Archive of Our Own

49 DAYS BEFORE

The words Leggings: They’re Not Just for the Gym! blink in black and white on the computer screen, casting a sickly bluish hue across Lydia’s face. She does indeed feel a bit sick, having spent the whole day daydreaming about the table for two at Le Bernardin that her boyfriend has reserved, only to be jolted back to reality by Cinthia from Commercial.

Weeks ago, it seemed like a great idea to pair her article on athleisure with the Adidas by Stella McCartney full-page ad. What she didn’t realize at the time was that recommending the Lululemon Astro Pants right next to a model wearing a blue set and a zip-up jacket that looks more like a trash bag than anything else was a serious placement error. A refund-demanding, getting-fired type of error, according to Cinthia herself.

Lydia isn’t a crier. In fact, the last time she cried was when she received her Parsons acceptance letter. But she could very well cry right now, if she had the time for it, that is. Racing against the tick-tock of the clock, she works on buffer content to be placed between the two pages as her boyfriend’s first call of the night goes missed.

“Go,” Gabrielle—or Yale’s Blair, as one person would know her—says. “I can finish that for you.”

“Are you sure? I still haven’t—”

“Just go, Lydia. Just send me a picture of the ring before anyone else sees it on Monday.”

Lydia nods, gathering her things at lightning speed.

From across the bullpen, Epperly lifts her head from her own disaster mitigation, eyes zeroing in on Lydia. “Where are you going? Got somewhere more important to be?”

Like a deer caught in headlights, Lydia freezes, her eyes doubling in size.

“I’m sorry,” she says apologetically, “but if I don’t leave, like, now, I’ll miss my own surprise engagement dinner.”

And with that, she bolts.

Epperly doesn’t even get the satisfaction of scolding her, having to settle for muttering something about how they don’t make interns like they used to.

“We’re swamped. We can’t do everything,” one of them says defensively.

“Who’s they?” another shoots back.

46 DAYS BEFORE

That’s how, on a cold February Monday morning, Dan and Blair find themselves back at W. Epperly rehired them, citing “desperation” and “you’re both weirdly effective, so shut up and work.”

“I see they’re letting just anyone in these days,” Blair says from her desk, not looking up from her copy of L’Officiel.

“Only the best,” Dan replies, dropping his battered messenger bag onto the desk across from hers, which is, once again, his. “Guess that’s why you’re here too.”

Miriam May—Princeton’s Blair—leans toward Vivian—Penn’s Blair—with a roll of her eyes. “I thought we’d be rid of their weird flirting by now. Couldn’t they just do it and get over it like normal people?”

“Wait, you think they’re into each other?”

“Don’t you?”

“God, no. They’d be way less weird about it if they were.”

At around 1 p.m., Lydia corrals the interns to Ma Pêche for a working lunch, which is really just an excuse for her to flash her brand-new engagement ring, a two-carat cushion-cut set on an 18k rose-gold band, in exchange for loud oohs and ahhs.

Blair spots Dan as soon as she arrives, hunched over the table and engaged in an animated conversation with Gabrielle, far too comfortable for her liking.

It’s not that she wants to sit with him. In fact, Blair had planned on ditching the entire thing and having lunch at the office, discussing Bauhaus with Humphrey. Humphrey, however, didn’t seem to get the memo that he wasn’t supposed to mingle with the lesser Blairs.

She isn’t going to sit with him. Obviously not.

She just… happens to have nowhere else to sit.

So she stops at the end of the table, right between him and Gabrielle, without sparing the girl so much as a glance.

“I’m assuming you saved the intelligent part of the conversation for after I arrived.”

Dan looks up, mildly surprised. “Waldorf. Decided to grace us with your presence?”

Blair smiles at him, all fake, as she shoos Gabrielle to the nearest empty seat. “Well, a girl can’t live on coffee and deadlines alone. Trust me, I’ve tried.”

Dan quirks a brow. “And naturally, you chose to sit right beside me.”

“I’m in a charitable mood.”

“You always are when you want to steal my food.”

Across the table, Miriam May elbows Vivian. “See,” she says. “There’s definitely something going on between them.”

“Well, maybe the banter is their flirting.”

44 DAYS BEFORE

It hasn't been even half an hour since Epperly came back from the lineup meeting, and Vivian is already pitching an idea for a feature to her, a mood board assembled in record time, tape still curled at the corners.

“For DKNY, I was thinking ‘Life of a Working Woman Who Moves Through the City,’” she says, pointing to the model walking under scaffolding, left hand running through her flawless model hair.

“I’m sorry, is that Arial?” Blair asks from her desk, eyes squinting.

“Maybe? I used the company-approved—”

“You can’t possibly be suggesting something this trite for an article about someone who revolutionized fashion for the modern woman.”

“Oh, please,” Dan rolls his eyes. “And what do you suggest?”

“Baskerville,” Blair says crisply. “It’s a font with heritage. It implies taste. Refinement.”

“Yes, because nothing says modern fashion quite like a font from the 1700s.”

“Do you have a better idea, by any chance, Humphrey?”

“Obviously,” he says matter-of-factly. “Helvetica.”

“You are so predictable. Where’s your imagination? No wonder you can’t write a story unless it’s heavily inspired by your own life.”

“Helvetica is clean. It gets out of the way and lets the words speak. Not that I’d expect you to understand the power of subtlety.”

Vivian looks wide-eyed from one to the other, as if watching a tennis match.

“Are we third-wheeling right now?” she whispers to Lydia.

“They’ve either already slept together or they’re five minutes from doing it on her desk. Either-slash-or.”

Miriam May clamps a hand over Lydia’s mouth, silencing her.

“Shhh,” she says. “This is better than The O.C.”

38 DAYS BEFORE

From the corner of her eye, Miriam May can see Dan as he settles himself right behind Blair, his hand easily catching the plastic box she is too short to reach.

She can see, just as well, how Blair’s eyes follow the stretch of his arms; how, when she turns to him, her smile is only half fake, her look ready to only wound, not kill.

“I hope you’re not expecting a thank you,” Blair says.

“From you? Never.”

His smile doesn’t falter and, looking at her, he licks his lips.

Blair opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. She clearly has no comeback in mind. In fact, she has very little on her mind at the moment.

The click-clack of Epperly’s heels hitting the vinyl floor wakes her from her trance, just in time to see Epperly herself point at Dan, bringing all eyes to him.

“7 a.m. at the DKNY office tomorrow. Donna will give you five minutes.”

“That’s not fair,” Blair complains. “You already gave him two features.”

“Well, he’s the writer in the group. And, so far, the only one among you who has proved to me that knows how to use em dashes correctly.”

“But—he’s wearing those shoes unironically!”

Epperly tilts her head, analyzes them. “Good point. You’re going with him.”

Blair turns back to Dan, ready to gloat, but finds him smiling at her. She blinks, trying to understand why it seems like he’s enjoying this.

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

Blair forcefully grabs the plastic box from his hand and returns to her desk, and Dan grins like he’s just won something.

36 DAYS BEFORE

Gabrielle is not a morning person. She isn’t even an 11:00 a.m. person, but the promise of free bagels in the office kitchen makes her mildly more tolerable. That, and the hope that Dan will make the delicious coffee he often uses to get into Epperly’s good graces.

“Thank you, by the way,” she tells him as he operates the coffee machine. “You’re saving everyone in the office from the grumpiest intern on earth.”

He gives her a lopsided smile, boyish charm pouring from him. “You’re not that bad.”

The truth is, she has been eyeing Dan for a long time—since he arrived at the office, actually. As one of the few straight, handsome men in the entire building, he caught her attention from the start. And the fact that he spent a good part of their lunch break two weeks ago listening to her talk about her defunct MetroCards collection only solidified her crush.

She is just about to flirtatiously bat her eyelashes at him when Blair Waldorf walks in, wearing something that looks suspiciously like couture, and snatches the last cinnamon-raisin bagel from the box.

And just like that, it’s as if Gabrielle isn’t even there.

Dan turns to Blair, arms folded. “You’re kidding,” he deadpans.

“Survival of the fittest, Humphrey,” she says with a saccharine smile.

“You don’t even like raisins.”

“True, but I do love your face when you don’t get what you want.”

She takes a bite, eyes glinting. The victory is short-lived, though. As soon as the bagel touches her lips and she tastes the raisins, her mouth purses in pure disgust.

Before Dan can say anything, she shoves the pastry into his chest.

“Whatever. You can have it. I already had breakfast anyway.”

Gabrielle can’t help but notice how, as Blair leaves, Dan takes a bite of the bagel exactly where Blair’s mouth had been just seconds earlier.

The coffee machine lights up, completely forgotten.

31 DAYS BEFORE

Disaster strikes at six thirty-five, when Miriam May finds the floor-length green dress loaned for the cover photoshoot wrinkled on her desk. She is a little late due to her coffee detour, needing something to keep her awake for the long day, and those five minutes are probably going to cost her life now.

Because, well, Epperly is definitely going to kill her.

She has been nagging Epperly for days, assuring her she can be trusted with arranging the perfect outfit for the cover shoot. She had to pull so many strings to get this dress on time, only for it to show up a complete mess.

“What the fuck,” Vivian exclaims as she sees the gown, haphazardly thrown onto the desk. “Who the fuck would do that to a Marchesa?”

“I’m so fucked.” Miriam May wants to cry so badly she doesn’t know whether it’s from anger or sadness. “It’s over for me, Viv. For real. Epperly is going to kill me. Like, literally kill me.”

“Maybe you can get another one?”

“Yeah, I’m just going to call Georgina Chapman and ask her for another dress. Any movie pitches for Harvey while I’m at it?”

“Ouch.” Vivian recoils. “I didn’t lose the best shag I had in months breaking into Tara’s phone to be treated like that.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m so grateful to you, you know that,” Miriam May says, grabbing Vivian by the shoulders affectionately. “It’s just—I’m so fucked.”

“Okay, calm down. We have time. Epperly only arrives at seven. We just have to come up with something.”

Miriam May sits down, trying not to let defeat take over. “Tara is overseeing wardrobe for the shoot, and she’s definitely not helping me.”

“But that means she won’t be supervising the fashion closet, and there are going to be a lot of people getting in and out to grab samples today...”

A spark of hope bubbles up.

“Go on,” Miriam May says.

“I know where the steamers are. I can grab one, and you can fix it in no time.”

“Would you do that for me? You’d be saving my life.”

“And that’s twice so far.”

That’s how Miriam May ends up crouched behind the printer, her knees red and angry, the steamer working full time to iron the dress back to perfection. And if she happens to overhear every conversation happening in the vicinity, where the vending machines are, she simply can’t help it.

“Of course you were rooting for Eisenberg,” Blair says. “He played the socially clueless, jealous guy who ends up getting uber rich. Just remember that lightning doesn’t tend to strike twice, Humphrey.”

“Come on, he was fantastic. You said he was charming when we went to see it!”

“No, I said he was more charming and likable than Zuckerberg could ever be. That movie was loser propaganda.”

There is a brief silence before Miriam May hears Blair’s voice again.

“Don’t get that. I hate those,” she hears.

“That’s not going to be a problem, because I’m not giving you any.” The vending machine screeches, rolling out what Miriam May assumes is some type of sugary drink. “I can’t believe you actually agree with Colin Firth getting it.”

“Of course not. I was rooting for Bardem. But everyone knew it was going to be Firth anyway.”

The sound of a can being opened confirms Miriam May’s suspicions, and is quickly followed by Blair talking once again.

“Hurry up,” she says. “Epperly said we’re starting in ten.”

As Miriam May hears them leaving, she can’t help thinking it isn’t a question of if they’re going to hook up, just a question of when.

28 DAYS BEFORE

It’s a truth universally acknowledged that the Upper East Side is exceptionally good at three things: brunch, betrayal, and obsessing over the love lives of others. So it’s no surprise that, by the end of the week, Blair and Dan’s oddly rhythmic bickering is the talk of the office.

“He let her take credit for a pitch. That’s foreplay,” Justine in Marketing says.

“I saw her adjusting his collar at the Valentine’s Day party,” Terry from HR remembers. “And he actually blushed.”

“He brought her lunch. Twice,” Zoe from Finance chimes in.

“Did you see them fighting over Pantone swatches? They were eye-fucking over Indigo Bunting,” Eli in Arts gossips.

John-Paul in Design notes, “They’ve been into each other since they started here.”

“The tension in that font meeting? Erotic,” Lydia remarks.

“True. No one argues about serif that much without wanting to hook up,” Vivian adds.

25 DAYS BEFORE

As Dan rolls up his sleeves to force open the jammed printer, Yolanda from Accessories approaches him.

“Is it true what they’re saying?” she asks, leaning against the wall and trying to catch a glimpse of his forearms.

“I don’t know. What are they saying?”

“That Blair has you whipped.”

Dan stops, slowly lifting his head to look at her. “What? No. We barely tolerate each other.”

“Right. That’s why you were feeding her M&Ms during the Garden of Eden photoshoot.”

Dan blinks.

“She only likes the green ones.”

23 DAYS BEFORE

Blair sits on the floor, knees bent, organizing a shoe wall while Dan accuses her of hiding his notes on the Donna Karan feature.

“Check the recycling bin,” Blair says sweetly. “That’s where I usually toss things with no substance.”

“You look terrifying,” he says, stepping into her line of vision. “More than usual, I mean. Did someone mislabel a Manolo again?”

She sighs and pretends to pick up some lint from her pristine skirt before answering.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t catch a vibe.”

“What vibe?” He leans closer. “From whom?”

“Everyone!” She throws her hands up, exasperated. “It’s like they’re watching us. I’m starting to feel like an animal in a zoo.”

“Shouldn’t you be used to it? Considering, you know… Gossip Girl.”

“No, this is something else. Something far more sinister.”

Dan squints at her.

“You’re, like, deeply, clinically, unchill.”

18 DAYS BEFORE

Blair is feuding with the jammed printer in So Kates, something no human actually does. Andy from IT eventually figured out that humidity is the culprit for causing the pages to stick together, but where it came from is still very much a mystery.

So when she is finally able to pick up the pages from her article A Tale of Two Islands, about the difference between the styles of the Upper East Side and Brooklyn—not inspired by anything, before anyone asks—something is stuck to them, a forgotten sheet of paper.

“You won't believe what I just found.” Blair’s voice cuts through the silent, almost empty bullpen. She holds the single sheet of paper between her thumb and forefinger as if it is contaminated.

Dan looks up from his computer, his brow furrowed. “What’s wrong? Is someone launching another item with a mustache motif? Perhaps, a coffee mug?”

“Worse.” She strides over to his desk, her heels tapping a staccato rhythm of pure indignation. She thrusts the paper under his nose. “Read it.”

Dan leans in, taking the sheet. A faint, incredulous smile touches his lips.

“Is this a betting pool?” he says.

Dan edits her drafts harshly and she actually accepts his notes — Linda, Features Editor.

She corrects his grammar in the margins and he corrects her thesis in the body — Margot, Copy Chief.

They argued about André Leon Talley and forgot the rest of us were in the room — Ethan, Senior Editor.

He says “Waldorf” like it’s an insult, but he’s always smiling — Tess, Fashion Assistant.

She claims she can’t stand him, yet somehow ends up seated beside him at every meeting — Caroline, Market Editor.

When another girl laughs at his joke, Blair goes glacial — Avery, Beauty Editor.

They bicker in the elevator but go quiet when the doors open — Sam, Art Director.

He pretends not to care whether she’s coming to drinks, but checks the door every time it opens — Julia, Publisher’s Assistant.

She once brushed lint off his sleeve mid-argument and didn’t even realize she had done it — Chris, Accounts Payable.

They lean in when they fight — Raul, Creative Director.

He knows her delivery order by heart — Kevin Wei, Dim Sum Sam.

Dan nods slowly. “Our coworkers are all… waiting for us to hook up like it’s The Bachelor?”

“This is absurd,” Blair states, pacing a tight line in front of his desk. “It’s unprofessional. It’s… reductive.”

“It’s also kind of funny,” Dan says, still staring at the list. He points. “Look, Judith has it after hours on print day. She put down fifty bucks.”

“This isn’t funny! It’s an invasion of privacy! It reduces a complex professional… rivalry… to office gossip fodder!” Her voice rises, but it lacks its usual razor edge. It sounds thin, almost strained.

Dan finally looks up at her. He leans back, the old office chair creaking under his weight. 

“Is that what we are?” he asks, his voice quieter now. “A complex professional rivalry?”

Blair stops pacing. She can feel the weight of his gaze, the intensity of it. It is the same look he gets when he is piecing together a tricky paragraph, but it is focused entirely on her now, dissecting her.

“What else would we be?” she counters.

He doesn’t answer.

“Well,” she says, forcing a brittle laugh that echoes too loudly, “they’re all going to lose their money. Hilariously.”

“Obviously,” Dan agrees, his tone matching hers in its forced lightness.

His eyes trace the line of her jaw, the tense set of her shoulders, the rapid pulse fluttering at the base of her throat.

15 DAYS BEFORE

Blair walks into the supply room at W only to find Dan already there, holding a notepad and chewing on the tip of a pen.

She freezes. “Are you following me?”

“Oh right. I planned to be in a room that smells like toner with you.”

“Careful, Humphrey. That sounded dangerously close to flirting. I’m going to start thinking you put some money on that bet as well.”

“Careful, Waldorf. You sound disappointed I didn’t.”

It could happen right then.

But Blair rolls her eyes and walks past him, brushing his arm just so.

11 DAYS BEFORE

Two hours after the official end of the workday, the W magazine offices are a ghost town of half-lit monitors and abandoned coffee cups. The only sounds are the low hum of the HVAC and the rapid, annoyed click of Blair’s keyboard.

“Your lead is pedestrian,” she declares, not looking up from her screen.

Dan, slumped in his chair at the adjacent desk, rubs his eyes. “It’s factual. The story is about the revival of the minimalist aesthetic in interior design. The headline reflects that.”

“It reflects the imagination of a baked potato.” Blair swivels to face him. “You need a hook. Something with verve. ‘The Art of Less’ or ‘Bare Walls, Big Statements.’”

“Yeah, I’m not doing that.”

“It’s style, Humphrey. Something you are tragically, chronically short on.”

He shoots her a look. “Says the woman who considers a headband a personality trait.”

Stung, Blair moves her hand to her very much headband-less head, a ghost of another life. “At least I have a trait. All you have is a concerning number of flannel shirts.”

“Why are you like this? Are you really that pissed off that they’re betting on our love life, or that they’re probably right?”

“There’s no ‘our’ love life. That’s preposterous. Can’t a woman and a man just be friends?”

“They can. But, as you’ve said countless times, we’re not friends.”

Blair opens her mouth but doesn’t say anything, too stunned to speak. She then gets up and starts filling her purse with whatever she can find: phone, lipstick, wallet, stapler, hand cream, an assortment of elastic bands.

“Where are you going? Are you not going to finish editing my article?”

“Home. It just came to me that I don’t need to stay here hearing your drivel. If I want intellectual stimulation from a man who doesn’t own a comb, I’d be much happier reading Bukowski.”

“Harsh. Accurate.”

10 DAYS BEFORE

Dan’s inbox pings at 10:41 p.m.

He replies.

He gets a reply five minutes later.

He smiles, then sets an early alarm to stop by the coffee shop she likes the next day.

9 DAYS BEFORE

Blair narrows her eyes at Dan’s outstretched hand offering her a paper cup.

“That better not be decaf.”

“I wouldn’t dare. You get scary when you’re under-caffeinated.”

She takes a sip, humor unchanged.

“You look like you want to die,” Dan says.

“I might,” Blair replies.

“Well, wait until after dessert.” Dan hands her a kraft paper box, a peace offering. “It’s panna cotta.”

4 DAYS BEFORE

“Bet you can’t get that Loewe piece by noon,” Dan says that morning.

“Bet you can’t spell Loewe without autocorrect,” Blair purrs back, flipping her hair.

“I can’t believe there’s a bet going on about our sex lives,” Blair says, breaking the script. “Of course it was orchestrated by that imbecile Gabrielle.”

“You say that as if you weren’t checking me out earlier today.”

“I was checking for signs of scoliosis. Relax.”

“Maybe we should say something,” Dan mutters, needing to break the eye contact. “You know, to put the rumors to rest.”

“What, exactly? ‘Sorry we’re hot and people have eyes?’”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

There’s a silence. And then:

“So you think I’m hot?”

THE DAY OF

After hours, the office is usually quiet. Today especially, considering the final proof of the April issue has already been approved and sent to print. The place is empty, save for one or two random people and, of course, Dan and Blair, pretending they don’t want to stay late together.

Dan looks up from his computer screen. “Do you always hover like this?”

“I’m checking for any ironic ampersands.”

“You know, if you didn’t ask me to rewrite every headline seven times, we’d actually leave before ten.”

“If I left you in charge of headlines, we’d be running a cover story called ‘Cashmere Is Cool Again.’”

“Cashmere is cool again.”

Blair sits down.

“Do you think I’m insane?” she asks softly.

“No. I like your editing. I don’t mind you demanding that I rewrite everything. It makes me a better writer.”

“No, I mean,” she pauses. “Everyone thinks we’re going to hook up.”

Dan goes back to typing, trying not to look as affected by it as he feels. “You shouldn’t worry. Some people think the moon landing is fake.”

“And the worst part,” she murmurs, ignoring him, “is that they’re probably right.”

TWO WEEKS LATER

Natalia Vodianova’s face is on nearly every newsstand in the country, gracing the cover of W Magazine while biting into a bright red apple.

But just because the April issue has gone exceptionally well doesn’t mean the work is over. On the contrary.

At the office, Blair and Dan are in a corner of the fashion closet, organizing designer bags.

Dan reaches up to grab a Dior tote from the top shelf, his sweater riding up slightly to reveal a sliver of toned stomach. Blair’s gaze flickers to it, then away, a warm flush creeping up her neck.

“You were totally staring,” he says.

“I was planning where I’m going to stab you with this stiletto if you keep talking.”

“You know, I just remembered the funniest thing.”

“Do tell, Humphrey.”

“Do you remember the betting poll?”

“Unfortunately,” she jokes, but there’s no bite to it.

“I just remembered we lost Judith fifty bucks. She had money on two Fridays ago.” He approaches her, a half smile on his face. “Right here.”

Blair becomes hyper-aware of everything: the faint, clean scent of his soap cutting through the stale office air, the way his curly hair is messy from running his hands through it, the broad line of his shoulders under that stupid, soft-looking sweater. She can see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the exact curve of his lower lip.

She wonders, with sudden, shocking clarity, what it would feel like to kiss him.

“So,” he says, his voice barely above a murmur.

Blair’s eyes soften, the defiant gleam she usually wears gone. There’s uncertainty there now, a flicker of vulnerability in its place.

“So,” she answers.

He leans forward.