Author's Note: Eh. Just a little Blair story I've been thinking in my mind for a couple days now. Bonus points if you can guess the movie I stole Patrick's name from. No real pairings, just slight huh-maybe-there's-something-there.
Disclaimer:I do not own Gossip girl, nor do I own any brands, people, etc. mentioned in the fic; it is purely fan-made, I don't own the characters or settings, with the exclusion of my OCs.
Sweet Smoke
-A Gossip Girl OneShot by: Honour Society-
Sweet smoke encircled Blair Waldorf's heart-shaped face. She found herself wishing French Vogue's head photographer was there to document the picturesque moment. Only when she realized where she was, who she was, did she retract the suggestion.
The back door St. Michael's Medical Centre for Children was conveniently straight across from Constance-Billard School for Girls. Blair sighed wistfully, taking a long drag on her French-imported Gauloises cigarette before dropping it to the ground and smashing it into nothingness with the mini-heel of her Stella McCartney for Adidas trainer.
Blair's days spent in class at Constance had definitely been her best ones; she could perfectly recall those early years, grade eight or nine or ten, maybe, when Serena hadn't gone to New Hampshire yet and she and Blair still liked each other. They'd braided each others' hair the French way, traded shoes even though Serena's feet were bigger than Blair's, copied homework and snuck champagne bottles out of the temperature-controlled cellar at the Archibald estate in the Hamptons.
The good ole days…
But that was before Serena's Tears, a best-selling perfume with a nation-wide ad featuring Serena van der Woodsen's face: perfect, without even a touch of Photoshopping, though Blair knew for a fact the nose that appeared on the cover of last month's Elle was definitely not Serena's.
Ever since the Breakfast At Tiffany's remake Serena had been in, Breakfast At Fred's, (which, much to Blair's chagrin, was considered a cult classic) the breathtaking blonde had appeared in a string of box office hits and was now an Us Weekly favourite.
That. Should. Have. Been. Me!
"God damnit," Blair cursed sourly upon realizing there were no cigarettes left in her package, nor where their any in her grey quilted Marc Jacobs tote. Shit-shit-shit-shit. The only thing that kept her going, kept her alive, was knowing that when everyone left, her cigarettes would be there.
Blair pushed herself off the cold stone of the steps and shifted her weight from one hospital-mandatory sneaker to the other. She pouted, realizing one of life's ten truths, before she decided to try the phrase out: "Life is just shit sometimes."
Pleased at herself for cursing aloud, getting her feelings out, Blair felt the faint but obvious tug of a smile at the corners of her mouth.
"That it is."
Part startled, part embarrassed, Blair turned to face Patrick Kensington. "Pardon, Dr. Kensington?"
"I said 'That it is', Dr. Waldorf." Patrick chuckled to himself, plainly enjoying the maroon blush creeping from the collar of Blair's salmon-coloured scrubs to her long white neck. She shivered, her eyes never leaving the front doors of Constance.
"Oh. Right."
Blair struggled to recall what month it was, searching desperately for a reason as to why she was so damned cold all of a sudden. November, she remembered smugly. Almost Thanksgiving. I wonder what Thanksgiving is like for Nate and Chuck and Serena? As an afterthought Blair added, And little Jenny Humphrey. The thought pierced her heart, sending a thousand aches through every muscle in her body.
"What's going on with the brilliant and elusive Dr. Blair Waldorf on this fine afternoon?"
"'Fine afternoon' my ass. It's a day before Thanksgiving and I'll be spending it alone."
"That is the most pathetic thing you have ever said in my presence," Patrick only half-joked, thinking to himself that although Blair was quiet and basically friendless at work, she never gave up on the babies she treated. She was the optimist to his pessimist. In fact, he'd been coming out here to ask her cheery self to join him on a date. Obviously, she was not the woman he thought she was and yet somehow…he loved it.
A mystery woman. His lips curled up into an easy smile as he slid off his pristine white doctors' coat, handing it to her. She was shivering. Like a wet dog or the newborn babies she had saved countless times.
"How'd you determine that? I tend to say a lot of pathetic things in your presence." Blair grinned cheekily, pulling the coat through her pale arms. He loved how she didn't use self-tanner on her perfect, pale body. She reminded him in so many ways of the innocent newborns she treated, but then there was that signature Blair spunk of hers that kept things interesting at St. Mike's and kept the nurses gossiping.
Not ten minutes ago, Nurse Olivia had whispered in his ear that she suspected Blair to be a prostitute. "And a cheap one at that," the redheaded nurse who was known around the hospital for her own slutdom and eagerness to hop into bed with anyone who had a bigger pay check than she did. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black, Patrick had wanted to hiss back to the giggling redhead.
At the last possible moment, he'd decided against it.
The only barrier keeping him from planting sweet kisses along her collarbone, hairline, forearms—or any place else— was the sudden ring of Constance's ancient bell tower. Three rings signified three o'clock and thus, for the over-privileged, under-knowledged girls in green kilts and white blouses, school was officially out.
"That's my cue." Blair didn't even look back as she shuffled off to the imposing stone building, just-barely dodging oncoming yellow taxis, avoiding the trials and tribulations of non-English-speaking nannies and greeting a petite brunette with a swinging hug.
Patrick struggled to move closer to the school, ignoring the faint pelting of raindrops as he eavesdropped on the conversation Blair was partaking in with the young girl.
"— so proud of you! An A+! You're going to be quite the photographer when you grow up, Chloe," Blair said, smiling as hard as humanly possible. She took "Chloe's" hand in her own and raised her hand half-heartedly to flag down a cab.
"No, I don't! I wanna be just like you, Mom!" Chloe's smile was so sweet and innocent, she could've turned Hitler over to the good side.
Blair smiled sadly in response, stroking the girl's hair. "Oh no you don't, C. You really don't."
Patrick came up to her, his grin matching her own. "I've got it," he said, "you'll never get a taxi in this weather." He gestured up at the sky where the rain was starting to pour heavier and heavier. "My Saab's over there; I don't mind. Really."
"Sure. That is very kind of you. Mind if we wait here?"
Disbelief momentarily flickered through Patrick's green eyes, before he came to the realization that Blair Waldorf was taking his help. He nodded and dashed through the traffic back to the parking lot of St. Michael's, looking around for his silver vehicle.
Meanwhile, a taxi with chipped paint abruptly stopped in front of Blair and Chloe Waldorf. The driver hitched a thumb towards the back seat, as if to say "you wanna ride." Blair nodded and opened the car door for her eleven-year-old daughter to slide in first. Blair quickly followed suit.
As soon as the taxi sped off, following Blair's directions, Chloe Waldorf tugged on her two French braids. She always did this when she was confused. "But, mom, I don't understand. Why didn't you let that man take us home?" Chloe's lower lip was quivering in a way that made Blair terribly sad.
"I'm sorry, Chlo. It's just— I don't take well to green eyes anymore."
And with a brief promise to tell Chloe all about it later, Blair ended the conversation—letting Chloe go on about a substitute teacher— trying her hardest not to let the tears stinging her eyes overflow.
This was supposed to be short and bitter, but it kind of grew to regular Honour Society length. Review if you liked it.