So, since I've always got thoughts flying into my head, and they don't always fit in with the current fic I'm working on, I thought I'd start a collection of drabbles, just so these thoughts have a place to go. Some might be about Cal, some Gillian, some about both of them… I won't completely rule out writing about anyone else, but most likely it'll just be those two ;-) So if I just write 'he' or 'she' that's who I'm talking about. This one's quite long for a drabble, some will probably be a lot shorter… Oh, also thanks to SassyCop for letting me steal the title 'Scattered'!
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
She's sitting in the waiting room, idly flipping through a magazine, eyes scanning the pictures, occasionally drinking in a word or two. It's just a routine appointment, nothing to worry about, but she's never really liked or felt comfortable in doctor's surgeries.
She lifts her eyes at the sound of voices; a mother and her son are standing by the counter, making an appointment. The boy – he looks around four – is reaching his hands over the counter, the top of his head about two inches below it. He then pulls his hands back and jumps up; does it again, again, again. Trying to see what's over the top. His mother is talking to the receptionist, flicking through her diary for dates, nodding her head in conversation and murmuring her agreement. But it's the boy Gillian looks at as he jumps up, again and again, frustrated at being unable to see what he wants to see, frustrated at being prevented from exploring something because of his youth and his height.
He catches her eye and she smiles, and is given a toothy grin in return. His mother holds out a hand with a gentle warning to stop jumping, and he tries to stand up on tiptoes instead. Glancing at Gillian again, she returns his gaze with another smile, hoping to convey just what she is thinking. I know how you feel, not being able to get what you want. I understand the frustration of having things be just out of reach.
How many times in life did people long to see something they couldn't, try to achieve a goal that was just one step too far, gaze at the horizon knowing it would forever be out of reach? How many times had she come close to what she wanted, only, in the end, to have it just be a little too far away, out of her reach?
Then they're on their way out; the mother is shoving her appointment card into her bag with one hand and holding onto her son's with the other, and as they walk away he glances wistfully at the counter over his shoulder.
"Gillian Foster?" She places the magazine on the seat, stands up and begins to walk, her mind still full of the boy's cheeky grin, his earnest jumping, his unfulfilled longing.