fanfic: Without You
Without You
Author: pavonie
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 909
Pairing/Characters: Blair/Dan
Summary: all that’s left is introspection.
Based on speculation (not spoilers), The Pierces’ We Are Stars, and what’s in the promos. How I want the end of this season to go down. :)
We are oceans / being controlled by the pull of another
These, and only these, are the things she sees.
She sees the flashbulbs go off, one by one, and Louis’s smile, just before. She sees the glow of the lights on Fifth behind them, framing their kiss, and sees that she’ll have to get Eleanor to put in a call to her contact in the picture-editing department at the Associated Press to make sure they don’t come out over-exposed in tomorrow’s papers.
“Yes, and as your friend, I am telling you that this is a bad idea.”
She laughs and then she sees nothing else, clasps one hand through the Prince’s and directs his other to the spot around her waist where Dan Humphrey’s traced circles exactly one hour before.
~
He clinks his bottle against hers, grins softly, sits down, pretends to listen.
These, and not only these, are his thoughts.
He thinks of the short manuscript he typed out when he got home, all brunettes, lace veils, and bittersweet endings (“oh, you should have been suspicious the minute someone wanted to pay you for your writing”) the receipt for his Paul Smith tie the store assistant folded tightly into its little envelope (he should probably pay her back at some point), the smudge of cherry blossom-hued lipstick he wiped away from his cheek before coming down the stairs.
He thinks, going further back, to the $6.00 FilmForum ticket stub he tossed in the trash and the four that followed it. The shoes he wore to the Morgan one snowy Sunday in February that clicked awkwardly on the floor as he walked to meet her, fashionably late as ever. Dialling the pizza place and asking for ‘gourmet’ and “he’s just going to check if they do that”.
The coffee they liked - black, no sugar.
He thinks of all the words he spoke to her since ‘dictator of taste’, and all the words he wrote to, about, with, her. Her.
He stops thinking and wonders how Page Six will condense the new relationship between Crown Prince Louis Grimaldi of Monaco and an Upper East Side, 95-pound, doe-eyed, bon mot-tossing, label-whoring package of girly evil into a workable headline.
We are moons / we throw ourselves around each other
“Well, it’s nice to see my prediction about you and Shirley Temples has finally come true. How well I know you.”
“Nice to see you too, Blair.”
“Wait, hold on. Have you actually taken a cater-waiter job at your own alumnae reception? That’s ridiculous, Humphrey, even for you.”
“Sorry, um, ‘The Prince’, is it?, Blair, these are for my date. Who’s waiting. So if you’ll excuse me…”
We are stars / fashioned in the flesh and bone
He may be a writer and a poet, but he’s still a man.
And besides, she’s been wanting this for a while, hasn’t she? When she’d gone to all this effort to look like that and to get them alone, together, it’s surely only polite, one would think, to let her take off his shirt and kick off her shoes, bury his face in her neck and…
Hold on. Wait. No. Stop. Is that - no. five?
“Charlie? DAN?”
Serena.
~
“But, why didn’t you tell me?”
“I couldn’t, Blair, my family -”
She’s indignant and bemused, shrill but accepting, all at the same time - which is just how he used to like her - of course she is.
She gets it now, how could she not? The lingering glances, the secrecy, the whirlwind, and now here she is at the end of it all, with an offer of an job (not an internship, real woman power this time) at French Vogue for this summer - the Grimaldis may be traditional, but they’re well-connected - the Harry Winston is back in its box (both of them are, which is where they shall stay), and as she slipped off the diamonds she saw the circle unclasp and a line stretch from her - to?
She smirks, thinks back to when she saw the Empire State Building through the arches of the Brooklyn Bridge, and knows it was just her sense of perspective that was wrong all along.
She throws her arms around his neck, tells him don’t be a drag, just be a queen, and wonders how it is that here she is at ten to midnight in the foyer of the Plaza with a new GBF and no ring while maybe, just maybe, there’s another prince waiting for her in a loft in one of the outer boroughs.
They look past each other to where the limousine and the handlers are waiting and he smiles, grateful, and she blows him a kiss as he steps away from her and says that he can do this.
They can do this.
We are islands / excuses to remain alone
In the car she taps her heel against the floor, presses her fingers against her BlackBerry, clicks her tongue at the traffic on the bridge.
She stops thinking and remembers the little spark that appeared when she lit her candle on Valentine’s night and the blank sheet of paper in Humphrey’s vintage type-writer.
She imagines reading Colette in the park, together.
~
Back in the loft he looks at his laptop, remembers The Philadelphia Story and her breath against his collarbone, the airline webpage he opened last summer and the ticket he almost bought, and finally he knows he cannot stay.
Author: pavonie
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 909
Pairing/Characters: Blair/Dan
Summary: all that’s left is introspection.
Based on speculation (not spoilers), The Pierces’ We Are Stars, and what’s in the promos. How I want the end of this season to go down. :)
We are oceans / being controlled by the pull of another
These, and only these, are the things she sees.
She sees the flashbulbs go off, one by one, and Louis’s smile, just before. She sees the glow of the lights on Fifth behind them, framing their kiss, and sees that she’ll have to get Eleanor to put in a call to her contact in the picture-editing department at the Associated Press to make sure they don’t come out over-exposed in tomorrow’s papers.
“Yes, and as your friend, I am telling you that this is a bad idea.”
She laughs and then she sees nothing else, clasps one hand through the Prince’s and directs his other to the spot around her waist where Dan Humphrey’s traced circles exactly one hour before.
~
He clinks his bottle against hers, grins softly, sits down, pretends to listen.
These, and not only these, are his thoughts.
He thinks of the short manuscript he typed out when he got home, all brunettes, lace veils, and bittersweet endings (“oh, you should have been suspicious the minute someone wanted to pay you for your writing”) the receipt for his Paul Smith tie the store assistant folded tightly into its little envelope (he should probably pay her back at some point), the smudge of cherry blossom-hued lipstick he wiped away from his cheek before coming down the stairs.
He thinks, going further back, to the $6.00 FilmForum ticket stub he tossed in the trash and the four that followed it. The shoes he wore to the Morgan one snowy Sunday in February that clicked awkwardly on the floor as he walked to meet her, fashionably late as ever. Dialling the pizza place and asking for ‘gourmet’ and “he’s just going to check if they do that”.
The coffee they liked - black, no sugar.
He thinks of all the words he spoke to her since ‘dictator of taste’, and all the words he wrote to, about, with, her. Her.
He stops thinking and wonders how Page Six will condense the new relationship between Crown Prince Louis Grimaldi of Monaco and an Upper East Side, 95-pound, doe-eyed, bon mot-tossing, label-whoring package of girly evil into a workable headline.
We are moons / we throw ourselves around each other
“Well, it’s nice to see my prediction about you and Shirley Temples has finally come true. How well I know you.”
“Nice to see you too, Blair.”
“Wait, hold on. Have you actually taken a cater-waiter job at your own alumnae reception? That’s ridiculous, Humphrey, even for you.”
“Sorry, um, ‘The Prince’, is it?, Blair, these are for my date. Who’s waiting. So if you’ll excuse me…”
We are stars / fashioned in the flesh and bone
He may be a writer and a poet, but he’s still a man.
And besides, she’s been wanting this for a while, hasn’t she? When she’d gone to all this effort to look like that and to get them alone, together, it’s surely only polite, one would think, to let her take off his shirt and kick off her shoes, bury his face in her neck and…
Hold on. Wait. No. Stop. Is that - no. five?
“Charlie? DAN?”
Serena.
~
“But, why didn’t you tell me?”
“I couldn’t, Blair, my family -”
She’s indignant and bemused, shrill but accepting, all at the same time - which is just how he used to like her - of course she is.
She gets it now, how could she not? The lingering glances, the secrecy, the whirlwind, and now here she is at the end of it all, with an offer of an job (not an internship, real woman power this time) at French Vogue for this summer - the Grimaldis may be traditional, but they’re well-connected - the Harry Winston is back in its box (both of them are, which is where they shall stay), and as she slipped off the diamonds she saw the circle unclasp and a line stretch from her - to?
She smirks, thinks back to when she saw the Empire State Building through the arches of the Brooklyn Bridge, and knows it was just her sense of perspective that was wrong all along.
She throws her arms around his neck, tells him don’t be a drag, just be a queen, and wonders how it is that here she is at ten to midnight in the foyer of the Plaza with a new GBF and no ring while maybe, just maybe, there’s another prince waiting for her in a loft in one of the outer boroughs.
They look past each other to where the limousine and the handlers are waiting and he smiles, grateful, and she blows him a kiss as he steps away from her and says that he can do this.
They can do this.
We are islands / excuses to remain alone
In the car she taps her heel against the floor, presses her fingers against her BlackBerry, clicks her tongue at the traffic on the bridge.
She stops thinking and remembers the little spark that appeared when she lit her candle on Valentine’s night and the blank sheet of paper in Humphrey’s vintage type-writer.
She imagines reading Colette in the park, together.
~
Back in the loft he looks at his laptop, remembers The Philadelphia Story and her breath against his collarbone, the airline webpage he opened last summer and the ticket he almost bought, and finally he knows he cannot stay.