Disclaimer: I'm not making any money out of this.
Spoilers: Season 1.
Warnings: Gill Murray-level profanity.
The toilet seat is cold against her forehead and with a shaking hand Gill reaches for the handle and pulls it down to flush the foul smelling mess away.
Carefully she pushes herself up, one hand braced against the floor, the other gripping white knuckled at the porcelain seat. More-or-less upright again, the bathroom tilts around her and Gill closes her eyes taking a slow, shallow breath through her mouth.
The sink seems a long way up but the tiles are hard and she's too old for this. Her legs are unsteady beneath her, but after a minute she lets go of the wall and thinks they might just hold her.
Running the tap she blinks at herself in the mirror. Mascara runs in black lines over her cheeks and her hair is plastered to her head with sweat. She looks only marginally better than she feels.
Cupping her hands under the tap she brings the water to her mouth and swishes it around in her cheeks, getting rid of the disgusting taste of bile and regurgitated red wine.
At least there's no food in it this time, she grins morbidly, spitting into the sink. Of course that's probably part of the problem. Cupping her hands again she takes gulps of water, grimacing as it hits her stomach and seems to slosh around in there.
Her blouse is half open, enough that the lace of her bra shows. Enough that she hasn't managed to spill anything down it, which was the whole point in unbuttoning it earlier.
Taking the flannel she holds it under the running tap, noticing as she does that at some point she chipped the varnish on one of her nails. Her eyes tear up irrationally and she rings out the flannel quickly, using it to scrub at the mascara under her eyes, the harshness of her actions stopping her emotions from overwhelming her.
It's just bloody nail varnish.
It isn't actually about the nail varnish, of course, but she's spent the last fifteen minutes coughing up her guts because of her efforts not to think about what has really got her upset tonight, so she's not about to let that be in vain by thinking about it now.
She drops the flannel back into the sink, her cheeks bright red and stinging faintly. No mascara though.
Her shirt collar is soaked through and she fights with the last few buttons before tugging it off her arms and throwing it into the washing basket.
Leaning heavily on the door frame and the hallway walls, she makes her way into her bedroom and grabs the first jumper she can find in her wardrobe. It's warm and soft and smells better than she does at the moment.
Sitting at the foot of the bed, the mattress dipping alarmingly while she breathes through the resurgence of nausea, Gill slides out of her skirt, kicking it off her feet and into the corner of the room.
The clock on the bedside cabinet says it passed midnight some time ago and even though the bed looks and feels inviting beneath her, Gill pushes herself up and grabs the jeans hanging over the side of the radiator.
She forgoes socks, her toes curling decadently into the cream carpet and runs her fingers through her hair, grimacing as the product in it sticks to her fingers. Still, when she's finished the woman looking back at her from the mirror looks a little more put together than before.
She tilts her head, trying to see herself the way other people do. What was it that bastard Savage called her? Godzilla. All she sees is herself, pale and bare without her make-up and waves a hand dismissively, turning away from the mirror and heading for the door.
Her head pounds and she grips the banister tightly, weary enough of the danger of stairs not to pretend that she isn't still drunk enough that one misstep could turn her into just another statistic. She's lucky she made it up safely, the way she had been running.
She almost trips over her shoes at the bottom of the stairs and kicks at them until they're stacked a little neater underneath the coat rack, sufficiently sick enough still not to bother bending down to move them by hand.
Her coat and jacket are hung by their shoulders and she straightens them up, brushing out the creases with trembling hands. There are glaringly obvious gaps in the rack and she spreads out her own coats to try and hide them.
A week Janet said. Sammy hasn't packed like he thinks he'll be back within a week; even his half eaten box of cereal was missing from the cupboard when she got home. Who takes cereal with them if they have any intention of coming back? God, who takes cereal full stop unless they're just trying to make a point. Knowing why her boy is doing it doesn't make it easier to take.
The living room is a mess, pillows from the couch spread out around it where they'd fallen after her sprint for the bathroom. An empty bottle stands on the coffee table and the red smudge at the bottom of her glass is all that remains of the wine.
The rest of the room is harder to look at, the bookcase with its missing books, the dvds in the stand that tip over because the missing ones are Sammy's and if nothing else he gets his thoroughness from Gill.
Who knew punishment could hurt like this?
Her keys are hanging out of her bag at the side of the couch and she flicks them inside it with her toes.
She left her car with the rest of her team at the pub and phoned for the cab herself before ordering another glass of wine while she waited for it, knowing that Sammy wouldn't be there for her to make a bad example to. The house had been just as dark and empty as she had expected as she fumbled with the lock and closed the door behind her.
Her shoes had come off with her jacket and coat, and even as she flicked the lights on she was heading for the kitchen and the bottle she knew would be in the fridge, already chilling.
Hunting in the cupboards for something to eat she had found the missing cereal, losing her appetite and pouring her first glass.
And then she had found herself in the living room, wine glass and bottle in hand, staring at the newest gaps in her life and her own voice had drifted to her mind, promising herself after Dave left that she would never have to come home to this again. Fuck, how could everything break so completely in just one day?
She had slumped onto the couch then and started drinking, blurring out the memories and the room, the TV blaring 24 hour news that she didn't hear until her body hadn't been able to take any more.
Her phone beeps, lighting up and vibrating against the glass table, pulling Gill further into the room and she braces herself against the couch arm as she bends over to grab the phone up.
Are we still friends?
She blinks at the message, frowning.
She replies, fingers slipping over the tiny keys. She's angry still, bitterly so, but nineteen years is a long time to throw away over one stupid action and even if Gill doesn't think she can look at Janet for a while without wanting to throw something, she isn't about to give up on one of the only relationships she hasn't managed to bullocks up yet.
She waits a moment, but when nothing else comes through, she switches off the phone and throws it onto the couch. She isn't on duty again until Monday and if someone wants her before then, they can just go to the extra effort of ringing her home number. Besides, she won't be any good to anyone for another twelve hours at least, and she knows that by then she'll have switched the thing back on.
Catching a whiff of the wine bottle as she reaches for the remote to turn off the telly, she pulls back quickly, pressing her arms against her stomach. She can't remember the last time she let herself get this bad.
Snatching up the bottle and glass, someone knocks on her door and she detours to answer it, a frown pulling her brows together.
It's later than late, and she isn't in the mood for guests, but it could be Sammy so she tucks the bottle under her arm to free up a hand and pulls open the door.
"What're you doing here?" She asks, letting go of the door to wave a hand limply at Janet. She thinks back to the short exchange of messages and doesn't think she should have known that Janet was just outside, but she isn't really surprised.
"Gill, I needed to, I want to apologise again."
Gill squints out, the street light opposite seems brighter than ever and it isn't fair that she can already feel the beginnings of a hangover before she's even had a decent night's sleep.
"It's late." She says, instead of the million things that want to be said, like why did you have to do it and you were wrong, he's not coming back.
"I know, but I knew you'd be awake." Janet smiles slightly, not a real smile.
Gill shifts in the doorway, her body moving out from behind the door and she leans a hip against the frame. She's tired, suddenly. Very very tired.
The bottle clinks as it taps against the wall and both Janet and Gill look down at it.
"Jesus, Gill, tell me you didn't drink all of that." Gill would really like to, because it's probably only been about three hours since she left the pub, but instead she shrugs and tries out a fake smile of her own.
"No one here to share it with, was there Chuck."
Janet stares at her and Gill lets the smile slip off her face.
"I'll get over it." She says, meaning the PNC and the sordid pile of shit that yesterday turned into.
"Let me make you some coffee." Janet replies and just the thought of it turns Gill's stomach.
"No thanks." She could tell her that she's already brought up most of this bottle and the one from before, but there's a part of her that wants to pretend a little dignity still exists within her.
"Really, Janet, it's fine." She interrupts, adjusting her body so that she is as tall as she can be without shoes. "We're fine." She adds, because she knows that Janet didn't believe her earlier. "Unless you screw up like that again then-"
"You'll kill us, I know." Janet finishes, obviously thinking back to the pub. Looking at her, the way she favours her left side, the almost healed scar on her cheek, Gill doesn't correct her.
"Right." She says, because somehow threatening her friend with murder seems safer than thinking about what it would be like not to trust her again.
"You sure you're okay?" Janet asks, and Gill just looks at her because her friend is a better detective than that. "Right, I'm gonna…" She nods her head towards the car idling outside next door's gate and Gill leans out for a moment and waves at Aid in the driver's seat.
Janet catches her before she can slip back inside and drags her close, hugging her and even as she leans into it, Gill has to make herself believe that it's the glass and bottle that make it more awkward than it should be.
"Sod off." She says as she pulls back, dropping a kiss on Janet's unmarked cheek before shoving at her shoulder. "Go on."
Janet gets half way down the path before she turns back.
"Do me a favour?" She asks and it's on the tip of Gill's tongue to tell her where to go, to bark out a number of curses and throw the bottle because she really is still that angry, but she's giving it a good try at pretending so she just nods her head. "Keep your phone on." Janet says and Gill doesn't bother to wonder how she knew, nineteen years is a long time.
"Okay." She says, slumping against the frame as her chin quivers.
Janet slips into her car and Aid pulls away, nodding as they pass her by and Gill closes her door, locking it.
She dumps the glass into the kitchen sink for tomorrow and the bottle lands in the recycling with a shaming clink. She has her phone in her hands and on before she can think too much about it, and she bites at her bottom lip as she sends a quick email to Sammy; it's late and he'll get it in the morning.
Straightening up the cushions she settles onto the couch, water and her phone on the table.
She feels worse now than she did before she stepped into that pub, shaken and unsteady.
But she has two days to sort herself out before she walks back into the station and faces up to what she decided. Two days to over think and over analyse and probably change her mind about what part of it she regrets most at least twelve times before then.
By Monday she'll have it all sorted out; how to be Sammy's mum at whatever distance he wants to keep her at, how to pull in the reigns on her apparently wayward team. Anything else that the world decides to throw at her in the meantime. No problem.
She pulls her legs up and rests her chin on her knees, the jeans slowly dampening as tears slip down her cheeks.
Her phone beeps;
She manages an actual smile before she really starts to cry.