untitled
dan and blair. 1920s au. 1k.
summary: The debutantes come in one after another in floaty white gowns with their pristine smiles like handmade dolls, virginal down to their slippers.
note: written for the ficathon i expect everyone to go write for. only in a separate post bc i like to keep my shit straight, u feel me.
Dan gets the job from the friend of a friend. It isn't the sort of thing he normally signs himself up for, but money is money and he's always hard up for that; the scholarship pays for his schooling but not his books, not the good coat he has to buy so he doesn't look so shabby beside his Yale classmates, not the fabric for Jenny, who has more need of the money than even him. So he takes the job – just one night in a rented suit, serving champagne to debutantes.
The night is bitingly cool and crisp, winter edging into spring. The narrow fingers of bare-branched trees silhouette against the big windows of the hall, a darkness that lurks beyond the room's fairylights and flashing diamonds. Candles glimmer from every table, giving the room a white-gold hue. All the women are beautiful and rich and glittering, the men dark inkblots beside them. The debutantes come in one after another in floaty white gowns with their pristine smiles like handmade dolls, virginal down to their slippers.
She is the last one. She would have planned it that way, wanting to make an impression, and not the fleeting kind either. She wants to eclipse the girls that came before her in their gowns with lace like ice, spring buds in their hair. She wants to be the last girl imprinted on your eyelids, he can tell just by looking at her descend the stairs slow as could be, her smile brittle and triumphant. She enjoys every eye upon her.
She certainly makes an impression on Dan.
He is meant to be circulating with the champagne but he stops dead when she steps out. Her hair is dark and glossy, threaded through with moon-bright pearls. Some girls went in for scandalous crops, their hair fluffing around their rosy faces, but not her. No, she's a traditional kind of girl, the kind of girl who'd sneer at Dan if she ever accidentally looked at him. When she dances, it's with each step precise and completely lacking in feeling.
Eventually one of the other waiters gives Dan a pointed shove and he remembers his duties, but he finds his eyes drawn back to her all night.
Passing by her once, he actually hears her voice – sharp and haughty, not bothering to be soft, "Her family lost it all, I don't see why she's even still allowed to be here –"
And his heart hardens automatically, even as his gaze finds her again and again in the crowd.
The night ends with Dan loosening his tie and mussing his hair, rebelling in his own small ways, but of course only now that he can do so without actually breaking a rule. He's going out the back, fresh dough in his pocket and illusions promptly shattered, when he hears a little hiccup and a sob.
It's the debutante, looking worse for wear, her dark hair falling around her pale, slumped shoulders. She brings a green champagne bottle to her pink mouth.
Awkwardly, Dan stops and says, "Are you sure you're supposed to be here?"
She starts and then glares at him, dark eyes narrowed. "Are you?" she shoots back venomously.
He tries hard not to roll his eyes, instead shooting a glance up and down the narrow hallway to see if someone's around to come and collect her. She's probably got friends left in the ballroom but Dan isn't interested in debutante-wrangling after a full night's work, and especially not if the socialite in question is this girl.
She continues as though he'd spoken, voiced some concern or other. "I'll have you know I had an awful night, just awful."
He can't help a little contempt then. "Yeah, looked real bad from where I was standing – in the back, holding the drinks."
She stares at him, then blinks. "Oh god, are you a waiter?" She says it like Dan lives under a log in the woods. "To think the night couldn't get any worse."
That's just about Dan's cue to exit, so he huffs a little huff of frustration and goes out on his way, but he hasn't even gotten to the exit when he hears little slippers clattering along behind him.
"Did I offend you?" she asks curiously.
"You're stunningly without tact," he tells her.
Her lips purse but she plows right along, "It's only that I simply cannot stand another minute with all those girls. Do you know what I mean? You couldn't possibly, of course. But to be surrounded by them all the time, to have them constantly tearing at you –"
"Don't your social graces set you up for that kind of thing?" Dan interrupts dryly. "Isn't that what etiquette classes are for, how to avoid backstabbing?"
"You clearly don't know anything at all," she decides. "In fact, you're mocking me, and I do hate to be mocked."
"You set the scene for it," Dan counters. Finally he gets himself outside, the night air near-stinging with coldness against his ears, his bare neck. "Are you going to follow me all the way home?"
She blinks. "Is that where you're going?"
"Customarily people return home after work," Dan says.
She gives him a cursory look, up and down, appraising him like she might if he were something she had decided to buy. "What did you say your name was?"
"I didn't," he says, "Dan Humphrey."
"Blair Waldorf," she returns, superciliousness invading the syllables without her even seeming to try. "Dan Humphrey, the night is terribly young, don't you think?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means I've got places to go, and an escort who abandoned me for another girl," she says, a hard little frown marring her face. "I'd pay you."
He balks. "Pay me? For what?"
"Escorting me," she says with impatience. "I doubt anyone noticed you, I didn't even; and you haven't got a bad sort of look to you, what do you say?"
"I say you're plumb awful at invitations."
"I'm in dire straits!" she says, only it comes out less supplication and more demand. "I've got to save face, don't you know a thing about that? And you're the only boy I've got on hand who is already in a suit and isn't in his eighties – and it'll drive Penelope just crazy to see she didn't get one over on me after all. One night, what do you say?"
Dan looks at her, the filmy shawl around white shoulder speckled with gooseflesh, the big inquiring eyes, the champagne bottle still clutched in one hand. And he thinks aw, hell because the decision has already been made for him.
"Fine," he spits. "One night, that's what I say."
She near beams, lips curling up in that hard, pleased way like when she came down the stairs. "Dan Humphrey, you've got yourself a deal."
dan and blair. 1920s au. 1k.
summary: The debutantes come in one after another in floaty white gowns with their pristine smiles like handmade dolls, virginal down to their slippers.
note: written for the ficathon i expect everyone to go write for. only in a separate post bc i like to keep my shit straight, u feel me.
Dan gets the job from the friend of a friend. It isn't the sort of thing he normally signs himself up for, but money is money and he's always hard up for that; the scholarship pays for his schooling but not his books, not the good coat he has to buy so he doesn't look so shabby beside his Yale classmates, not the fabric for Jenny, who has more need of the money than even him. So he takes the job – just one night in a rented suit, serving champagne to debutantes.
The night is bitingly cool and crisp, winter edging into spring. The narrow fingers of bare-branched trees silhouette against the big windows of the hall, a darkness that lurks beyond the room's fairylights and flashing diamonds. Candles glimmer from every table, giving the room a white-gold hue. All the women are beautiful and rich and glittering, the men dark inkblots beside them. The debutantes come in one after another in floaty white gowns with their pristine smiles like handmade dolls, virginal down to their slippers.
She is the last one. She would have planned it that way, wanting to make an impression, and not the fleeting kind either. She wants to eclipse the girls that came before her in their gowns with lace like ice, spring buds in their hair. She wants to be the last girl imprinted on your eyelids, he can tell just by looking at her descend the stairs slow as could be, her smile brittle and triumphant. She enjoys every eye upon her.
She certainly makes an impression on Dan.
He is meant to be circulating with the champagne but he stops dead when she steps out. Her hair is dark and glossy, threaded through with moon-bright pearls. Some girls went in for scandalous crops, their hair fluffing around their rosy faces, but not her. No, she's a traditional kind of girl, the kind of girl who'd sneer at Dan if she ever accidentally looked at him. When she dances, it's with each step precise and completely lacking in feeling.
Eventually one of the other waiters gives Dan a pointed shove and he remembers his duties, but he finds his eyes drawn back to her all night.
Passing by her once, he actually hears her voice – sharp and haughty, not bothering to be soft, "Her family lost it all, I don't see why she's even still allowed to be here –"
And his heart hardens automatically, even as his gaze finds her again and again in the crowd.
The night ends with Dan loosening his tie and mussing his hair, rebelling in his own small ways, but of course only now that he can do so without actually breaking a rule. He's going out the back, fresh dough in his pocket and illusions promptly shattered, when he hears a little hiccup and a sob.
It's the debutante, looking worse for wear, her dark hair falling around her pale, slumped shoulders. She brings a green champagne bottle to her pink mouth.
Awkwardly, Dan stops and says, "Are you sure you're supposed to be here?"
She starts and then glares at him, dark eyes narrowed. "Are you?" she shoots back venomously.
He tries hard not to roll his eyes, instead shooting a glance up and down the narrow hallway to see if someone's around to come and collect her. She's probably got friends left in the ballroom but Dan isn't interested in debutante-wrangling after a full night's work, and especially not if the socialite in question is this girl.
She continues as though he'd spoken, voiced some concern or other. "I'll have you know I had an awful night, just awful."
He can't help a little contempt then. "Yeah, looked real bad from where I was standing – in the back, holding the drinks."
She stares at him, then blinks. "Oh god, are you a waiter?" She says it like Dan lives under a log in the woods. "To think the night couldn't get any worse."
That's just about Dan's cue to exit, so he huffs a little huff of frustration and goes out on his way, but he hasn't even gotten to the exit when he hears little slippers clattering along behind him.
"Did I offend you?" she asks curiously.
"You're stunningly without tact," he tells her.
Her lips purse but she plows right along, "It's only that I simply cannot stand another minute with all those girls. Do you know what I mean? You couldn't possibly, of course. But to be surrounded by them all the time, to have them constantly tearing at you –"
"Don't your social graces set you up for that kind of thing?" Dan interrupts dryly. "Isn't that what etiquette classes are for, how to avoid backstabbing?"
"You clearly don't know anything at all," she decides. "In fact, you're mocking me, and I do hate to be mocked."
"You set the scene for it," Dan counters. Finally he gets himself outside, the night air near-stinging with coldness against his ears, his bare neck. "Are you going to follow me all the way home?"
She blinks. "Is that where you're going?"
"Customarily people return home after work," Dan says.
She gives him a cursory look, up and down, appraising him like she might if he were something she had decided to buy. "What did you say your name was?"
"I didn't," he says, "Dan Humphrey."
"Blair Waldorf," she returns, superciliousness invading the syllables without her even seeming to try. "Dan Humphrey, the night is terribly young, don't you think?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means I've got places to go, and an escort who abandoned me for another girl," she says, a hard little frown marring her face. "I'd pay you."
He balks. "Pay me? For what?"
"Escorting me," she says with impatience. "I doubt anyone noticed you, I didn't even; and you haven't got a bad sort of look to you, what do you say?"
"I say you're plumb awful at invitations."
"I'm in dire straits!" she says, only it comes out less supplication and more demand. "I've got to save face, don't you know a thing about that? And you're the only boy I've got on hand who is already in a suit and isn't in his eighties – and it'll drive Penelope just crazy to see she didn't get one over on me after all. One night, what do you say?"
Dan looks at her, the filmy shawl around white shoulder speckled with gooseflesh, the big inquiring eyes, the champagne bottle still clutched in one hand. And he thinks aw, hell because the decision has already been made for him.
"Fine," he spits. "One night, that's what I say."
She near beams, lips curling up in that hard, pleased way like when she came down the stairs. "Dan Humphrey, you've got yourself a deal."