He stares at her name while alone in a hotel bar for nearly two minutes before it comes back into unbroken focus and he realizes why he's got the glass half hovered between the table and his mouth. It seems, oddly, that he's destined to keep seeing it primly typed in contrasting colors, over and over again.
Because he's taken to catching sight of her name plate when he passes it by in the lobby, rolling the letters around in his head as he waits in an elevator that smells of thick paint and denial. Wondering what 'Foster' was before she became Foster is a habit that's (more than once) managed to sideline him right in the middle of her trying to drag something emotional or existential or even just honest out of him. He's never brought himself entirely to asking what her maiden name was. Feels like a line that he should probably keep himself from crossing.
He's guilty of staring her name down on the little bit paperwork he's managed to actually somehow pry out of the mostly impenetrably tight asses that control the flow of information deemed 'classified'. Hell, after their first session he'd researched her, just to see how deeply ensconced she could have possibly been in the Pentagon's psycho-babble pit (and, sure, she certainly wasn't the Queen of Snakes but, still... down in that pit she was, right?).
But now the script is flowing and far more generous to her name, curves it prettily across the lecture schedule a full day before his own.
Sure, his name's bigger – got a prime time slot and all that.
Still, it hadn't once entered the technicolor realms of his thinking that he'd ever, ever, get a chance to meddle with his, admittedly lovely, little Head Shrinker herself.
Suddenly being away from his girls and stuck in Illinois, well, it's become far more entertaining.
First bit he notices is that she never looks so loosely free and lively and flowing when sittin' a foot and a half away from him.
Because he's never once seen her hair that waved loose and long on her shoulders - not even the time he pranced into her office unannounced and interrupted her lunch on the couch with her shoes off time. She always has it tied back, under control, always everything but a distraction.
And now it's distracting the shit out of him. And it really shouldn't be.
And he's suddenly considering if seeing her laugh with someone who is obviously a friend near the lectern is the biggest mistake he's made since meeting her.
(For the record – he's made her laugh aplenty. And not once did it look that woodenly fake on her face.)
So he swallows as he forces himself lower in the auditorium seat and slinks his shoulders into the musty cushioning and focuses on her name on the paper that's gripped in his hands.
"You required to be here too?"
Ah, wonderful, he's found the seat nearest Chatty-Fuckin-Cathy.
"Foster's an acquaintance," he mutters the response and avoids the interested way the waxy faced man is staring him over, palming his hand over the material he'd filched from the table where it'd been reserved under another man's name. "Same employer."
"Strange way to put it, isn't it? You work together?"
Didn't say that. On purpose, really.
"No, we don't," he disregards softly, lifting his head into watching her move toward the lectern and making a mental note to be extra nice to her next time she's trying to re-sort his head for him.
So long as she gets his new pal to shush it, he'll bring her that over-priced French water she seems to always have on hand.
"Okay," completely genuine smile, full across her lips as she lifts her head and her voice echoes into the room, "I think we can get started."
It only takes her near twelve minutes in to realize he's there.
And he knows it because her breath pauses into the center of her sentence and the slimmest margin of a smile lights over her lips before her jaw rises higher and her hand unconsciously lifts half up her body.
Can't help himself, can he? No harm in waving back, is there? He grins and wiggles his fingers in a teasing motion as his brows lift and he widens his eyes. And at first she recovers easily, just continues on and no one else (certainly not any of the Federal Blue Ribbons they've got on hand) would take notice of the pausing.
God, she's good. She's incredibly adept at disregarding his attempts at mischief.
He'd think she didn't like him if she didn't indulge him half the time, regardless.
"Actually," not even a few minutes later and she turns her head toward him, her jaw rising once again in a way that would make him think she secretly adores him if he didn't know that she finds him appallingly too large a pain in her ass. "Doctor Lightman?"
Wildly unexpected, this. And kudos to her for shaking his attention upwards, rattling him just enough to perk his interest as he cocks his head and sighs, "Doctor Foster?"
"Why don't you come down here and help me out with this next part? A world renowned liar will really test usage of this theory, right?"
"I don't tell lies, Foster." Sure, and why not? Why not play the game? He drops the papers into his neighbor's lap and pries himself from so sunken low in the chair, leaning into the aisle. "Just know where they live."
"Humor me? I want the audience to hear what it sounds like when someone can legitimately control vocal stressors."
Hell, he loves Truth or Dare, doesn't he? And isn't she just both?
He's surprised to find, hours later, that jealousy (when not regarding his own wife) tastes of the finest hotel whiskey in all of Chicago and he stupidly holds it in his mouth instead of swallowing. Swills it around his teeth and tongue just to be sure that's what he's tasting and not some other shapeless emotion. Possession? Nah, not nearly so intense...
It's never been this mossy a taste, bein' jealous of something – never been earthy or inviting. Never been a delight to dwell in rather than despise.
His stomach sours it as he swallows because jealousy, with Zoe... tastes young, freshly bitter and more like tequila or greened absinthe.
With Foster, as she curls intimately up the side of a man he's never met, it's surprisingly decadent. And damning. To every. fucking. thing.
He tells himself as he rubs the glass against his bottom lip, sniffing out that taste again that it's not having her undivided attention that's breeding this fuzziness in his mouth, on his teeth, itching the inside of his cheek. Tells himself that it's because he's so used to having a monopoly on her eyes and ears and the curving of her spine as she sideways sits in her chair and bends into his otherwise inadmissible weaknesses.
He's not used to seeing her as a woman – in fact he's never allowed himself to see her as a feminine creature, never let himself see her beyond the confines of her office, her chair, the softness of her voice nor the acceptance she exudes as he says things he can't say anywhere else.
He's unaccustomed to seeing her as a female – and a glorious one at that, really.
Because she's flushed tipsy and oddly beautiful to him as she teases her fingertips against the cheek of the man she's, no doubt, actually married to... The man who took that mystery of a name from her and replaced it with his own. He's obviously already unconsciously decided to despise Foster (the male counterpart). And he's terrified to realize that he does not completely understand why.
The glass is warmed to his lips when he takes another swallow into his mouth, holds it there and tells himself (quite sternly, he thinks) to get the hell out of there before she notices him. Instead he swallows the whiskey and stubbornly stands beside the bar, unmoving in the small crowd of other conference attendees, waiting for her to scent him out.
Maybe, because he's never been one to run from gettin' himself into messes, he forced this moment to happen. Maybe he leaned bodily into it when her bright and obviously slightly tipsy eyes lit over him and there existed a personal smile of recognition – one that he's very rarely gotten to warm over her mouth.
Maybe he'd pushed himself right into being introduced to her husband and more than maybe he'd intentionally masked every intonation possible when telling the other man how nice it was to meet him.
Maybe he ought to have listened to his better self and gone up to his own room to finish this particular drunk – because it was about to become a doozy, really.
Because, maybe then, he wouldn't have ended up watching her laugh over the table with him while Alec's hand was dropped comfortably into her lap.
"How's Em?" he asks quickly, wedging the cell in between his ear and slouched shoulder, "Fever down?"
Foster smiles at the single syllable of affection for his daughter despite herself, her head tipping into a... pride. Yeah, pride that was. And he's completely unsure as to why... but he'll accept it. Because her buzz had been starting to die along with Alec's impatience and it's livened her eyes back up.
"Yeah, it's down." Zoe's voice is what he closes his eyes into, what he finds safe in this swell of utter confusion. "She's insistent she's going to school tomorrow because, ya know, our daughter's freakish."
Thank Christ for distractions and especially his wife's voice – because he was starting to really worry about himself and what kind of man he was becoming.
Cal chuckles into the phone and the deeply warm familiarity of Zoe's voice. "Created a monster, we did. Grade school teacher's nightmare."
Yes. This is normal. This is perfect. This is love, right?
And Gillian Foster (née Unknown) is merely an aberration, no doubt explained by liquor and -
"Are you with someone?" His wife's voice perks just hedged on the line of accusatory and he realizes, blinking his eyes open again, that the Fosters (the one he likes and the one he can't fuckin' fathom) have lifted their voices in a bit of near argument.
"That's Foster, that is." He agrees easily, brow arched into how tight Alec's eyes thin behind his glasses as they hush their voices. "My Pentagon shrink. I've mentioned her, yeah? She had a lecture today."
"Her?" She says it like he's never once mentioned that Gillian's got girl parts attached. "She had a lecture?"
But then, he realizes, he never really has.
Foster this and Foster that and never once a 'Foster's a woman'.
Hadn't been intentional (had it?).
"Yeah, havin' a drink with her and the husband." he mutters back over the line, trying to keep his voice even and still warm while his chest cracks cold.
It's not a lie, it's not a lie... it's not a lie.
It's merely an omission.
"Her husband?"
Well... was there another option or had language failed him? Of course, her husband.
But then... he's never fucking omissioned his wife before and he suddenly cannot raise his head into the way Gill's pretending not to watch his conversation while Alec implies he's ready to leave.
"You wanna chat with 'im? Seems nice enough." Cal recovers enough, playfully lifting his jaw from the cell and waving toward the Mister. "Alec, be a pal and tell my wife I'm bein' a gentleman. She's concerned for my welfare."
"Cal." Half laughter and half fury from his wife, a perfect combination of everything he truly, truly, loves about her.
"Just messin', love." He ducks from Alec's look of confusion and enjoys Gill's half humor before tucking farther down in the seat. "Miss you."
It's the truth, that. He's sure of it.
Because with the swaying way Gill looks at him in sudden sober silence – he's never missed her more.
He was half wedged between wanting her to stay and silently begging her to leave, let him drink this mind-mess under all by himself. And now that Alec's gone up to bed and she's got another glass of white wine in front of her? Well, now he's firmly entrenched between being innately proud of her stubbornness and bone-deep terrified of her presence.
She's never scared him before, he realizes. Sure, maybe he'd been intimidated by the idea of her – by the concept that she alone could close out his career with just a few words typed out in black and white. Just a phrase to say he's gone round the bend and should be considered back door trash to any and all intelligence agencies allied with the Pentagon.
But scared of her? Never. Surely not.
What, exactly, about Doctor Gillian Foster could legitimately scare a man like him, eh?
"Nasty little trick, that," he murmurs over the freshly filled pony glass in front of him. "This afternoon? I ought call you out on it tomorrow."
She smiles smugly to herself and she considers the wine just before nodding and taking it up in her fingers like she's made the decision to thoroughly enjoy herself, regardless of her husband's disappearance. Or, maybe, because of? Couldn't be, though... no. She's devoted, this woman. Even as she takes a sip there's enough pain still residing around her eyes for him to know that this display of independence – it's going to whittle away at her for hours more. Possibly all night.
"You assume I'll be there tomorrow."
S'pose he had, really. Figured she would be there. They'd discussed his theory, his book, before. He'd seen the interest and (purely professionally scientific) excitement in her eyes. He's not sure why the idea that she wouldn't be there concerns him, "Other plans?"
"Alec has to head back to DC in the morning." There's guilt in her eyes and he hates it maybe more than he imagines he hates a lot of things, like some vegetables. "I may go with him."
"Stay." No, don't stay. That's a lunatic idea. But... "I've a whole rant dedicated to auditory cues but your version'd probably be more scientific."
She's unsure – and it's maybe the first time he notices how sweet she looks when she's debating things in her mind, especially as muddled up as she is by the wine and possibilities.
Cal shrugs, reminds himself that 'sweet' is nothing he should see in her as he slacks back into the chair and distances them. "It'd make for good science."
"Maybe." She nods with a placating smile and he sees more of her remorse than he had before.
"You've a good theory, Foster. You need to promote it. It needs to be accessible, usable." It is usable, workable, and especially in congruence with his own. "Especially in this world."
"I'll consider it." Which, no doubt, is her prim and proper (legitimately sweet) way of turning the idea flatly down. "I appreciate the offer, Doctor Lightman."
Right, Doctor Lightman. Back to titles, then. Probably a good idea.
He's a professional, he is. As is she. And this is... merely a professional conversation. Certainly not an attempt to make her smile after she's essentially just told her husband to toss off. Her lungs dump out a long sigh between them and she's setting the glass to the table and he knows, without question, she'll be leaving in the morning.
"I should," her exhale speaks a multitude of endings to that but she concludes it, as she sets down her glass, with something friendly and clean, " I should say goodnight."
He nods and takes a slip of whiskey onto his tongue as she stands, swishes it against his teeth and it tastes suddenly slicker as he swallows it down.
"Foster?" His head turns half toward her, body slacked in the chair and refusing to meet her glance as he hears her heels pause in their echo on the hotel bar's floor. "See ya next Thursday then?"
"Of course."
She misses the lecture, just as he'd known she would.
He misses his next appointment, just as she'd similarly suspected.