A/N: Heh, so this has absolutely nothing with the other quite lovely fics posted recently about drinking!tiems. This was intended to be crackfic, but of course it got all angsty by the second line in and I just went with it. PS, this was written in approximately forty minutes so please forgive the errors.
A/N2: For notapineapple, because I felt like annoying you ;)
It was that time of year again. The time when Gillian ignored the voice in her head that told her to remain calm and not follow in her father's footsteps. Of course, when it was two in the morning and all that was stopping her was a silent ghost, she didn't really give a damn.
Gillian peered into her liquor cabinet, searching in vain for the bottle that she knew was one of her father's most prized possessions. For costing over thirty thousand dollars, it ought to have been. Alas! Her eyes lighted on the bottle from Macallan's fine and rare collection and she smiled fiendishly.
Using due caution, she admired the smooth, slightly imposing design, her finger grazing over the numbers 1926. Though fleeting, she contemplated simply uncapping the bottle and tipping it backwards to let its contents make the glorious journey down her throat.
No. Gillian Foster did not drink out of bottles. She drank out of hundred-year-old tumblers with beveled designs that still bore the prints of her father and his father. Pulling out the weighted glass, she plopped it on the counter, ignoring the sharp echo that resounded. Grabbing the bottle roughly, she ignored her shaking hands as she removed the stopper and watched her glass fill to nearly overflowing.
Picking up the tumbler with two hands, she tilted it back and felt the delicious burn as the alcohol eased into her mouth. It was criminal, the way she ingested it without actually savoring the dark, rich flavor. People would gladly drop a couple hundred dollars to enjoy a fourth of her glass.
Too much too fast, Gillian choked and pulled the glass upright, coughing hoarsely into her hand to clear her airway. Leaning against the counter, she waited for the familiar warmth to move into her belly and pick up in her blood stream. After another hearty gulp Gillian used the back of her hand to wipe away what little escaped her greedy lips.
To no one in particular, she held up her glass to a distant foe and offered a faint cheers. She swallowed easily, but found her mouth growing dry with tightly clenched desperation. Instead of dwelling on it, she took another sip and stared out her window into the darkness.
Sometime before she reached the sorry depths of the last inch of her tumbler, Gillian accidentally bumped into the bottle of Scotch. Were she not so inebriated, she liked to think she'd have caught it before it fractured into a hundred pieces at her feet.
She watched as the 60-year-old liquid seeped out of the confines of its glass palace, coloring and distorting the broken shards as it moved. Gillian was mesmerized by its journey, her great toe tapping up and down in small puddle, sloshing it all around.
There was something refreshing about the shattering of glass, the way it broke into tiny inconsequential pieces of danger. It was not lost on her that this very container housed a great source of admiration over the years. Trust it to her father to leave this with her upon his passing. Grand gesture it was not.
Glancing at the tumbler sitting idly on the counter, she lifted it to her lips but did not partake. She sniffed it once, twice, and found it suddenly repulsive. Gillian held out her arm and released the tumbler, relishing the sharp crash as the glass met its splintered end on her kitchen floor.
Bending slowly, she watched the liquid pool at the source, a large shard jutting upward menacingly. Entranced, she reached out and felt the sting of prickly pain at the tip of her finger. The blood escaped from the superficial slice in her finger, droplets bouncing off the floor and pieces of glass. She watched in silent wonder as her blood found the alcohol, swirling in the pool slowly with its heavier weight. The resulting mixture was ruddy brown and was entirely unappealing.
Feeling faint, Gillian stood and rinsed her finger, the blood turning pink under the gush of water. She covered it with a towel and held steady pressure, willing away the alcohol-induced dizziness. She stepped carefully around her mess, resolving to clean it in the morning, and shut off the kitchen light.
The next day, when Cal asks her how she cut her finger, she'll glance at him and give careless shrug.
"Cut it on some broken glass."
He'll look at the calendar on her desk, see the deadness in her eyes, and nod in understanding.
"Let's get you some coffee, yes? Maybe even a scone with all those disgusting granules of sugar on top?"
She'll remove her gaze from her bandaged finger to his caring hand on her shoulder. She'll nod, feeling a little bit of sanity return as she stands and walks with him outside.
It'll be then that she realizes it's a new day and she'll reflect bitterly:
Until next year.