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bennet_7The title of this fic is adapted from a Raymond Chandler short story, Trouble is My Business, because Gossip Girl episode titles are always based on other works. In the process of writing this I picked up my copy of The Big Sleep, the second sentence of which is as follows:
My brain kind of melts at the thought of Bogey wearing a powder-blue suit. Thank goodness that movie was shot in black and white.
Title: Trouble is Our Business
Fandom: The Dan and Blair Show
Characters: Dan and Blair (obviously), others mentioned
Rating: PG
Word count: 771
Warnings: Crack
Summary: Waldorf and Humphrey, detectives for hire.
Author's note: Part of my non-canonical crime fighters thing that I am doing apparently (tag).
"Uh, Waldorf? Why are we at Burberry?”
"If we're going to open a detective agency together, then you need a trench coat," she tells him matter-of-factly.
When she pushes into the changing room, says he doesn't look too terrible and probably has the head for a fedora, he's absurdly pleased.
He only wears the trench coat when it's weather appropriate, though, preferring to get his genre kicks standing in darkened doorways or peering through Venetian blinds, thinking about the blonde who done him wrong.
***
It’s Blair’s idea, of course. Scheming is second nature to her, she just wants to work it from the other side.
“Set a thief to catch a thief?”
“I don’t love your analogy but it fits.”
“And I come in where?”
“Please, Humphrey. What other job has all your years of Serena-stalking prepared you for?”
***
Their first day of business, Blair’s outerwear is a tribute to Bogart, but the dress beneath is all Bacall.
Eyeing her as she takes as seat and crosses a leg – silk stockings, he’ll bet – he asks if she’s the femme fatale or the private detective.
“I’m Blair Waldorf. I see no reason why I can’t be both.”
***
They discover it’s not easy to tail a cheating spouse when Gossip Girl is still tracking you.
“Oh, for the love of god!” Blair hisses when a gaggle of teenage girls show up at the Four Seasons, watching them as they photograph a CEO groping his PA.
Dan suggests she try to blend in more, leave the couture at home. She swats him with her three thousand dollar purse.
That’s how Blair ends up with a closet solely dedicated to wigs. She works on a Russian accent with Vanya.
***
A lot of what they do can be done online. It’s not as exciting, not as romantic, but it does save time: Blair still has a full social calendar, Dan’s writing yet another roman-á-clef.
They share an office, two desks pushed together, and Blair’s things have a habit of encroaching their way onto Dan’s space.
“Mine,” he says, indicating territory. Pushing her papers back, “Yours.”
She tries not to grimace, certainly doesn’t apologise, and with head bent keeps on working.
It takes him a while to figure out that Dorota bustling through three times a week to clean and to straighten is her way of being considerate.
***
He has a sneaking suspicion that Blair might be taking driving lessons in secret: she watches him closely when he changes gear, as if memorising the movements, and she gets a smug smile on her face when he rebuts her criticisms with a reminder that she’s unqualified to pass judgement. But until the day she shows up to work and thrusts a driver’s licence under his nose (and it will have an ID photo worthy of a page in Vogue, he’s sure), Dan sits behind the wheel of the car. Even when it’s stationary.
“I can’t see anything from here.”
“Waldorf, you are literally two feet to the right and the reason you can’t see anything is because nothing has happened yet.”
She pouts.
“Oh, eat another macaron.” They don’t go much for traditional stakeout food.
To pass the time, Blair keeps up a running commentary on what passersby are wearing.
“Chartreuse? With her skin tone? I mean, honestly, Humphrey. These people need my help.”
“We can either investigate crimes of passion or fight crimes against fashion. I don’t think we can do both.”
“‘You must do the things you think you cannot do.’ Eleanor Roosevelt.” She offers him that smug smile.
He grins back at her. “‘A little simplification would be the first step toward rational living.’ Also Eleanor Roosevelt.”
She tosses a macaron at his head but it’s pistachio – his favorite and she knows it – so he really doesn’t mind.
***
Eventually, they find themselves working a case where one of their circle is involved. Neither of them is particularly surprised to discover that Serena is sleeping with a married man (“It’s different, B. He loves me”), but they also didn’t need to see photographic evidence.
Blair presses ‘Delete’ and calls the client to tell her that they didn’t find anything. After donning her hat, she pushes him out of the office saying, “We need to find local watering hole to call our own. One with a bartender who makes stiff drinks and keeps an eye out for trouble.”
He laughs despite himself.
***
They solve a murder at a country house. The butler didn’t do it – and “yogalates instructor” doesn’t roll as well off the tongue – but it’s still pretty awesome.
A/N 2: I am disappointed with myself that I just though of the Dan Humphrey/Humphrey Bogart thing and I can't think of any jokes to make.
I was wearing my powder-blue suit, with dark blue shirt, tie and display handkerchief, black brogues, black wool socks with dark blue clocks on them.
My brain kind of melts at the thought of Bogey wearing a powder-blue suit. Thank goodness that movie was shot in black and white.
Title: Trouble is Our Business
Fandom: The Dan and Blair Show
Characters: Dan and Blair (obviously), others mentioned
Rating: PG
Word count: 771
Warnings: Crack
Summary: Waldorf and Humphrey, detectives for hire.
Author's note: Part of my non-canonical crime fighters thing that I am doing apparently (tag).
"Uh, Waldorf? Why are we at Burberry?”
"If we're going to open a detective agency together, then you need a trench coat," she tells him matter-of-factly.
When she pushes into the changing room, says he doesn't look too terrible and probably has the head for a fedora, he's absurdly pleased.
He only wears the trench coat when it's weather appropriate, though, preferring to get his genre kicks standing in darkened doorways or peering through Venetian blinds, thinking about the blonde who done him wrong.
It’s Blair’s idea, of course. Scheming is second nature to her, she just wants to work it from the other side.
“Set a thief to catch a thief?”
“I don’t love your analogy but it fits.”
“And I come in where?”
“Please, Humphrey. What other job has all your years of Serena-stalking prepared you for?”
Their first day of business, Blair’s outerwear is a tribute to Bogart, but the dress beneath is all Bacall.
Eyeing her as she takes as seat and crosses a leg – silk stockings, he’ll bet – he asks if she’s the femme fatale or the private detective.
“I’m Blair Waldorf. I see no reason why I can’t be both.”
They discover it’s not easy to tail a cheating spouse when Gossip Girl is still tracking you.
“Oh, for the love of god!” Blair hisses when a gaggle of teenage girls show up at the Four Seasons, watching them as they photograph a CEO groping his PA.
Dan suggests she try to blend in more, leave the couture at home. She swats him with her three thousand dollar purse.
That’s how Blair ends up with a closet solely dedicated to wigs. She works on a Russian accent with Vanya.
A lot of what they do can be done online. It’s not as exciting, not as romantic, but it does save time: Blair still has a full social calendar, Dan’s writing yet another roman-á-clef.
They share an office, two desks pushed together, and Blair’s things have a habit of encroaching their way onto Dan’s space.
“Mine,” he says, indicating territory. Pushing her papers back, “Yours.”
She tries not to grimace, certainly doesn’t apologise, and with head bent keeps on working.
It takes him a while to figure out that Dorota bustling through three times a week to clean and to straighten is her way of being considerate.
He has a sneaking suspicion that Blair might be taking driving lessons in secret: she watches him closely when he changes gear, as if memorising the movements, and she gets a smug smile on her face when he rebuts her criticisms with a reminder that she’s unqualified to pass judgement. But until the day she shows up to work and thrusts a driver’s licence under his nose (and it will have an ID photo worthy of a page in Vogue, he’s sure), Dan sits behind the wheel of the car. Even when it’s stationary.
“I can’t see anything from here.”
“Waldorf, you are literally two feet to the right and the reason you can’t see anything is because nothing has happened yet.”
She pouts.
“Oh, eat another macaron.” They don’t go much for traditional stakeout food.
To pass the time, Blair keeps up a running commentary on what passersby are wearing.
“Chartreuse? With her skin tone? I mean, honestly, Humphrey. These people need my help.”
“We can either investigate crimes of passion or fight crimes against fashion. I don’t think we can do both.”
“‘You must do the things you think you cannot do.’ Eleanor Roosevelt.” She offers him that smug smile.
He grins back at her. “‘A little simplification would be the first step toward rational living.’ Also Eleanor Roosevelt.”
She tosses a macaron at his head but it’s pistachio – his favorite and she knows it – so he really doesn’t mind.
Eventually, they find themselves working a case where one of their circle is involved. Neither of them is particularly surprised to discover that Serena is sleeping with a married man (“It’s different, B. He loves me”), but they also didn’t need to see photographic evidence.
Blair presses ‘Delete’ and calls the client to tell her that they didn’t find anything. After donning her hat, she pushes him out of the office saying, “We need to find local watering hole to call our own. One with a bartender who makes stiff drinks and keeps an eye out for trouble.”
He laughs despite himself.
They solve a murder at a country house. The butler didn’t do it – and “yogalates instructor” doesn’t roll as well off the tongue – but it’s still pretty awesome.
A/N 2: I am disappointed with myself that I just though of the Dan Humphrey/Humphrey Bogart thing and I can't think of any jokes to make.
