A/N: Hello! Welcome to this fic. I decided that I needed to write a drunk!gillian fic. before there's actually some canon on it. So, here's this:
Gillian Foster sat on her couch drinking a glass of red wine—She raised the glass to her lips and felt the liquid slide onto her tongue. With a vague sucking motion, she swallowed and felt the warmth spread throughout her body. Numbly, she thought that she should be immune to the warmth by now, given the fact that she'd drank so much already.
Gillian didn't usually drink—as much as she wished it had little to do with her childhood, she knew the opposite was true. Her father had been an alcoholic throughout the entirety of her childhood, right up until her high school years and by then it was too late—her opinions were already formed.
Back then, she'd sworn she'd never drink. She chuckled to herself as she swirled the wine around in the glass—"so much for that." She said to the empty room as she took another swallow. Gillian had, however, managed to wait until her 21st birthday before succumbing to the temptation—
Even as she took her first shot of some sort of sweet alcohol, she swore to herself she'd never live her life in a stupor—and that was a promise she'd kept. In fact, she could count the number of hangovers she'd had on one hand.
And Gillian never, ever drank beer. The smell reminded her of her father—and as scent was so inherently tied to memory, any time she smelled it she'd be thrown back into the world of late night scream-fests, so she steered clear and did her best to close her eyes and keep the memories at bay whenever she smelled it on someone else's breath.
Gillian had had fun in college—she didn't get too crazy, but she'd had her moments. Vodka was her alcohol of choice back in that distant memory—
Before this evening, it had been a good five years since she'd even had a swallow of vodka. Usually, when she felt the need to numb whatever sort of pain she was feeling, she reached for wine—
But it had been one hell of a week, and as she drove home from the office, she simply knew that wine wasn't going to cut it. So, she stopped at the liquor store and picked up a bottle of Smirnoff and grenadine and made herself two of the strongest dirty shirleys she'd ever had with the 7-Up she had in her refrigerator.
And then Cal had called. She'd ignored it. So, he'd called again. She ignored it. But the stubborn man wouldn't give up—so, she picked up the phone and hung it right back up. They continued on this way for a good ten minutes before she finally decided that the man wasn't going to give up and she breathed a heavy and annoyed, "What?" into the phone.
For a man so determined to speak to her, it took him long enough to respond—his voice sounded distant to her, "We need to talk." He'd said.
Gillian had laughed bitterly before she answered, "No." She did her best to sound sober, to keep her voice steady.
Silence reigned on the phone before Cal spoke again, "Have you been drinking?" He asked, irritation making its way into his voice.
"None of your goddamn business." Gillian replied, which was an answer in and of itself.
"So you've been drinking," Cal sad and Gillian could hear his disapproval—without the vodka and with simply the wine, she might have cared, "So," he continued, "Let me get this straight: You're at home by yourself drinking on a Thursday night?"
Gillian remained silent.
Cal sighed heavily into the phone, "I'm coming over."
Gillian felt panic and anger rush through her body all at once, "No!" She shouted into the phone, "No, you're not, Cal Lightman. I do not want you in my house, I do not want you over here—you are the last person I want to see." The words rushed out of her, some of them slurring together and she squeezed her eyes shut tightly.
"Tough shit, Foster." Cal said as he hung up the phone.
Gillian had put her head down on the cool surface of her dining room table for a good five minutes as dread filled her entire body.
That was ten minutes ago and she expected Cal within the next seven to eight minutes.
What she'd said to him had been the truth—he really was the last person she wanted to see. She was drinking because of the tough week—but it was Cal who had created the tough week.
He'd been acting so strangely toward her the last month or so and it was driving her crazy, making her angry and breaking her heart all at the same time. This week he'd simply ignored her—there was a new client, some leggy brunette—and he treated Gillian like she were his assistant. Any time she would try to offer up theories or opinions or evidence he would shoot her down, and he spoke to her as though she were a petulant child.
And the truth of the matter was that Gillian Foster was ridiculously sensitive. Cal knew that and he chose to ignore it.
So, Cal was the last person on earth she wanted to see.
As if bidden by her thoughts, a singular, loud knock came on the door.
Gillian eyed the door suspiciously with a little pout. She set her glass of wine down and padded to the door, her feet heavy beneath her. She leaned unnecessarily close to the door before she yelled, "Go away, Cal."
Cal could practically hear the pout in her voice, "Not gonna happen, love." He responded, "You and I both know I'm not going away, so you might as well let me in."
With a dramatic sigh, Gillian unlatched the lock and went back and plopped on the couch.
When Cal heard the lock unclick, he opened the door, entered her apartment, and shut the door softly behind him.
Cal looked at Gillian—she had her arm stretched out on the arm of the couch and her head was laying on her bicep as her feet were curled up next to her.
"What?" She said, wide-eyed and yet still very annoyed.
Cal smiled, "What's your poison?" He noticed the wine glass behind her, "Ah, wine." He said, and then saw the look that passed over her face.
"And tequila?" He read her again, "Vodka?" He laughed, "Ah, vodka." A pensive look came across his face, "I didn't picture you as a vodka kind of girl."
Gillian lifted her head up to look at him, "You don't know me as well as you think you do, Cal."
"Don't I?" He asked, and she flashed him a look of contempt, "No," He said, "I guess I don't."
She reveled in a brief moment of triumph before she looked at him—he looked rather disheveled, as though he'd been upset. She imagined him wringing his hands together, slamming his hand on his desk when she didn't pick up her phone. The thought seemed funny to her and she dissolved into a fit of giggles.
Cal was taken aback by the sound and he smiled at her—she was drunk. He'd seen her drunk a few times and she was hot and cold when she'd been drinking—nice one minute, vicious the next.
"So, what do you wanna talk about, Cal?" She asked, the happiness from the giggling still in her eyes.
Cal opened his mouth to speak, but the words didn't come out.
"Oh, no, don't tell me I have to guess," Gillian groaned, but didn't give him a chance to answer before continuing, "If you're here to talk to me about Slutty McSlutterson, don't even bother." Her face scrunched up in disgust.
Cal couldn't help but laugh, "I'm sorry, what?"
Gillian looked at him exasperatedly, then she waved her hand around—"You know, your slut of the week—what's her name—oh, T—Tiddy—Tea…Slutty McSlutterson!" Gillian finished, and she looked quite pleased with herself.
Cal hid his smile, "Oh, you mean Tabitha."
Gillian stuck her tongue out, "Yeah, Tab—" She started to say the name, but stopped when she realized it was gone again, "Oh, whatever."
Cal still looked amused, "No, I didn't come here to talk about Tabitha." He said as he crossed and sat in the chair next to the couch.
"Oh please," Gillian said, "make yourself right at home."
Cal smiled at her and then leaned forward and placed his elbows on his knees and rested his head on his hands as he looked at her.
"What's up, Gill?" He asked.
She eyed him, "Not my tolerance…or patience level."
"I came to apologize." He said, matter-of-factly.
"Course you did." She said as she picked up her glass of wine and finished it.
"You shouldn't mix alcohol."
She set her glass back on the table and stared at him, "Shut up, Cal."
Cal put his hands out in front of him in a mock-defensive gesture, "Hey, I'm just saying…"
"Yeah, well, don't just say." She said, leaning her head back on the couch, "Anyway. You were saying."
"Right!" She said, her mind coming back to the topic at hand. "You're sorry." She spat the word out and found that it tasted rather funny on her tongue, "And what, pre tell, are you sorry for?"
Call shifted uncomfortably as he searched for the right words. "For…" He stumbled over them, "this week."
Gillian looked at him, "Uh-huh." Her disbelief was evident in her words and in her face.
"No, I mean it." He assured.
Gillian let out a sigh, "I'm sure you do, Cal. I'm so sure you do. But, you know, enough is enough!" She said, waving her arm around emphatically.
Panic settled on Cal's face, "What does that mean?"
Even drunk, Gillian could read the panic on Cal's face and it made her laugh. His fear of losing her was funny at this particular moment, and so was the way his eyes narrowed at her as she laughed. She rolled them and tried to look serious, "It means, Cal," She emphasized his name, "That you can't treat people the way you treat people."
Cal looked at her and his panic softened—his look turned into one of confusion. Cal watched as Gillian's face registered confusion, and she shook her head lightly and he watched as she made the decision to try again.
"Well, no, actually," She said, consternation on her face, "I don't really give a damn how you treat other people," She laughed, "What I mean is that you can't treat me the way you treat other people." Her brow furrowed, and she added in as an afterthought, "I'm not other people!"
Cal laughed and shook his head, "No you're not, love. No you're not."
Gillian's chin tilted down, "This is serious, Cal." She said, her bottom lip coming out in a pout.
Cal had to bite his lip to control his smile—she looked so cute and he knew she wasn't trying to look cute, in fact she was trying to look stern.
He looked at her and his eyes shone, "I know, love."
Gillian nodded her head, "Ok, good. Your behavior has been unacceptable," her tongue tripped over the word, and she looked at Cal's face to make sure he understood.
Cal gave a little nod, "Absolutely."
"I'm your friend," She continued.
Cal nodded, "My best friend," He added.
Gillian pursed her lips at this, and he watched as she considered his words, "Then you need to treat me like it."
Cal nodded his head in affirmation, "I will, Gillian."
Cal watched her face soften as he used her first name. Cal knew she needed to hear more, so he leaned back in the chair and spoke—
"I really am sorry. I've been a—well, you know what I've been." He shrugged his shoulders, "It's just—" He trailed off and Gillian looked at him quizzically, "Emily got in to Berkeley." Gillian nodded, she knew this already, "And…" Cal started, "I don't want her to go." He finished simply. "So I've been frustrated and worried and conflicted and I've been taking it out on you… and I'm sorry."
Gillian looked at him through hazy eyes. His love for Emily was one of the most beautiful things about him in her opinion. "Okay." She said, forgiveness washing over her, "But, I swear—if you don't treat me better…" she trailed off as she pointed a finger at him.
Cal smiled, "I will."
Gillian's face softened and she felt a sense of calm come through her, "Good." She said as she released the tension in her body and melted into the couch, "Being mad at you sucks."
Cal nodded, "Having you mad at me sucks."
She giggled then, suddenly enthralled with the word 'sucks,' and Cal watched bemusedly as she poured more wine into her glass and sort of whispered the word out. Suddenly, she looked up, "You want some?" She said, as though it were a secret.
Cal smiled and considered his options—he weighed them and then smiled, "Sure, love, I'll have a glass."
Gillian's face filled with what Cal could only describe as consternation. She sat up on the couch, her back straight, and looked at him.
He chuckled, "It's okay, love. I'll get the glass."
p.s. you can thank gidget89 for actually getting to read this story-i was going to abandon it. conversely, if you hate it, you can blame her, too.
don't be a creeper, click that ish.