One of the many things he finds interesting in this new found not-friendship they develop is how quickly they fall into small habits.
He always buys the popcorn and puts too much butter "My fingers are always greasy after, Humphrey. You're disgusting."
"No one is forcing you to eat the thing, Waldorf."
They always seem to find their way to his loft after every movie, engrossed in discussion and he swears he's never seem Blair Waldorf walk the streets of Wiliamsburg so freely.
He's not even sure she notices it.
If movie night happens to be at the loft (in which they never schedule but ends up being religiously on Thursdays) they always order pizza and she's tasked with the toppings. He notices he's eating a lot more of gourmet lately, or whatever the hell gourmet is. He's not sure, but he'll be dead before he asks her.
They get the habit of always telling the truth.
"You shouldn't let Chuck Bass define what your life should be, Blair."
"And you shouldn't let Serena Van Der Woodsen snap her fingers and you're there with your tail wagging."
Her tone is sharper than his, but he starts to notice is not meant to hurt anymore. It borders on exasperation, actually.
As if she knew he could do better.
He was certain that she could. What he didn't know still was when he started caring about her happiness so much.
It doesn't even begin as a request, once he gets his groove back and golden hair no longer clouds his thoughts and judgment, his mind grants him access to deeper things once more.
The first he sends on an e-mail at 2AM, needing to at least have her receive it as soon as he had finished it. He was surprised when the reply came at 2:30AM.
"You still ramble way too much Humphrey, but this is passable. It's thoughtful and insightful. But you did not hear that from me. What was the inspiration for this?"
In the back of his mind he feels like he knows he got it after a road trip and a reality check inside his father's car ("You're a writer! When was the last time you wrote something?").
He doesn't tell her that.
He replies that it's natural talent and Dan practically imagines the scoff that comes out as soon as she reads it.
She doesn't reply that night.
He has two tickets for a Fellini marathon on a Saturday afternoon at the Walter Reade. 'La Strada', 'Nights of Cabiria' and 'La Dolce Vita' are on queue.
On Thursday night she says yes, agrees to pay for the popcorn this time. He says that it doesn't even begin to cover for the money he had spent on her ticket or all the times he bought the popcorn before. He doesn't realize the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he types this. She ignores him.
On Saturday morning he wakes up with a text "Something came up. Can't make it. Sorry."
The smile from two days prior turns into a frown. He says "yeah, no problem." But something nags at him in the back of his head. He doesn't go to the screenings but he keeps her ticket. The nagging turns to concern after it's Tuesday and he hasn't heard anything from her in three days.
Dan arrives at the penthouse in the early evening, Dorota gives him a pointed look and he heads upstairs.
"What are you doing here?" Her tone doesn't bite. It's soft, low. She's behind her covers, silk velvet robe covering her shoulders and arms. Dan looks at her and has no idea that this would be the last time he would not say anything about Blair's red, swollen eyes. He sighs. Three days of this, at least.
They need to change that.
"I've come bearing gifts."
He lifts his arms up, one bag in each hand.
He chuckles "If you don't go to Fellini, Fellini comes to you."
Dan approaches her bed, notices how her big brown eyes follow his steps. He puts the bags down, pulls out three DVDs from one of them. His personal collection, containing the movies they were gonna watch it on Saturday. They could easily watch them on Netflix, but it's not nearly as special.
Her smile begins to reach her eyes, and Dan breathes again. He also pulls out a copy of the current issue of the' 'New Yorker', his latest piece published. He leaves it at her nightstand, doesn't say anything else.
From the other bag there's macaronis of at least five different colors. He shakes his head and tries to hide his grin when her eyes light up. He takes out one last item "Mind if I use your microwave?" He shows the popcorn to her and she makes a point to roll her eyes "If you must."
Dan goes downstairs and Dorota helps him fetch a large enough bowl for two to eat it from. He doesn't want to dwell too much in what he thinks it's an appreciative expression from Dorota when she says "Have nice night, Mr. Humphrey."
Once he's back in her bedroom, Blair has already put Nights of Cabiria on and was back in bed, remote in one hand and macaroni in the other.
"What time did you leave Brooklyn? Isn't traffic supposed to be hellish at this hour?" Blair questions, takes a bite of her sweet, but Dan can see her sniffing the popcorn. He takes off his shoes and scoots next to her, over the covers.
Dan laughs "Just play the movie, Waldorf."
Their shoulders touch and Dan briefly ponders how much this is a far cry from the Blair-imposed two seat rule from a few months prior.
The opening credits aren't even over yet and she's already reaching for the popcorn, eyes on the screen. He leans the bowl to her side a bit.
"Dorota didn't have butter, sorry."
"You should be relieved. I'm sure your writer's earnings are still not enough to pay for these sheets if you were to ever grease them, Humphrey. You'd probably have to sell that loft of yours. Popcorn is fine this way."
He catches the habit of just shaking his head and laugh silently to himself at these types of antics now.
Dan is not sure when it starts, but he hears a light whimper by his side when Cabiria pleads to the Virgin Mary for a better life, surrounded by devouts and her non-believers friends.
He looks down and something tugs inside when he sees tears quietly streaking down her face. It's a ridiculous statement that he has known since he first saw her, before she even knew he existed, but Blair is beautiful.
There hasn't been a moment since then he has wavered on that thought. Even when they hated each other, schemed together and against one another, or when Blair "exiled" his sister, that sentiment was still there.
Now, at her most vulnerable, Dan finds her enchanting. Seeing a mask fall and break as if it made of porcelain, right beside him, brings up conflicting thoughts. For one he's glad she seems comfortable enough to lean against him and continue to let the tears fall; it could be just about the movie.
He finds it hard to believe that last part.
On the other hand, he wants to make this stop. Her hurt to cease. He dares touch her hand as Giulietta Massina explodes with charisma on screen "Hey."
He feels her stiffen under his touch, her skin cold. She doesn't look up at him "Wanna talk about it?"
She answers but doesn't make a move to remove his hand from hers. He chooses to leave it there. The movie ends and he gets up to change it. Once he returns she takes the initiative and leans against his shoulder.
Dan swallows, focus on the screen in front.
By the time the third movie ends, there's no discussion of plot or Fellini's cultural relevance in the 50's and today.
It's about 3AM when he wakes, neck cranked in a position not fit for a human body. The lights are still on, as is the TV.
Blair is curled to the other side, duvet up to her eyes.
He reaches the joint bathroom and does his business, eyes still heavy with sleep. Upon his return he moves the bags and the bowl from the bed to a nearby table, turns off the TV and lights. Only a small lamp by Blair's side remains on, dim.
He spends a few minutes by the side of the bed, overthinking his next step. He could easily pass through the bathroom and sleep on Serena's room, but he remembers Blair mentioning that it's kept closed if Serena is not there.
As much as Blair loves calling him a pauper and/or labrador, he doesn't find it enticing the prospect of sleeping on the floor. Her bed is big enough. Big enough to fit at least three Blairs, he rationalizes. So it fits at least one of him.
He slides on top of the duvet, rests his head on a pillow and closes his eyes. Seconds later there's a shift on the bed and the weight of an arm across his stomach, as Blair turns and snuggles closer, head near his torso.
Dan forgets how to breathe for a moment.
The minutes pass and his attention are on Blair's light motions as she sleeps, the tiny twitches of her eyes, a low snore.
He hopes she's not having nightmares.
When he starts to drift off as well, he feels the smell of coconut shampoo and when he's gone, he dreams of palm trees, long brown hair and doe eyes.
