we don't live in the comedies
What is this?! I don't even, it's not a real fic. There's one more day before my heart breaks in a bajilion pieces and I just got the sweetest comment on one of my old Dair fics so here ya go. I'm super shitty/rusty so go and play with the better Dair writers, I'm just using this as salve for the upcoming hurt. The show. I hate them. I wish they left us alone.
we don't live in the comedies, dan/blair, pg, 1,477 words
Of course it doesn't take at first, this isn't a romantic comedy and it's far from a greek tragedy and she's stubborn and he's judgmental and they carry on. They treat the kiss like a faulty latch that didn't catch. Ah well.
They're friends not friends after all so he still streams her music and leaves tickets at the door of the Knitting Factory when the Toronto band she didn't hate comes to town, she takes a look at the venue and stays in the towncar. She waves impatiently and points at his seat when he takes off his coat five minutes before the curtain lifts on a Sunday opera matinee at Dicapo. What? This is what friends do. And if his pinky skims her thigh when he puts his hands into his pockets and she smirks while she tilts a refreshment in his face during intermission, it doesn't matter. They kissed, remember. And nothing happened.
She holds the refreshments out until he takes one.
He sits in the bathtub with a hidden reserve of salt water taffy while she lodges insults into the door and he flips his McSweeny's Quarterly. He called her on her shit again and he can't understand why she keeps asking for his advice when she clearly doesn't want to hear it. I can't understand why you keep asking for my advice when you clearly don't want to hear it, he says, and a refreshed round of pounding begins followed by the sound of things breaking. It is a hell of a way to tell him that he's right, and that she knows he's right, and she knows he knows he's right, and one day he'll also explain to her how his belongings actually have a value. My belongin-- not today.
She told him after one catastrophe that his words echo in her head because they're the truth and she's told enough lies to know the difference. She also called him a low-rent Jiminy Cricket as he put her feet in his lap, and that moment alone always keeps him from calling the police. He reads about cartographers instead.
He puts a hand around her mouth, coupled with a sheepish smile, until she learns impulse control every time they go somewhere in Brooklyn where people are present, she's finally admitted that it is slightly better than the rest of the U.S. if only for it's close proximity to Manhattan because surely, something has rubbed off and he pretends not to notice she tends to cross the bridge when she's hiding out and she pretends his thumb doesn't trace her bottom lip when he lets go.
They both wind up giving speechs at graduation and practice in front of the other. If this were a typical college film, confessions would be made and sex would be had but they skip that and go straight to the critiques. They share coffees and take out trendy references and chunky dialogue. Neither makes note of the fact that if they hadn't done this, they wouldn't have heard the other's speech due to a problem with scheduling, and that the tweaking turns out to be minimal at best. It's besides the point that he hugs her and squeezes her hand before he tells her she's going to be great, they've kissed already, and we're past it. Ok? So what if she rolls her eyes and her of course sounds like a thank you. Or that after she watches him on tape a few days later, she grabs her coat and says soberly, you deserved to go to Yale. And while he flounders for a response, she turns and leaves in a way that allows no room for thanks. He's wanted to, he's wanted to give quite a few, actually.
She does receive a box full of 365 buttons from cafe press that read "Everyone has a Harold" with a note attached that says "In case you need reminding. Be nice to the world. Anything v. Waldorf is not a fair fight". It's a graduation present and there's no name attached.
Well, then they try the sex. Because, hey, they'll never know. Dan fumbles with the buttons on her blouse and before Blair can laugh he looks up at her and he's so earnest it's blinding so she coughs instead. And he puts a warm mouth over her clavicle like he knows and he wants to thank her for her patience as he goes about cataloguing all the things she likes just listening to her soft sighs, pants and elicit moans. He puts her together in fragments, learning each part, sliding his fingers between hers and keeping their palms together as her hand goes over her head on the pillow and she thinks that's one of the things she might like the most. But she grabs her shoes in the early morning and leaves, neither look too closely at why.
Ah well. The text messages start again a month later.
She becomes a fashion editor of one publication and he becomes a freelancer for another and they're at a bar near the Julius Nyerere airport while Dan gives her a brief, slurred version of the history of Tanganyika and Zanzibar. She's supervising an Out of Africa cover shoot and he's investigating Chinese investment in a civil war and her toast is "I'll cover the runway while you cover the revolution".
His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and the bottom three buttons of his oxford are undone so the flaps lay out at his sides and the only concession she has made to the heat is that her scarf now drapes over the chair.
She drunkenly tells him that there should be real-live dunce caps and he'd wear one for still being convinced that the world is a just place or that people should try and make it so. He retorts by saying that despots have hearts too, look at hers it's grown three whole sizes since they last met.
She doesn't curse, or she doesn't curse often, and he takes extreme delight in getting her to say "fuck" after they've moved on to shots.
"Why did you leave," he rolls his glass around on the bar littered with postage stamps as memorbilia.
"The fuck?" she cocks an inquisitive eyebrow, putting her glass down on a napkin.
"Sorry, why the fuck did you leave?" he finally smiles at her, but it's shy and she understands.
"Fuck," she whispers on an exhale.
"...exactly."
She goes back to his hotel room and he falls asleep, fully clothed, with his head on her stomach as she strokes the gauze netting around the bed, her other hand carding through his hair. Twenty minutes later he turns his head, his chin knocking her hipbone and he says don't talk yourself into loving me, either you do or you don't, just make sure you're brave enough to admit it if you do and he tips his chin down to kiss her belly and he rubs, slow, lazy circles with his thumb on her rib and he let's her continue to pretend that she's asleep.
He leaves in the morning, this time, for an early interview.
Ah well. The calls resume when they're back in New York.
She writes the forward to his first book, because there is no one else in the world he'd think to ask, her professional opinion being one he respects, her intimate knowledge of him being unparalleled, and her honesty about him being unquestionable, since the day you bounded over to me and introduced yourself...and proceeded to tell me things I didn't want to know. He submits it to his editor without even looking. He only reads it after its been published.
He buys one from the stand like the geek that he is and cracks the spine. I was going to let my maid write this it begins and Dan nearly chokes on his water. He's laughing a third of the way down when he's pretty sure she launched into a lengthy explination of French renaissance history only to pay him a seven word, slightly back-handed compliment. But she's read so much soul into his characters and breaths life into their world with her descriptions, so he knows she gets it.
He calls her to thank her and she says, it's not the one kiss that mattered, it's never the one this or the one that...i think it's how many times i've had to stop myself from kissing you since.
Is it? is all he can think to say.
He shows up at her office thirty minutes later with coffee.
we don't live in the comedies, dan/blair, pg, 1,477 words
Of course it doesn't take at first, this isn't a romantic comedy and it's far from a greek tragedy and she's stubborn and he's judgmental and they carry on. They treat the kiss like a faulty latch that didn't catch. Ah well.
They're friends not friends after all so he still streams her music and leaves tickets at the door of the Knitting Factory when the Toronto band she didn't hate comes to town, she takes a look at the venue and stays in the towncar. She waves impatiently and points at his seat when he takes off his coat five minutes before the curtain lifts on a Sunday opera matinee at Dicapo. What? This is what friends do. And if his pinky skims her thigh when he puts his hands into his pockets and she smirks while she tilts a refreshment in his face during intermission, it doesn't matter. They kissed, remember. And nothing happened.
She holds the refreshments out until he takes one.
He sits in the bathtub with a hidden reserve of salt water taffy while she lodges insults into the door and he flips his McSweeny's Quarterly. He called her on her shit again and he can't understand why she keeps asking for his advice when she clearly doesn't want to hear it. I can't understand why you keep asking for my advice when you clearly don't want to hear it, he says, and a refreshed round of pounding begins followed by the sound of things breaking. It is a hell of a way to tell him that he's right, and that she knows he's right, and she knows he knows he's right, and one day he'll also explain to her how his belongings actually have a value. My belongin-- not today.
She told him after one catastrophe that his words echo in her head because they're the truth and she's told enough lies to know the difference. She also called him a low-rent Jiminy Cricket as he put her feet in his lap, and that moment alone always keeps him from calling the police. He reads about cartographers instead.
He puts a hand around her mouth, coupled with a sheepish smile, until she learns impulse control every time they go somewhere in Brooklyn where people are present, she's finally admitted that it is slightly better than the rest of the U.S. if only for it's close proximity to Manhattan because surely, something has rubbed off and he pretends not to notice she tends to cross the bridge when she's hiding out and she pretends his thumb doesn't trace her bottom lip when he lets go.
They both wind up giving speechs at graduation and practice in front of the other. If this were a typical college film, confessions would be made and sex would be had but they skip that and go straight to the critiques. They share coffees and take out trendy references and chunky dialogue. Neither makes note of the fact that if they hadn't done this, they wouldn't have heard the other's speech due to a problem with scheduling, and that the tweaking turns out to be minimal at best. It's besides the point that he hugs her and squeezes her hand before he tells her she's going to be great, they've kissed already, and we're past it. Ok? So what if she rolls her eyes and her of course sounds like a thank you. Or that after she watches him on tape a few days later, she grabs her coat and says soberly, you deserved to go to Yale. And while he flounders for a response, she turns and leaves in a way that allows no room for thanks. He's wanted to, he's wanted to give quite a few, actually.
She does receive a box full of 365 buttons from cafe press that read "Everyone has a Harold" with a note attached that says "In case you need reminding. Be nice to the world. Anything v. Waldorf is not a fair fight". It's a graduation present and there's no name attached.
Well, then they try the sex. Because, hey, they'll never know. Dan fumbles with the buttons on her blouse and before Blair can laugh he looks up at her and he's so earnest it's blinding so she coughs instead. And he puts a warm mouth over her clavicle like he knows and he wants to thank her for her patience as he goes about cataloguing all the things she likes just listening to her soft sighs, pants and elicit moans. He puts her together in fragments, learning each part, sliding his fingers between hers and keeping their palms together as her hand goes over her head on the pillow and she thinks that's one of the things she might like the most. But she grabs her shoes in the early morning and leaves, neither look too closely at why.
Ah well. The text messages start again a month later.
She becomes a fashion editor of one publication and he becomes a freelancer for another and they're at a bar near the Julius Nyerere airport while Dan gives her a brief, slurred version of the history of Tanganyika and Zanzibar. She's supervising an Out of Africa cover shoot and he's investigating Chinese investment in a civil war and her toast is "I'll cover the runway while you cover the revolution".
His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and the bottom three buttons of his oxford are undone so the flaps lay out at his sides and the only concession she has made to the heat is that her scarf now drapes over the chair.
She drunkenly tells him that there should be real-live dunce caps and he'd wear one for still being convinced that the world is a just place or that people should try and make it so. He retorts by saying that despots have hearts too, look at hers it's grown three whole sizes since they last met.
She doesn't curse, or she doesn't curse often, and he takes extreme delight in getting her to say "fuck" after they've moved on to shots.
"Why did you leave," he rolls his glass around on the bar littered with postage stamps as memorbilia.
"The fuck?" she cocks an inquisitive eyebrow, putting her glass down on a napkin.
"Sorry, why the fuck did you leave?" he finally smiles at her, but it's shy and she understands.
"Fuck," she whispers on an exhale.
"...exactly."
She goes back to his hotel room and he falls asleep, fully clothed, with his head on her stomach as she strokes the gauze netting around the bed, her other hand carding through his hair. Twenty minutes later he turns his head, his chin knocking her hipbone and he says don't talk yourself into loving me, either you do or you don't, just make sure you're brave enough to admit it if you do and he tips his chin down to kiss her belly and he rubs, slow, lazy circles with his thumb on her rib and he let's her continue to pretend that she's asleep.
He leaves in the morning, this time, for an early interview.
Ah well. The calls resume when they're back in New York.
She writes the forward to his first book, because there is no one else in the world he'd think to ask, her professional opinion being one he respects, her intimate knowledge of him being unparalleled, and her honesty about him being unquestionable, since the day you bounded over to me and introduced yourself...and proceeded to tell me things I didn't want to know. He submits it to his editor without even looking. He only reads it after its been published.
He buys one from the stand like the geek that he is and cracks the spine. I was going to let my maid write this it begins and Dan nearly chokes on his water. He's laughing a third of the way down when he's pretty sure she launched into a lengthy explination of French renaissance history only to pay him a seven word, slightly back-handed compliment. But she's read so much soul into his characters and breaths life into their world with her descriptions, so he knows she gets it.
He calls her to thank her and she says, it's not the one kiss that mattered, it's never the one this or the one that...i think it's how many times i've had to stop myself from kissing you since.
Is it? is all he can think to say.
He shows up at her office thirty minutes later with coffee.