A/N: This is a tale of how Gillian became the Dr. Foster that we know and love. There are spoilers for "Sacrifice" and "Undercover" in this author's note. At the end the of the story, there are some pretty big spoilers for "A Perfect Score," "Love Always," and "Life is Priceless."
This story is written with the following assumptions:
1. Gillian is too smart to have married either some lecherous villain or a man she didn't love.
2. Gillian is too smart to not have picked up on Alec's lies.
3. If Alec had cheated on her, Gillian is smart enough to have figured it out.
The result is a storyline in which Gillian falls in love with Alec, and Alec doesn't cheat on her.
Have I scared you away yet? Well, you should know that there are twelve chapters in this story, and since the first ten are a little short, I thought I'd post them as five two-part chapters (so Chapter 1 is actually Chapters 1 & 2, and so on) until I get to the eleventh and twelfth chapters, which will be posted separately. So, you will be able to read the beginning and end of this story within seven days. If you're confused, just put this story on your alerts and ignore what I just typed. :)
Disclaimer: I don't own any television shows. Not one.
And before we begin, I'd like to thank the wonderful recoilandgrace, who not only helped me edit this, but also convinced me that this story was worth posting. :)
A Twelve-Step Process
Step One
Gillian could feel the sharp stings of nervousness as she walked down the steps to the massive double doors. The handle was squeaky and the door was heavy, but after a few tries she managed to pull it open to reveal a dank, big room that was bare except for twelve folding chairs, a rolling chalkboard, and one lonely piece of chalk.
This place had been a school, once. She was standing in what used to be a gym, though the basketball hoops had been taken down a long time ago. The only hint of this place's former life came from the traces of a three-point line that had so far managed to cheat the ravages of time. Now, the wood floor was rotting and covered in dust and dirt, and it squeaked under her sneakers as she took a breath and made the trek to the center of the room. Once she stood surrounded by those twelve chairs, she took another deep breath, which turned out to be a poor decision when her lungs filled with dust and made her cough.
When a police siren went off in the background, disturbing the almost morbid silence, Gillian jumped a full inch off of the ground, then made herself calm down. She had been in worse places, and she had definitely been in grimier ones. The fear that was bubbling inside of her wasn't from where she was, but from what she was now expected to do. She let go of the bag she was carrying, realizing only now that she had been gripping it tightly enough to make the handles damp. She gulped, convincing herself that the action was a symbol of swallowing her fears, and took out a book. Inside the front cover, she retrieved and unfolded a handwritten letter.
Gillian,
Thanks again for filling in for me. The group knows what to do—you're just the referee. You'll do fine, just remember what you know. Everything you don't know is in the Basic Text.
Dr. Kinnon
She eyed the semi-circle of chairs and sat down in the center, putting the open book in her lap. Her heart raced as she frantically turned the pages. She felt like a mouse being chased by a cat composed of eleven human beings who would show up before she could prepare herself. The damp marks she made on the page testified to the fact that her palms hadn't stopped sweating. She silently ordered herself to be calm, willing her heart rate to go back to normal as she took regular, even breaths. She had the book right there in her hands, and hadn't books always told her how to handle problems? She clutched it like a life preserver and prayed silently that she at least wouldn't make anybody worse.
She jumped again when she heard a low voice right over her head. The shock had sent the book flying onto the grubby floor, but she didn't dare move to retrieve it. Instead, her eyes flicked upward, revealing to her a tall, slim man with glasses and neat, dark hair. He wasn't exactly what she had expected in a place like this—he was dressed like a businessman. And a successful one, if that suit was as expensive as it looked. He smiled at her as he bent down, picked up the book, and happily handed it to its owner.
It wasn't until they locked eyes that she felt overwhelmed a bit by how handsome he was. She forced herself to sit up straight and tried not to show the fear she felt.
He smiled again and outstretched a hand.
"Hi, you look new. Is this your first time?"
She started to speak, then realized she didn't have any words. He waited patiently as she found them.
"Yes, uh, well no. I'm Gillian, Dr. Kinnon is my mentor? He couldn't make it today, so he asked me to fill in." She took the hand that he offered and shook it, feeling a very strong, masculine handshake in return. He took a seat next to her.
"Nice to meet you, Gillian. I'm Alec Foster."
There was something about his smile that felt very compelling, as if it was drawing her closer to him. She took another glance at his suit coat and tie, compared it with her oversized Duke sweatshirt and faded jeans, and decided that she had never felt so underdressed in her life.
"So, uh, did you just come from work?" she asked.
It was six o'clock, and asking about work seemed a reasonable thing to do. It was neutral, non-judgmental question on a very uncontroversial topic. It was a much better thing to say than, oh, something like 'So, what brings you to Narcotics Anonymous?'
What did bring a man like that to a place like this?
He smiled that smile again. "Uh, yeah, I guess you could say that. I just finished a rally at Duke University for Harry Smith. I'm on his campaign staff."
"You were at the rally?" She lit up like a Christmas tree. "I was just there! Your guy gave a pretty good speech."
"I'm glad you liked the speech." He dipped his head in modest gesture. "I'm the one who wrote it." A gracious nod. "So you're interested in the political process?"
"Sort of. I'm interested in the people that make up the process. I like to see how a good public speaker can affect a crowd. Besides, I can say I was there if he ever becomes president."
"Oh, so you're a psychology major?" He cast his eyes over her body. "Let's see . . . tired eyes, baggy clothes, ink-stained hands—you must be working on your master's."
She laughed. "Doctorate, actually." Was she blushing? "I promise that I clean up pretty well." She regretted the words the moment she said them. Who said things like that?
He gave her another look. "Oh, trust me, I can tell. But I like this look for you; it's very appropriate for a student. Why waste your money on clothes when you spend all of your time in the library anyway?"
She thought back to the morning she had spent in the periodical section and laughed.
"You sound like a man who knows the territory."
"Oh, yes. You should have seen me when I was finishing up my master's at UCLA. I stopped shaving entirely my last year. Every day was t-shirts and sweatpants."
"I find that hard to believe," she said, taking mental note of his strong, cleanly-shaven chin. "You don't look like you've ever worn a t-shirt in your life."
"Ah, well." His face fell. "I was using back then. A lot of things about me were different."
Gillian froze, unsure of what she was supposed to do next. His statement wasn't exactly a revelation, considering that they were at an NA meeting, but it didn't make the situation any less awkward.
"How long have you been clean?" she finally said. His eyes told her that the question was okay.
"It's been a little over four and a half years. I had a professor who caught me snorting in the bathroom. She dragged me to a place just like this."
"That sounds like a good professor."
He chuckled. "I owe her my life, really. When you start using in public places, you're at the end of your rope. I was a mess."
The silence was almost comfortable this time. Contemplative, even. After a few seconds, he turned his body to face her.
"You've never used, have you?"
She lowered her head as she shook it. "No. People generally don't try to sell drugs to the debate team. Not that kind, anyway."
He put a hand on her shoulder. "Good for you. Trust me, sometimes being the nerd is a blessing. You don't know how lucky you are to be spared from putting your life back together." He looked up and around at the room. "Speaking of which, where's the rest of the group? It's well after six."
"Oh, the meeting doesn't start until six fifteen."
"What? But the poster said . . ."
"Dr. Kinnon puts six on the sign so that he can get to know the new people before the meeting starts."
"Ah."
Another pause.
"Hey," he said, leaning in a bit closer, "I know this is a little out of the blue, but I've never been to this part of the country before, and I was hoping you could give me an idea of a good place to get some dinner."
Wait, she knew that tone of voice.
"Are you . . . asking me out?"
It wasn't that she didn't find him attractive. That was definitely not the case. What surprised her was that he seemed to be attracted to her. He had just told her that she looked tired, hadn't he? What he hadn't mentioned was that her clothes were rumpled and she wasn't even wearing any makeup. Oh, no.
He must be high.
No, that wasn't it. She'd studied the symptoms of drug abuse—he wasn't showing any. He was calm and collected, and on closer inspection, she found his eyes were slightly dilated, but not bloodshot. Maybe he was really desperate for female companionship. She was about to tell him that she wasn't that kind of girl.
"Would asking you out be a bad idea? You don't have a boyfriend, do you?"
She almost shut him down right then and there. She even had a few excuses handy, most involving the word "professional." He'd see through it, but it would work. She was just about to tell him when . . .
"I'm free for dinner."
She was confused at the words that had jumped off of her tongue. She was about to take them back when he said:
"Great. What time?"
She found herself contemplating the time it would take for a shower, hair, and makeup. She tried to think of a way to weasel her way out of it, but instead, she said:
"Nine?"
Her squeaky suggestion seemed to agree with Alec. "Sounds good. You pick a place, and I'll come and get you. We can go anywhere you want."
Whatever response Gillian would have made was put on hold when the first group member peeked through the double doors. She looked at her watch—six fifteen. Show time.
Step Two
"Wow, you weren't kidding when you talked about cleaning up well."
Gillian enjoyed the look on Alec's face from the other side of the threshold. He looked absolutely gobsmacked.
"We must be going somewhere nice," he said.
The truth of the matter was that she hated dressing up like this. High heels, blush, and curling irons were things better left to teenagers and people who had time and energy to waste in front of a mirror. When she'd gotten back to her apartment, she'd almost decided against going at all. But she couldn't remember the last time she'd had something besides mac and cheese for dinner, and it wasn't like her companion wasn't pleasant to look at.
It was her roommates who got her to wear the sleek black pumps and sparkly black dress. Well, to be honest, she had been bombarded by all three of them as soon as she had walked in the door, and they had all taken turns helping her prepare for the evening. Everything she was wearing belonged to one of them or another, and Gillian felt a little bit like a dressed turkey. Somewhere between hair and makeup, they had convinced her that she should make the most of Alec's extremely vague offer, and she had booked a place at a restaurant she had never been able to afford. But he had said she could go anywhere. Besides, her roommates had reasoned, she had to find a place that matched the dress.
"I made reservations at Luigi's; I hope that's okay. I really need a night out."
To her relief, Alec seemed pleased. "It's not a problem at all. I love Italian."
As Alec opened the door for her, Gillian found herself in a trance. Luigi's was a nice contrast to the dank basement where they had met earlier. The lighting, the live music, the dessert cart—Gillian was starting to wonder if she'd ever want to leave. The maître d' showed them to a nice, secluded booth and handed them menus. Alec surprised her by ordering a nice bottle of wine (she knew nothing about wine, she only knew that the maître d' seemed very impressed), and asking her if they wanted to start with some dessert first.
Okay, she just might have to marry this guy.
It was at that moment that Gillian had to remind herself that the suave, well-dressed, good-looking man across from her was more than that. This man had been a cocaine addict, once. When the wine arrived, she swirled it around in the glass and wondered what on Earth she was doing. What sane person lets a man pick her up from an NA meeting? She knew, better than most, the psychological effects involved. Sure, four and a half years without a hit was a good sign, but it was only one step in a journey that would take him the rest of his life.
"Are you going to try it?"
She looked up at him. "Hmmmm?"
"The wine. Are you going to try it, or are you going to just keep playing with it?"
"Oh, sorry." She swirled it around one last time before taking a sip. She hoped he wouldn't ask her for her opinion on it—she was sure that she didn't have one.
"It bothers you, doesn't it?"
"No, it's nice."
"I didn't mean the wine. I mean . . ." His eyes darted around suspiciously, as if to make sure no one was spying on them. "I mean, what we talked about in the meeting. It bothers you, right?"
"Well . . ."
"Because I can promise you that those days are behind me. That's why I go to the meetings."
"Alec, I don't know if I know you well enough to talk about this."
"Can I just promise you that it's not something that you'll have to worry about?"
She was about to respond when she noticed that he had taken her hand in his.
"What are you doing?"
He recoiled immediately. "Sorry. I didn't mean to . . ."
"No, it's alright."
"It's just that I feel like we have a connection and . . ."
"Alec, it's okay." She reached for his hand to prove her point. When they made contact, he traced lazy patterns on her skin with his free fingers.
He was right about there being a connection. There was something about earnestness of his expressions that she found very attractive, and she couldn't deny the way she felt when they touched. She couldn't guess at what he saw in her, because from where she was standing, they lived in two different worlds: politics and reality. He was obviously a moneyed individual, and she definitely wasn't. He was connected and important; she was nobody. He would be acquainted with an entire way of living that she had only seen in movies.
And then there was this problem that he had, which was yet another world he lived in. She had only visited that world for a short time, and she hardly knew what to make of it. But he had been open and honest with her from the beginning, and even now, he wasn't pretending that the cocaine addict in him was gone forever. And didn't everybody have a sinister speck of evil that lay hidden deep in the soul, the kind that wouldn't surface until years later, when you found out that the person you knew was a fantasy? Didn't everybody have demons inside of them? Well, Alec had already named his. She had known him for only a few hours, but she knew exactly what to expect. In the strangest way, that made her feel safe with him.
By the time the dinner was over, Gillian had never eaten so much food in her life. Alec had seen to it that dessert had bookended the affair, and made sure to ask for anything else she wanted. As they moved from polite conversation to something deeper, and he asked about everything from her family to her faith, she felt the connection between them deepening into something palpable. It was like she knew him, better and more intimately than anyone she could think of.
When he paid the bill (and she felt pangs of guilt), he stood up, offered her his arm, and escorted her to the car. When he walked her to her door and she invited him inside, he shook his head and leaned forward to peck her affectionately on the cheek.
"I should get going; I have a lot of campaign work to do. Thanks for showing me around town, Gillian."
With a smile, he turned to leave, and she felt the pain of his absence already. But he stopped, then turned back to face her.
"Hey, I uh, I'd like to be able to call you sometime, if that's okay."
She smiled. "Of course."
She found a pen in her purse and wrote seven digits on the base of his palm.
"I'm going to be moving around a lot until the election, but I'll do what I can to keep in touch. Goodnight, Gillian." This time, when he leaned in for a second peck, she wanted to grab the collar of his coat and redirected his lips so they would rest on hers.
But she chickened out.
"Goodnight, Alec."
A/N: I actually did a lot of research for this story, from trying to figure out when Gillian would have been in college to learning about Narcotics Anonymous (if anyone got on my computer and looked at my browser history, they would probably be very concerned for my welfare!).
For those who are interested, these first few chapters are set in 1996, and in the real world, Alec would be campaigning for Bob Dole instead of the fictional Harry Smith. The opposing candidate would, of course, be incumbent Bill Clinton.
On another note, Dr. Kinnon, Gillian's professor, is named after Jimmy Kinnon, one of the founders of Narcotics Anonymous. The Basic Text that Dr. Kinnon references in his note is the term for the NA handbook, similar to the Big Book for Alcoholics Anonymous.