just watches her, shaking his head and then turning back to the music in front of him as it place. She tries to get back to her reading. It’s just not working.
Finally well into reading about early Victorianism, Blair begins to appreciate their silence. She’s not entirely sure why, but she does. And she's beginning to suspect that she might even like it - of course, that's just jumping ahead. She could be bored.
But his bed doesn't smell as bad as it looks. She could do without the shirts and his roommate's somewhat obscure and strange corner of the room, staring back at her and waiting, if anything, to flay her alive. It’s too dark on that end and she almost prefers Georgiana to it, wondering how Humphrey does it all the same.
"He hates me," he says, catching her gaze.
They both look over to the other side of the room. Humphrey's taken up at his desk again, his feet resting at the end of the bed. She’s settled against a poster and somewhat into the nook of his bed and the wall, letting her book spill over her legs. It stares back at her and for a moment, she considers just giving up entirely and going home.
The thing is she's kind of comfortable.
"We could give him to Georgiana," she tells him. "She gets bored a lot."
She suspects too that that Georgiana is waiting for one, big moment to do something to her. Blair's waiting too, if only to have the excuse for retaliation and to eradicate the other girl from the planet. Their room is something akin to a minefield. S, understandably, won't set foot in it and the others are just wise enough to stay away - even her mother and Cyrus are reluctant to enter the foray of a visit for parents' weekend.
“She needs a friend too,” she adds dryly.
It’s joke and a terrible one at that. But Humphrey laughs and she likes the sound, the way it shorts into a low chuckle, almost warm all the same. She finds herself smiling, just a little, as she shifts and closes her book. It gets pushed off to the side and she looks at him, studying the way that he seems to have forgotten his work too.
The music is still soft and playing with the space of the room, keeping them close but not entirely too close. He shrugs, his fingers running over his knee in sync with the music.
"She would eat him alive."
Her mouth curls. "Could be good for him - the alternative is a haircut and a shower."
He smirks again, then. "He might kill me in my sleep. We could start a club or support group. Could be good, Waldorf. You never know."
She snorts, but finds herself amused. She shakes her head, not entirely sure where any of this is coming from. It’s a bizarre feeling, and she's trying to ignore it - or really, she's hoping that it'll pass the course, and some obscure illness will take Georgiana out of school so that she can her space again and life would go on as it should be.
But she's comfortable, and she's not sure what to do with that. She hasn't been sure since this summer, since the end of the year and Chuck Bass was that kind of fixture in her life. She still loves him and it's not the kind of thing that she's going to forgot or forgive him for; apart, it seems, is the only way they belong. She wonders if that's how it is for S and him. S never talks about Humphrey with her, not in the sense that she trusted S with her Chuck issues.
In part, she wonders if it's because he exists outside their circle of things. She can understand that need, how it shifts between selfish and necessary, to protect something different from what everybody expects of them. She gets it more than she realizes, and more than she shares. Yale was going to be that space for her and Chuck, to an extent, was supposed fall into line with that idea. It’s hard now, really hard, being in this city and trying to figure herself out.
"I think - "
She stops, and then looks back up at him. "I think I'm having an identity crisis."
He shudders. "Because of Georgiana?"
"No, idiot," she snaps. She's almost amused though at the look on his face. "I wouldn't give her the time of day, Humphrey. You know me better than that."
He snorts.
"I really don't."
"Don't?"
He shrugs, pulling his feet off the bed. He stands and she half-expects him to wander over to the record player. It’s Rufus’, she remembers but she's not entirely sure why. She hasn't been here before or has, but outside. The early part of the year is still a little hazy, as Gossip Girl made her the end of a few love potion jokes and the Jennifer Aniston of a Chuck and new conquest triangle.
The funny thing is that the less invested she became; the less speculation seemed to bother her. Of course, an end is an end and there are things, yet again, that she's not ready to forgive. But she's beginning to appreciate the anonymous nature too. It’s a new world to her really, people not caring and not even caring herself. Until the holiday breaks, of course. Then, yet again, she returns to an open season.
"I don't," Humphrey says again. "And you know I don't. While I know you'd probably kill Vanessa in her sleep, I also really don't get why you're here. Or why you would want to be here."
He walks to her corner of the bed and then stops. He doesn't sit, although she carries somewhat of an expectation that he might. She’s seen him in action and there are these weird, almost familiar habits that she's ready to accuse him of - even though she's not sure why she would.
His gaze, however, softens and he shifts his hands into his pockets. He’s awkward and it seems to carry too her, her shoulders hunching back as she leans into one of his posters.
She sighs, but doesn’t look away. She finds herself honest too. "I don't know."
It’s only later that he does, in fact, sit next to her with his books.
He’s quiet. She half-expects him to push all his clothes off the bed, but he sits over them and rests against the wall with her, diving back into his work. The music has since ended and neither of them makes a comment to why - for her, she's been getting used to it. It’s not what she likes, but she can listen and somehow, she suspects that his lack of movement is a gesture of appreciation from him too.
They are knee to knee for a little while, his legs longer and hanging off the bed at the angle that they share. Her legs are curled, if only for comfort, and she’s trying hard to not pay attention to the way she finds herself leaning into him a little. She turns her pages faster than he does, but Humphrey seems to explode here and there, furiously with a pen over his notebook.
He hasn’t asked her about her answer either, and she’s not sure why. From what she does know about him, he’s persistent and assuming. This makes all of this even stranger in the sense that she’s comfortable and he’s comfortable with sitting wit her. It’s almost fascinating and she's not entirely sure that she wants to admit that she even likes it too, leaving herself at a telling end all over again.
But they're interrupted when his roommate slinks in, two girls in hand and the smell of a series of drink. It’s all in bad taste and he grins at Humphrey, causing the other boy to sigh and her to wrinkle her nose in distaste. Humphrey gets up first, in mutters, only to slide him into a pair of shoes and grab a bag that is half-open and nearly ready to burst with clothes and books.
"I'm heading to Vanessa's," he says. On the other side of the room, the guy falls into bed with the two girls and she doesn't really get it. They’re giggling and she’s starting to really smell the beer. It’s like trying to explain a college version of Chuck Bass. Who writes poetry.
She nods, almost sympathetically, and gathers her things together. She’s being kicked out and she gets it, almost reluctantly embracing the idea of heading home to her mother and Cyrus second-wind honeymoon phase. It’s gross. It’s something she doesn’t want to think about. She only hopes that she's not doomed to become a vegan like Aaron as a result of it.
They quietly finish with their things then. She steps out first, into the hallway, and turns to watch him back out of the room. There’s a mix of amusement and irritation written into his gaze, as he shuts the door, and he turns back to her, opening his mouth. She expects an apology, but it doesn't come.
His hand thrusts forward. "Here."
Blair blinks. His fingers are curled over a thin piece of paper with dan's number and call next time! written into a corner with a series of numbers. It’s cute. And then, it’s not. She looks up at him, then back down at his hand, to look up at him once more. She reaches forward and pulls the paper carefully from his hand.
She’s not exactly sure what to say to this, as she came and he let her in - although, she still hasn't figured out why or knows if she should ask. Somehow, it seems better not know. Instead, there's this idea of a second time and the way dan's number is carefully written into the corner seems to offer that kind of chance. She’s wary at that idea, the idea of chance and change and the way this whole NYU thing is turning out to be something that is a little bit okay. This week, she thinks, at least.
"You're almost a poet."
Her voice is low, dry, and she leans up and into his space, kissing his cheek. She means it to be some sort of chaste gesture. She doesn’t anticipate well and lingers, instead, if only to catch her balance. She lets her lips open over his skin and feels herself flush. Her hand curls around his arm and she thinks that this might be the appropriate place to say something else. Thank you, maybe.
She doesn’t know what to say. She swears she hears him laugh, just a small sound of nervous amusement. He seems to get it too. She wonders if she should be worried about that. But she pulls back as he nods.
He pulls his bag over his shoulder. "Just call me next time, okay?"
He doesn't smile. She doesn't either. She fidgets, but she won't offer. She can still remind herself. They’re not friends.
In the cab home, she keeps his number in her hand.