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It begins, as all things do, with her right hand shoved up a well-greased turkey’s butt.
“Talk fast Humphrey, because in case you haven’t noticed, this delicate hand here — ” Blair hisses, wiggling said hand that was currently plunged wrist-deep in the poor fowl’s carcass, “ — was not designed for prolonged contact with raw poultry!”
“Oh, shoot, wait,” mutters Dan, eyes darting towards his laptop screen. “Martha Stewart says we’re supposed to rub a sprinkle of salt and pepper, y’know, inside the cavity before we fill it up — ”
Blair’s eyes widen in horror. “And you couldn’t tell me this before I grabbed a handful of stuffing and shoved it straight up a turkey’s ass??”
“See, that’s why I told you to hold up!” Dan grumbles, arms crossed over his chest. “Uh, ok, just get all the way in there and, y’know, spread the stuffing around. You don’t wanna pack it too densely here…”
“Not. Helpful. Humphrey!” Blair grits out, as the turkey juices begin to overflow, breaching past the meager latex barrier of her gloves and dripping most unpleasantly down her elbow.
“Hey, you were the one who insisted on stuffing the bird!”
“It’s because unlike you, Humphrey, I have standards,” Blair sniffs in indignation, as she scoops another dollop of filling into the unfortunate headless creature. “So forgive me if I don’t have enough faith in your so-called culinary expertise to leave an entire, four-course Thanksgiving dinner in your less-than-capable, klutzy Brooklynite hands!”
“Whoa, dinner’s in two hours and you guys haven’t even gotten the bird in the oven yet?” Nate pipes up from the doorway, as he and Serena waltz into Chuck’s penthouse suite at the Empire — bags of shopping in tow, cheeks flushed and rosy from the wintry air outside.
“Oh, joy, Tweedledee and Tweedledum finally decided to show up,” quips Blair, with a sarcastic roll of her eyes.
“Don’t mind her, she’s just cranky ‘cause the turkey won’t cooperate,” says Dan, shooting a conspiratorial wink at the two newcomers.
“Did you two get the wine and the thanksgiving candles?” Blair interjects, as she thrusts the large baking tray unceremoniously into Dan’s hands, much to his chagrin. He takes this as a wordless command to place said tray into the preheated oven and hope — with fingers crossed — that the roasted bird turns out for the best.
“We sure did,” beams Nate, lifting the Nordstrom paper bag in his hands up in triumph like they’re the precious spoils of a hard-fought Revolutionary War. “Full disclosure: the stores were all out of pumpkin-scented candles, so uh, I got these Hanukkah ones instead…”
“Naaate!” whines a mortified Blair. “You literally had one job!!”
“Ehh, close enough,” Dan chimes in, a shrug and a lopsided grin accompanying his quip.
With much overlapping chatter and a tiny amount of grumbling, Serena and Blair prepare the bread rolls and set the table, whilst Dan douses the grilled cobs of corn in his home-made garlic butter spread, and Nate…well, Nate tries not to get in the way, in his defense.
Dinner is late by almost an hour but so is Chuck. The turkey, miraculously, is cooked to exquisite perfection — juicy on the inside with a crisp, golden brown exterior.
Seeing the joy on her friends’ radiant faces as they dig into a well-deserved, hard-earned meal almost makes up for the fact that Blair won’t be seeing her father and Roman at Thanksgiving this year, nor her dad’s famous pumpkin pies.
…Almost, that is.
As things turn out for Blair — not only are she and Humphrey the only ones left behind in the suite to clean up the aftermath of dinner, they’re also the only ones who’ll stay put right here in chilly Manhattan, over what was surely going to be a lonely (but hopefully productive) winter break.
Yes — it was official. Mom and Cyrus? Going on a getaway in Provence, save for Christmas Eve and the day after. Ditto for Dad and Roman: they loved nothing more than to whisk themselves away to the balmy, tropical shores of Maldives, come winter.
Chuck was headed to New Zealand, to seek out his nefarious uncle Jack no doubt (in spite of Blair warning him against it). Nate would be staying at his grandfather’s. And Serena? Apparently, Serena plans to embark on a journey of self-discovery upstate to find a certain judge — the one whose name was on the forged affidavit responsible for sending her former boarding school teacher, Ben Donovan, to jail.
“Remind me again, Humphrey,” Blair frowns, as she fastidiously wipes the last lipstick stain off the wine glass in her hands. “What on earth could have possibly possessed you to turn down a once-in-a-lifetime chance at a days-long road trip with the girl of your dreams?”
“Umm,” the curly-haired fiend purses his (annoying pretty) lips. “I…thought about what you said. On our little uh, investigative roadtrip to Cornwall.”
Blair tilts her head, a slight furrow of confusion settling between her brows.
“About me giving up everything to be with Serena, my time, my dignity. About when was the last time I even wrote anything…” Dan trails off, pensive. “You…you were absolutely right.”
“It was one thing to seek justice because of what Juliet did to her, but I..” he shook his head, as if to clear it. “...I didn’t wanna get drawn into the blackhole that is Serena van der Woodsen, and lose myself in the process. Not again.”
“...I see,” remarks Blair, her gaze cast downwards as she spritzes at another wine glass with the bottle of L’Occitane shampoo in her hands. How was she even supposed to respond to something like that? She didn’t think he’d take her advice-slash-thinly-veiled-insults seriously, let alone act on it.
The very thought makes her stomach twist in a most unsettling manner.
“Well, enough about me,” the man expertly changes the subject with an awkward clearing of the throat. “What are your plans for Christmas break? Besides seeing Nénette at the Film Forum, that is.”
“The only holiday plans I’ll be making are with Forbes’ top listed companies of 2010, to which I shall dispatch my perfectly polished resume so that I can secure the best, most prestigious internship in Manhattan,” a smug, patronising smile — one that she reserves for the hapless residents of the outer boroughs — graces Blair’s glossy lips.
“Hey, I was thinking of doing an internship too!” Dan’s eyebrows shoot up into his dark, unruly curls.
Well. Except…his hair actually looks good today. Not that she’ll ever tell him that. Not over her cold, dead, Givenchy-clad body.
“Did you figure out where you’re gonna apply yet?” The not-horrible-looking man asks, as he brushes past her to return a glass to the dish rack.
A disdainful upwards curl of sugary sweet lips; a condescending bat of Blair’s long, immaculately curled lashes.
“You must either be delusional or high from Juliet’s leftover drugs if you think I’m about to disclose highly confidential information like that to a…competitor,” she declares sweetly — the sharpest of daggers sheathed in faux innocence.
Dan is thoroughly unfazed by her sarcasm, as always. His warm eyes crinkle and his lips slant into that boyish, crooked little smirk that she’s been seeing a lot of lately, the one that’s…bordering on roguishly attractive. God, what was she thinking?? That cursed roadtrip up to Nowheres-ville of Townie-land must’ve corrupted her anti-Humphrey sensibilities more than she’d thought.
Unbelievable.
“Aww, c’mon,” that self-assured smirk lingers on Dan’s lips still. “Little ol’ me from NYU? I couldn’t possibly pose a threat to you.”
“Don’t. Even. Think about it,” snaps Blair, as she hands Dan the last Riedel wine glass for him to pat dry.
They survey the pile of gleaming pots and dishes before them, finally all washed and dried.
Mission accomplished, they head out the suite and wait for the elevator out in the sleek lobby. The only sounds that echo through the hall being the impatient click of Blair’s stilettos against marble, black and gleaming, and the smooth notes of bossa nova playing from the wall-mounted speakers, pleasant but unobtrusive.
A Christmas tree — white and artificial and lavished with liberal amounts of silver and gold ornaments — glitters ostentatiously by the elevator doors. But that is not what catches Blair’s attention.
No, not at all.
What does catch her attention is the sprig of mistletoe dangling from the curve of the arched ceiling, right above their heads. A jolly red bow tied around it, a gaudy harbinger of festive doom.
A fleeting and…disturbing thought, really, crosses her mind briefly — before she banishes it; buries it; disposes of it promptly like last season’s Marc Jacob’s collection.
“I’m seeing Nénette on the 21st, by the way,” says Dan, as he fidgets with the strap of the dull leather satchel hung on his shoulder. “I’ll be in Hudson with Jenny and my mom on Christmas day, so. Was hoping to catch it before then.”
“Hudson?”
“Uh, yeah? As a result of a certain someone’s unfair banishment, ring any bells? I mean, it’s honestly turned out for the best for Jenny, but…” he trails off but it’s clear from his dark gaze what the words left unspoken are. That Blair’s actions of banishing Jenny Humphrey from New York City may have been begrudgingly forgiven — but they’re nowhere near forgotten.
“Oh, that,” Blair replies somewhat tersely, with a noncommittal hum.
And that…was that.
It continues on a Tuesday evening at the Film Forum: just one movie on one lonely holiday break.
At least, that’s what it was supposed to be.
(Neither Blair nor Dan would know it at the time, but one movie turns into two, then three, and before they know it they’re already knee-deep — sharing Netflix queues and texting each other obscure quotes from Coppola’s Lost in Translation in a teasing bid to outdo the other in a game of trivia that only they found amusing.)
The aroma of popcorn — warm, glistening and coated generously with caramel — wafts by enticingly as Blair marches past the bar in the lobby.
Their eyes meet in silent recognition even before they enter the cool, darkened theatre. Immediately, Dan’s mouth is drawn into that little ‘o’ of confusion the way it sometimes does; his dark brows scrunched in perplexity, as if he couldn’t believe that they really did happen to catch the film on the exact same day.
(Well. It wasn’t her fault that — taking her busy schedule and the ticket availability into account — this was literally the only screening left! Hmph.)
Wordlessly, they file past faded leather seats and aisles of plush carpeting, neither quite knowing how one should acknowledge the other’s presence, if at all.
Dan walks behind her, gaze averted, curls falling into his brow. Plaid scarf casually unravelling from his neck; his cologne, warm and woody and delicious, invading her senses…
….wait, what, delicious?! No. No, that simply would not do!
Blair whips around with a haughty glare, chin jutting out in defiance. He freezes dead in his footsteps like a deer caught in headlights, nothing short of comical.
“Two seats away, Humphrey! I do not tolerate the type of pretentious yappers who deem it appropriate to talk egregiously over a film, and you — ” Blair jabs an accusatory finger in his direction, eyes narrowed, “ — you certainly fit the bill.”
“Works for me, keeps your paws off my popcorn,” the man drawls in complete nonchalance — noting the distinct lack of popcorn in Blair’s empty hands with a jerk of his chin and a pointed stare, then hugging his own paper bag of freshly salted kernels slightly tighter to his body.
Satisfied with the outcome, Blair sticks her nose loftily in the air and claims her seat.
The awkward gap of seats left between them wind up empty throughout the entire screening. It was a French documentary about an orangutan’s life and legacy in a Parisian zoo, after all. Not exactly a film for the masses.
The camera rests on Nénette and her son Tübo in their glass-fronted enclosure. There is no narration — she hears the muffled conversations of curious zoo visitors and sees their reflections in the glass as they, like voyeurs, regard Nénette, a mother of four who has survived three mates.
In a brief lull between scenes, Blair sneaks a glance at Dan, two seats over. The flickering light from the projection is reflected in his eyes, warm and golden. His lips are slightly parted in awe and brows knit as if contemplating every word; every subtle gesture captured on film.
Present, fully immersed in the moment. A rare and perhaps naïve trait in a self-absorbed world where nobody who’s anybody has the time to stop and truly watch and listen, really.
Surreptitiously, Blair shifts one seat closer, because the one she’d chosen lets out an annoying creak whenever she shifts her weight. Dan’s eyes dart to her momentarily, clearly attuned to her movement, before drifting back to the screen.
She winds up inching closer and closer still, before helping herself to a fistful of buttery popcorn.
Or three. Who’s counting, really?
The lights flicker back on at the end of the feature, and the audience begins to shuffle out, light chatter buzzing in the air.
“So,” the insufferable muppet ventures, a bashful smile on his lips, hands jammed in his pockets as they collect their coats. “What’d you think of Philibert’s Cinéma vérité style of shooting? Yay or nay?”
“I’m sorry?” Blair arches a disdainful brow in his direction. “Are we friends, Humphrey? I don’t recall scheduling a movie post-mortem session with the likes of you.”
“Thought it was a fair assumption to make, with how much you appeared to be enjoying…y’know, my popcorn,” the smirk of amusement on Dan’s lips only spreads wider.
She responds with narrowed eyes and a petulant pout, for the lack of a compelling counter-argument.
“Fine,” Blair huffs, hotly. “It felt…intrusive. Voyeur-like, even, which I suspect is exactly the intent.”
“Yeah, and it’s altogether clever and eerily isolating at the same time,” nods Dan, “how Philibert juxtaposes what we, the audience, perceive with what Nénette herself perceives whilst held in captivity.”
“Those quiet, minimalistic takes truly magnify and draw one’s eye to the attention of every minute detail,” Blair muses. “Yet — to think that after all of that, Nénette remains…an enigma.”
“Absolutely,” Dan grins. “Through the overheard conversations between the zoo visitors, it’s clear how we humans project our feelings and thoughts onto her, yet we’re left none the wiser about who Nénette truly is.”
The coat checker hands them their coats, and they promptly exit the building. Before Blair realises it, they’ve fallen into step outside the Film Forum, heading along Houston Street towards 6th Avenue, the crisp December air buffeting them in their faces, nipping at their ankles.
(It strikes them both that neither could’ve ever made such effortless conversation dissecting the life and captivity of a Borneo-born ape with their respective former lovers.
Neither one quite knows what to make of that.)
They fall silent for a brief spell, strolling side by side on the pavement. Reluctant to bid their long overdue farewells for some inexplicable reason.
It’s a comfortable, companionable sort of silence as they soak in the sights and sounds of Christmas.
Fairy lights sparkle from above, twined between branches of the elms lining the street amidst flashing billboards and glitzy storefronts draped in holly and gold and silver.
“I’m headed to Macy’s,” offers Dan at last, his breath curling gentle wisps into the cold, foggy air. “Duty calls. Gotta get a gift for my mom.”
“We shall part ways once we hit Sixth Avenue then, I’ll hail a cab from there,” declares Blair, with a wrinkle of her nose. “Also: last minute Christmas shopping? How awfully uncouth, even for you Humphrey.”
“Woe is me, indeed. I can only get on my knees and beg the ghosts of Christmas past for their forgiveness now.”
Blair stifles a snide giggle into her Burberry scarf. All around, people from all walks of life pass them by, oblivious to the virgin flurry of snowflakes descending upon the busy streets of Manhattan.
A lonely Salvation Army volunteer standing on the corner of Houston Street, ringing their solitary golden bell for donations with dogged determination.
An impatient man in a business suit whose ear has been glued to his cellphone for the past fifteen minutes, rushing to grab last minute gifts for the kids and the missus.
Carollers, all wide grins and hearty laughter, donning vibrant hues of crimson and gold on their way to an outdoors performance in Bryant Park.
The joyous spirit of yuletide lingers in the wintry air — much like the warm, spiced scent of mulled wine wafting over from the nearby Christmas market along Sixth Avenue.
“Y’know, Au Revoir les Enfants is showing at the Walter Reade on the 23rd,” muses Dan, as if thinking out loud. “Thought you might like to know since, uh — French cinema appears to be of special interest to you.”
“A tragic tale of two boys living in Nazi-occupied France?” Blair’s expression scrunches into a disapproving one. “I’ll pass — it’s too close to Christmas for something that miserable, even for a masochist like myself. La Vie en Rose, on the other hand, is playing tomorrow…”
A teasing smirk tugs on Dan’s lips once more. It’s irritatingly charming, and maybe — just maybe — Blair is beginning to understand what Serena used to see in him. The…Humphrey appeal, so to speak.
“Huh,” he quips, amused. “Didn’t take you for a fan of Edith Piaf, but. Color me intrigued.”
“La Vie En Rose is a song unlike any other!” Blair exclaims, a single hand clasped to her chest in mock affrontment. “Although, I must admit I have my biases. It features prominently in the soundtrack of one of my all-time favourite films.”
“Sabrina?”
She wheels around, eyes wide. “How did you — ?”
Dan merely shrugs. “Audrey Hepburn is incredibly talented, a true icon for the ages. I do watch her films from time to time.”
“You too indulge in classic screwball comedies?” snarks a doubtful Blair, with a single, skeptical brow arched.
“When the mood strikes,” the man chuckles, his cheeks reddening and his head ducked shyly into the gray and blue plaid scarf wrapped around his neck, as if in a sudden bout of self-consciousness.
She should hate that abomination of a scarf, she really should. It looks like he dug it out of the bottom of a bargain bin at a second-hand thrift store in Queens.
…And yet.
Yet — he wears it well; looks dapper, almost. She thinks of running her fingers idly over the frayed edges, to find out if it feels as soft and warm as it looks.
“I also, uh,” the next words slip from Dan’s lips with a touch of hesitation, as he scratches awkwardly at the back of his neck. “I do enjoy myself a pre-show bagel at the Kossar’s on West End Avenue. FYI.”
“That’s…” Blair falters, with a sharp inhale that she hopes can mask the inexplicable rush of excitement coursing through her at the thinly veiled suggestion beneath his words. “That’s…interesting information.”
And then they hit the corner of the street, where a familiar sight greets her, just outside the Macy’s department store display — all glittering stars and iridescent baubles behind tall, frosted glass panes.
...It’s another sprig of mistletoe, dangling ominously above their heads. This one’s even entwined with colourful LED Christmas lights weaved along the storefront, as if it weren’t obnoxiously obvious enough as it is.
Jesus fucking Christ, not again.
“So,” Dan clears his throat, pointedly. “Macy’s. This is me.”
“So,” Blair breathes, trying her utmost not to stare up at the lone berry-laden branch overhead; determined not to let the nostalgia or the smooth, velvety baritone of Nat King Cole playing from inside the store lull her into a temporary state of Yuletide-induced insanity.
Oh, fuck it. It’s Christmas. It’s a tragedy of Shakespearean magnitude to be all alone during the season of giving. What’s…one movie, or — or two, in the grand scheme of things?
“I — well,” Blair falters. “I wouldn’t hate it if you, per chance, arrived at Kossar’s before I did…”
Dan frowns, his head cocked.
She purses her lips, meeting his gaze. “And…saved me a cream cheese bagel and a hot chocolate?”
Dan’s brows are raised in wry amusement, the corners of his lips twitching up, ever so slightly.
“What??” Blair snaps, indignant. “It’s Kossar’s, the queues are notoriously long and the bagels are to die for!”
“Right, right,” the man beams, warm and teasing in equal measure. “Happy to oblige, your highness.”
“Before we catch La Vie En Rose, of course. Two seats away,” she intones, punctuated by a warning finger in his face. “The requirement still holds, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Dan echoes sarcastically, with a roll of his eyes.
Blair sneaks a glance at the mistletoe dangling overhead once more, out of the corner of her eye.
(An obtrusive thought creeps into her mind once more. This time, she lets it…linger for a bit. Rolls it around on the tip of her tongue, experimentally, before ultimately dismissing it.)
“Goodnight, Humphrey,” Blair calls out, as she abruptly turns on her heel to hail an incoming taxi along the street.
“G’night, Waldorf,” he breathes, with a gap-toothed smile that’s much too soft and much too fond for her liking.
Blair finds herself staring glumly at her reflection in the mirror, regretting the choices she’d made the day before — a heap of rejected clothing already promptly tossed onto the surface of her rumpled satin sheets and growing taller and more precarious by the minute.
Chanel tweed mini dress with sheer stockings? No, far too flirty.
Dolce&Gabbana high-waisted pencil skirt, paired with a fuchsia silk blouse and black lacy tights. What is this, an interview for junior editor with Vogue??
With a disgruntled sigh, she settles for a Burberry pleated skirt in woollen plaid, an ivory cropped turtleneck sweater pulled over it.
Casual enough — right? It screams…spontaneity, like she’d rolled out of bed and tossed on whatever, because! I-it’s not like it’s a date, or anything like that…right?
…It’s not a date.
It’s not a date.
It’s not. A date. Really, it isn’t.
Chanting this dubious mantra under her breath, Blair leaves the penthouse in a hurry, ankle boots clicking against the marbled floor.
Voir la vie en rose, in French, means “to see life through rose-tinted glasses.” But the biopic about the triumphs and tribulations of singer Edith Piaf is anything but rosy, leaving Blair with a touch of melancholy by the end of the film.
“I had no idea that Edith Piaf had gone through so much,” says Dan, shaking his head. “And Marion Cotillard’s performance? Phenomenal. It’s no wonder she got an Oscar for the role.”
“What do you know, Humphrey?” Blair huffs, as they exit via the front steps of the Lincoln Center, falling into a comfortable gait along the sleet-covered street. “Although one supposes that only a soul that has been through profound heartbreak like hers could sing with such devastating clarity.”
“A fair point indeed,” the man flashes an affable grin. “So, three days till Christmas! Any news yet on that highly coveted internship?”
“Ugh, do not remind me!” Scowls Blair. “Apparently, even personal assistants are unbelievably slow to reply over Christmas week. Makes me doubt the standards of their work ethics, really!”
“Well, it is almost Christmas,” a light chuckle falls from Dan’s lips. “Take it as a sign to slow down. Wanna grab a latte, take a stroll through Central Park as we go over a critique of the finer points of the film?”
Blair halts dead in her tracks on the asphalt, swivelling round to face the curly-haired heathen.
“I — ” the man splutters, nearly choking on his own words, a gentle flush creeping up his cheekbones as he realises the blunder he’s unwittingly committed. “I didn’t mean — I mean it’s, since we’re here and all…”
Blair arches a single brow.
“O-only if you want to, obviously,” Dan clarifies, hands held up in surrender. “It’s not like I’ve anything else on for today. Non, je ne regrette rien…right?”
The corner of Blair’s ruby red lips tug up at his quote. It is one of Edith’s songs, said to be her final performance before the curtains fell tragically on a beautiful life cut short — as depicted in the opening scenes of the film they’d just seen.
Non, je ne regrette rien — No, I do not regret anything.
“Very well,” Blair lets out a begrudging sigh, breezing past Dan with her chin in the air. “But I’m choosing the coffee place. You wouldn’t know a good café au lait if it hit you in the face with a sledgehammer.”
The man simply trails behind her, eyes crinkled with amusement and head thrown back in laughter.
They’re headed through Central Park, warm coffees in hand and ambling aimlessly through snow-covered avenues lined with elms and black cherry trees. The park is much quieter this time of the year, owing to the less than amenable weather.
“I cannot believe that you would even consider Rohmer to be in the same league as Chabrol[1]!” gasps Blair, affronted.
“Please. You and I both know that all Chabrol banks on is the shock factor of psychological horror and the macabre,” scoffs Dan. “Rohmer, on the other hand, is undoubtedly the master of French New Wave cinema — bold, sensitive, with true emotional depth.”
“Sure, if by bold you mean dull and insipid!” Blair exclaims out loud, in disbelief.
“Look, we’ll do Chabrol and Rohmer, back to back,” Dan goads, an impish grin on his lips. “That’ll put this argument to rest, once and for all.”
“Oh, rest assured that we will,” retorts Blair, undeterred. “I only hope that you’re prepared for a sound defeat!”
“Game on, Waldorf, game on…”
Before they know it, they’ve crossed the cast-iron Pinebank Arch and find themselves on the platform walkway overlooking Wollman Rink on the southern end of the park.
…Oh. How did they even get this far, when it seems like no time has passed at all?
Wordlessly, they observe the skaters from a distance — young and old, couples and families alike. Their tiny silhouettes are scattered across the stark white surface of the vast ice rink, against a breathtaking backdrop of the Manhattan skyline under azure blue skies.
“Ugh, ice skating,” mutters a disapproving Dan, under his breath. “Never quite got into that.”
“Why not?” Blair asks, her curiosity piqued.
“Look — all I’m gonna say is,” he grimaces, with a regretful shake of his head. “Umm. I was only five. The Ice Capades were involved [2], and uh — things got real ugly real fast…”
“You were afraid of the Ice Capades?!” Blair cannot help but let out an incredulous snort, a single hand clamped to her mouth.
“Hey, in my defense, it was really dark at the show that night, and the giant masks on those Nutcracker Soldiers?” The curly-haired man exclaims, hotly. “Those would’ve scared the living fuck out of anybody!”
There’s a glint of mischief in her large doe eyes as her glossy lips curve upwards — slow; sticky; sweet as molasses, if the molasses in question were laced with cyanide that is.
Anything but innocent.
That is to say that those who knew Blair Waldorf well enough would recognise the aforementioned as a sure sign that she was definitely up to no good.
She grabs the hapless man by the arm and hauls him away, marching purposefully towards their next destination.
“Whoa, hey,” Dan splutters, powerless to do anything except get dragged along like a piece of carry-on luggage. “W-where’re we going?”
“To conquer your deepest fears, Humphrey!”
Their rental skates are on, their laces secured tight. Ordinarily, a Waldorf would never be caught dead in rental skates, but. Disgusting and filthy as they are, it’s almost worth it just to witness the utterly petrified expression on Dan Humphrey’s stupid face as he approaches the rink — shoulders stiff, ankles wobbly and jaw tight with immense apprehension.
“I can’t do this,” Dan states flatly, fists balled tight by his side. He looks like he’s about to hurl.
“Yes you can! It’s just ice!” Blair flails one limb wildly towards the rink in demonstration. “Ergo: a cold, solid manifestation of a large body of water!”
“Uh, Newsflash: It’s not the ice that I have a problem with, Einstein,” hisses Dan. “It’s the inevitable moment where I faceplant headfirst into it that I’m not entirely looking forward to.”
“Falling is a necessary evil, an essential rite of passage as one learns to skate. Now, stop being a wuss and get in already!” Snaps Blair, as she glides through the entrance to the rink with an effortless twirl. “Or should I grab you one of those skating trainers from the group of eight year olds way over there?”
“T-That won’t be necessary,” the man grits out, stubbornly, as he swings one trepidatious boot out onto the ice, and then the other.
He looks about as steady on the ice as a leaning tower of Jenga — his gloved hands stretched out in front of him; his legs in an undignified half-squat; his lips pursed so tight she can see the bulge of his forehead vein under unkempt curls.
“Move those limbs, Humphrey!” Blair calls out, from the center of the rink. “You look like a zombie down with an exceptionally severe case of rigor mortis!”
“Believe me, I’m trying!” hisses Dan, as he proceeds to do a clumsy half-shuffle, half-stumble towards the white barricade that encloses the rink.
Emboldened, he takes one larger step and skids forward abruptly at a rapid velocity that he was clearly not expecting — before careening straight into the barrier with a resounding crash and landing squarely on his butt. Blair almost bursts out laughing at the comical sight.
“Don’t just stand there laughing, Waldorf!” Dan protests in petulance. “You got me into this mess, help me out here!”
Stifling another fit of giggles, she glides over to the scene of the unfortunate crash with great finesse.
After a couple more jabs at his poor form for good measure (much to Dan’s narrow-eyed annoyance), Blair instructs him to keep his eyes ahead, his torso leaning forward, and the blades of his skates angled to his body.
“Right,” mutters Dan, as he processes it all, dark brows furrowed in intense concentration.
It shouldn’t surprise her in the least, but Dan’s a quick learner. Before long, he’s making strides along the perimeter of the rink, unassisted. Not exactly…graceful, per se, but at least he’s able to glide for several seconds on end.
After a couple of spins and laps around the rink, Blair glides to an elegant rest by the barricade, just in time to witness Dan hurtle past her at full speed, gliding across the midway point of the ice.
“Didja see that?” He yells out, unable to suppress the unabashed grin spreading wide across his face. It’s like sunshine spilling out of his seams, uncontained. Blair’s ruby red lips twist in pride and amusement, quite beyond her volition.
Alas, the warmth of fulfilment rising in her chest is tragically short-lived. Pride comes before a fall, as they say, and with Dan’s small moment of triumph comes a break in his concentration and, by extension, his precarious balance on the slippery frozen surface.
“W-whoa!” With one ill-timed misplacement of his ankle, he lurches towards her, teetering off-balance. Having spent many a winter’s day out at Wollman Rink, Blair recognizes the tell-tale signs of an impending collision all too well. She braces herself for impact and only just manages to catch Dan by the elbows as he goes tumbling straight into her, which sends them both crashing into the barricade with a loud, dizzying thud.
The first thing she notices is that he’s so, so invitingly warm, and he’s pressed close to her — waaay too close. Her arms have wrapped themselves instinctively around him, encircling his surprisingly firm torso tight as his arms, likewise, cling shamelessly to her shoulders in what was a desperate attempt to break his fall.
The second thing she notices is what a lovely shade of gold his amber-flecked eyes are, under the glare of the dazzling winter sun — tiny flecks of snow clinging to his long lashes, freckles scattered across the bridge of what is an undeniably pretty nose.
They remain as if caught in a momentary, spellbound trance, lips parted and chests heaving, far too stunned to speak.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” Breaking the spell, the man hastily releases Blair‘s shoulders, staggering to the side of the rink and straightening himself against the barricade with as much dignity as he can muster. “Uh. Umm. You okay there, Waldorf?”
“Yeah, I…” Blair breathes, willing the traitorous heart within her ribcage to quit hammering inside her chest already, dammit! “I—I’m good,” she swallows, before nimbly making her swift departure towards the opposite end of the rink, far as humanly possible.
(Neither mentions the accident again that day, and it would not be brought up in conversation for at least another month or so.)
Having returned their rental skates to the booth at last, Dan hobbles to the nearby benches overlooking the rink, much to Blair’s amusement.
“Welp, I’ve officially hit my cardio work-out quota for the year,” he lets out a long-suffering groan of relief, plopping onto the wooden bench opposite Blair. “Might’ve pulled a muscle on that last fall.”
“Good thing 2011 is only a little over a week away,” Blair teases, in a sing-song lilt. She opens her mouth, all but intending to poke a little more fun at the boy when a loud buzz from her cellphone catches both their attention.
It’s a new blast from Gossip Girl. Of course. No such thing as a vacation for the nosy blogger when scandals and rumours are an evergreen, year-round affair.
Spotted: Chuck Bass cozying up to Elle Macpherson and Paris Hilton at the Red Rose Foundation Gala in Brisbane. Looks like our local playboy billionaire is making more than waves in the land down under.
The real question is: Is Chucky B seeking out his next investor…or his next conquest? Given his reputation, mate, we certainly won’t be surprised if it turns out to be both!
XOXO, Gossip Girl
She sets her phone back down on the wooden table with a dull clatter. It feels like all the joy and carefree laughter of the past few hours have all but faded into oblivion; like all the air has been sucked clean out of her lungs.
What on earth was she even doing here, wasting her precious time? She was supposed to be scoring a prestigious internship by now, to prove herself worthy. To prove that Blair Waldorf isn’t just a name, it’s…a legacy. To prove herself smarter and prettier and more capable and simply better than the Paris Hiltons and Elle Macphersons of the world, because…because…
“You okay there, Waldorf?” A voice from the side breaks her reverie, small and worried. Her eyes snap to his with an annoyed tut.
“I’m fine,” Blair grits out evenly, careful not to let her painstakingly curated mask slip.
“You don’t look fine,” needles Dan, a doubtful expression on his face.
She makes the grave mistake of meeting his gaze. His forlorn and genuinely worried gaze, as if he actually cares.
It’s the same look he’d given her after that disaster of a photoshoot with Serena. The same look he gave her at Dorota’s wedding, after she’d suffered the most humiliating betrayal by the hands of a man she thought had loved her the most.
Damn that Dan Humphrey and his stupid, stupid bleeding heart. He’s always seen right through every chink in her gold-plated armor, cut straight to the bone — that’s just the type of painfully earnest person he is.
“I broke up with Chuck because I felt that…I needed to be powerful on my own before I could even consider a relationship,” says Blair, gaze dropping to the ground. “I didn’t feel like myself; didn’t want to live in the shadow of Bass Industries. But the truth is that this…nebulous goal feels further and further out of my reach with every passing minute, like sand slipping right through my fingers.”
The man beside her listens intently, brows furrowed and eyes dark.
At long last, he leans forward on his knees, lips parted, and the following words fall from his mouth: “Then…don’t.”
“Don’t?” Blair glowers at him, incredulous.
“Yeah, don’t,” Dan echoes, his eyes dead serious. “You warned me not to lose myself by chasing Serena to the ends of the world. It’s high time you took your own advice.”
“Humphrey…”
“No one — least of all you — should have to ‘become powerful’ — ” Dan lifts his fingers in sarcastic air quotes to emphasise his point, “ — to deem themselves worthy of love.”
“That is not…”
“Don’t you think you deserve to be with someone you can be yourself with, without feeling like you’re never enough?” A soft sigh of resignation falls from Dan’s lips. “Someone you can move forward with, together?”
Something clicks inside of Blair, a missing piece in the puzzle of her life. But she’s not ready to acknowledge it out loud. Not quite yet.
So Blair scoffs at his words instead, shaking her head in disbelief. “It’s not that simple, Humphrey! You would see it that way, wouldn’t you?”
“Yeah, yeah,” the man duly shrugs it off with a dark chuckle. “Who am I to dole out relationship advice like candy, anyway? I’m not exactly an expert myself.”
On the horizon, the skies meet the silhouette of the towering Manhattan skyline, as twilight casts a hazy orange glow on all it touches. It’s only half past four but the sun’s already calling it a day.
The stadium lights overhead blink to life, casting its harsh artificial glow over the snowy white rink and the endless stream of incoming visitors.
“C’mon, Humphrey,” sighs Blair, rising to stand and smoothing down her skirt. “Think it’s time we headed home.”
Mother and Cyrus fly back into the city on Christmas Eve and it is a wonderful time, all things considered. Even if the lovey dovey display between her mother and her balding stepfather can get a little…nauseating at times, but…
…When every last guest of their annual winter soirée at the penthouse has left and mother and Cyrus share a tipsy slowdance to Let it Snow amidst empty wine glasses and haphazardly discarded wrapping foil, her chin resting fondly on his shoulder and giddy grins plastered wide on both their faces, Blair knows her mother is the happiest she’s ever been.
And that — is probably the greatest Christmas gift of all.
She receives a text from him the day after Christmas.
D: Hope you had a merry christmas. I don’t know if you recall but I believe you and I still had a score to settle, re: the great Chabrol and Rohmer debate.
Blair’s lips twitch up and a giddy sort of exhilaration warms her up from the tips of her fingers to the apples of her cheeks, and god does she loathe herself for it.
Chewing nervously on her lower lip, she hammers out her reply. Then lets it simmer for a good, perfectly dignified fifteen minute window before actually hitting send, so as not to appear too…eager. Or desperate. Or idle. All of the above, really.
B: Of course. How could I turn down the opportunity to prove the superiority of my taste over yours? What did you have in mind?
The reply is almost immediate, much to Blair’s delight.
D: My place tomorrow, after lunch? The Green Ray and La Cérémonie, back to back. And I’ve got other DVDs lined up too, should one be inclined to seek a rematch
She taps out her response on her Blackberry; swift thumbs over the smooth keypad, too full of anticipation to demonstrate any modicum of restraint.
B: You’re on
“I cannot believe I let you convince me into a movie marathon in Brooklyn, of all places,” Blair wrinkles her nose upon entering the Humphrey loft, before fastidiously hanging her trench coat at the door.
It’s decked out in a homely Yuletide manner, as predictably expected of a Humphrey-style abode. A modest little fir tree in the corner of the living room — shiny tinsel and garlands twined round it; mismatched baubles and ornaments dangling from its branches, no doubt collected over the years and retrieved from hibernation from the exact same box in storage each year. And last but not least, a cherubic angel — gilded wings spread wide at the very top of the tree, the paint peeling and worn at the edges from bygone years.
Season’s greetings cards from family friends are on full display, pinned to the cork noticeboard next to faded childhood photos and hastily scribbled to-do lists.
It feels like love — the cheesy, sentimental type that one would be totally embarrassed to be showered in public with — is written into every nook and crevice of this cluttered yet cosy apartment.
The kind of family love that Blair wishes she’d grown up with, but would sooner perish than admit.
“We’ve got the movies, the popcorn, the loft to ourselves,” protests Dan with a shrug of his shoulders, bringing out a huge bowl of freshly microwaved popcorn and setting it upon the kitchen island countertop. “Besides, neither of their films are playing in the theaters, so…let it be known that it’s not for the lack of trying.”
“Fiiine,” she puts on a huge show of feigned exasperation, before making herself comfortable on the kitchen stool, opposite Dan.
As Dan busies himself mixing up a batch of the infamous Humphrey holiday punch (self-proclaimed), it doesn’t take Blair long to realise that there’s a somewhat miserable-looking sprig of mistletoe hovering above their heads, secured tenuously to the ceiling lamp with a rustic ribbon of twine.
The little upwards glance she sneaks does not go unnoticed by Dan.
“Y’know, mistletoe’s a parasitic plant that steals water and nutrients from the host tree it lives upon,” he says, pouring out the punch into bright red paper cups. “The name comes from the Anglo-Saxon words mistle and tan, which uh — well, literally means dung on a twig.”
“Charming,” Blair’s face scrunches up in a scowl of distaste; elbows propped on the counter and chin cupped in her hands.
“I know, right?” Dan lets out a soft chuckle, sliding one paper cup gently before her. “The irony of it all is exactly why Dad loves hanging that old thing up there, year after year.”
She lifts the paper cup to her mouth for a sip, a half-smile dangling from her lips. It’s tart and fizzy from cranberries, champagne and cider. Delightfully light on the palate, akin to a good Sangria. Damn, Humphrey’s good. It’s probably all that practice he got as a cater waiter last year…
He arches a single brow in a silent question, a tiny smirk tugging on his lips. His too soft, too pink lips…
“It’s…decent,” Blair confesses, indents left near the rim of the paper cup as a result of her biting down to suppress the unholy thoughts of Dan Humphrey’s wet and cranberry-stained lips, of all things….
“Should I get the movie going?” Another smile, warm and boyishly handsome and far, far too endearing. Good lord. Was the punch getting to her already? A potent concoction indeed.
“Hold on,” says Blair, extracting a dossier from her handbag and setting it down on the countertop.
His eyes widen by just a fraction. “What’s this?”
“My mother told me she’s on the hunt for an intern,” Blair explains, matter-of-factly. “I’m not exactly thrilled to work for her in the least, but…I don’t suppose little J would mind?”
“Jenny? Uh. But the last time she worked for Eleanor…”
“I know. Things got a little out of hand, but,” Blair swallows her pride down, bitter as it was, to utter the next words. “Mother knows she has the potential. I took the liberty of sending little Humphrey’s portfolio to her. Hope Jenny doesn’t mind — naturally, the decision is entirely up to her.”
Dan’s jaw goes slack in sheer disbelief. “You…what?”
“I believe the words you’re looking for are — thank you?” She feels her eyelid twitch in annoyance.
“I just — it’s a little unexpected, is all,” he breathes, flipping through the dossier. His gaze is dark and unreadable and she can’t tell if he’s touched or insulted by this sudden act of charity. Maybe it’s a little bit of both.
“For what it’s worth,” says Blair, staring at the cup in her hands. “I regret it. The exile, sabotaging her Tim Gunn interview. I was looking for a scapegoat. Someone, anyone to blame for my ex-boyfriend’s shitty behavior. And Jenny was…well, Jenny was there.”
“Well,” Dan swallows, pursing his lips. “That’s a start.”
The awkward silence hangs heavy in the air, like someone accidentally hit pause on their Michael Bublé’s Greatest Holiday Hits playlist.
Then — slowly, but surely — Dan whirrs back to life. He bends down to retrieve something from the drawers below, then sets it atop the counter with a shy, sheepish smile.
A box — wrapped in silver foil that’s neither loud nor gaudy, a dark emerald ribbon tied around it. A subtle, understated sort of chic. It’s almost as if Dan Humphrey has been quietly observing and filing away what she likes and what she doesn’t, from the sidelines. How else could he have developed taste as refined as this, seemingly overnight?
“It’s for you,” he prods, gaze averted and lower lip caught between his teeth, thoroughly and utterly embarrassed. “Aren’t you gonna open it?”
It’s certainly no easy feat to render Blair Waldorf speechless, but it seems that Dan Humphrey has somehow accomplished it. She blinks back at him, still in utter shock at receiving a Christmas gift from the last person she’d expected to.
“Look, it’s not a prank, I promise…”
Eyes narrowed in suspicion, she rips off the silvery paper, unceremoniously. Beneath a layer of gift wrap lies a gleaming mahogany box, clear glass encased in the lid.
Blair clicks the gilded latch open and all is revealed: it’s a music box, depicting the dreamy scenes of a winter wonderland on the inside — pine trees along snowy slopes, log cabins all around and in the middle of it all, an ice rink with tiny little skater figurines on its painted surface.
She spots the tiny golden key mechanism nestled in the side of the box and hurriedly winds it up. The familiar lilting melody of La Vie En Rose fills the room, transporting them instantly back to another era; another place; another world altogether.
“La Vie En Rose…” Blair breathes, marveling at the tiny skaters as they dance and frolic across the surface of the ice, carefree and oh so joyful.
“That one’s you,” chuckles Dan, gesturing to the skater that’s hogging the center of the rink with her arms raised in a pirouette, clearly showing off her moves.
Blair lets out a gasp of mock affrontment and flicks one of the skaters off their magnetised feet, the one with the silly hair and big woolly scarf. “And that one’s you,” she declares, unable to stifle the stupid grin that spreads wide across her face.
They both stare in wordless, childlike awe at the miniature winter wonderland brought to life before their eyes, until the soothing tinkle of the music ebbs away.
The realisation only hits after the melody fades: they’re leaning towards the other over the counter — too close for friends, too distant for lovers. Her eyes flick up to his and the immediate flush rising in his cheeks is all too apparent.
“Yeah, I — umm,” stammers Dan, straightening himself with an awkward clearing of his throat. “It’s just that I’d gotten a Bergdorf’s gift card in Lily’s Christmas hamper, and…I — I couldn’t exactly let it go to waste, so — ”
“But — I didn’t get you anything,” Blair frowns, running her finger morosely along the smooth lid of the music box.
Then she recalls the mistletoe, dangling just overhead.
She thinks of signs bestowed from the universe itself and this…guy who’d once told her that ignoring these signs simply because you’re afraid of what they’re signalling you to do only makes one a coward.
He’s the guy who always seems to give exactly the advice she most desperately needs to hear, with those goddamn earnest eyes of a soul that has yet to be fully corrupted by the twisted world of the Upper East Side.
The guy who’d once reassured her, without a second thought, that she deserves to be with someone who makes her happy. Someone who didn’t prioritize a piece of property or an absent parent’s thoughtless words over her. Someone who didn’t callously break her heart, over and over and over again even after she had promised him her everything.
And the truth of the matter is, really, she’s smiled and giggled and laughed out loud more in the past couple of weeks than she has in such an awfully long time.
She’s at peace with herself. Looking forward to their next movie; the next time they have coffee. Looking forward to the future.
Perhaps it’s the inexplicable magic of Christmas. Twinkling fairy lights and fresh snowflakes drifting lazily from the skies above — blanketing all it touches in a pristine layer of hope, of optimism for the year ahead.
‘Tis the season to usher in new beginnings…right?
Non, je ne regrette rien…
“Close your eyes, Humphrey,” commands Blair, barely above a whisper.
“Uh. I — I’m sorry, what?”
“Turns out I have a gift for you after all,” her lips twitch up in a suggestive smile. Arching one perfect brow, Blair jerks her chin up at the mistletoe dangling above them, as if it was abundantly self-explanatory.
“Oh, no, no, no,” the man raises his hands up in protest, his mouth in a mortified ring of shock, his eyes wide and frantic. “I mean, who even does that anymore…”
“Just do it already,” she snaps, “before I change my mind!”
“R-right,” he echoes, leaning in; half-lidded gaze already softening. Clearly, not putting up much of a fight.
She leans over the counter, lets her eyelids flutter close as her hand instinctively seeks out the warmth of the beating heart underneath his chest.
A soft sigh of pent-up longing escapes him, gentle as a breeze. His eyes, too, fall shut, and in the moments before their warm lips meet at last his breath is hot against her lips, sweet and intoxicatingly laced with liquor.
The kiss is soft, a little uncertain. Her soul feels laid bare, more vulnerable than she’s allowed herself to be for such a long time and yet somehow…it is — freeing.
Blair’s heart thuds painfully against her ribcage as she pulls away, fingertips lingering wistfully on the collar of his shirt. She’s not entirely sure what she was expecting but she hadn’t quite anticipated there to be this much…fluttering, in the pits of her stomach.
“Huh,” Dan breathes out, letting out a dazed half-chuckle between slightly parted lips. “What, uh, what’s the return policy on these things, anyway?”
A roll of the eyes; a groan of frustration. Trust Brooklyn to completely ruin the mood at a time like this! “You can’t return a kiss after you’ve already received it, Humphrey!” Blair huffs, in a bid to hide how flustered she was.
“Well. I beg to differ,” the man mutters, promptly reaching around the counter, cradling the back of her head this time — silken strands of hair and all — capturing her lips once more.
She melts into it, more than eager to deepen the kiss. Laces her arms behind his neck, unable to suppress the soft little moan of pleasure that slips from her throat as they taste the other on their tongues with insistent fervour.
Oh, fuck her upside down and inside out. Humphrey tastes good. And he’s an excellent kisser. Who would’ve thought?
They pull apart for air at last, chests heaving, eyelids heavy. Perhaps they’ve both come to the inevitable conclusion that if things got any more heated than they already were, they’d never get any movie-watching done.
A devilish smile dances on Blair’s crimson lips, full of insinuation. “Does this mean you’ll watch the Merchant Ivory Retrospective with me?” she teases, eyes twinkling.
“Mmm. Only if you’ll come with to the Joseph Beuys exhibit in Chelsea.”
“Not a chance,” she murmurs, as she trails her finger along the faded hem of his plaid shirt.
Dan chuckles at that, head thrown back. “Merry Christmas, Waldorf,” he whispers, lifting his bright red paper cup in a belated toast.
She grins, wide and warm; knocks her cup against his with a giggle. “Merry Christmas, indeed.”