A/N: Starting the Gillian / Rader back story. This takes place at the end of 'Beat the Devil.' Thanks for all the wonderful reviews - will update again as soon as possible (been out of town for the last week).
"Fancy a quick bite?"
She'd been so tempted to say yes. She started to, actually. In that split second when he first asked, she felt the acceptance on the tip of her tongue, and then something pulled it back again. One step forward, two steps back.
Cal had almost died that night. He'd dug his own grave and been water boarded by that sadistic bastard again and again and again… and when it was all finally over, he'd come to her. 'I'm here, Gillian. I need you, Gillian. Please.' She easily heard the words he wouldn't allow himself to speak... she saw them all through his cautiously hopeful eyes as he waited for her answer. And when she gave it, her own cowardice shamed her.
"Thanks, I've got… work."
Funny how such a short phrase could carry so much weight. So many emotions… so much baggage. Sometimes it felt like way too much for two people to carry. Sometimes she wondered how they'd managed to do it for so long.
"Work" was just an excuse, and Cal knew it. He saw right through her. She didn't even have to try to read him – that's how utterly defeated he looked. Tired and weak and utterly worn down, and given the evening he'd had, she was surprised he was still functioning at all. The gift of compartmentalization, maybe. Or maybe it was a curse. She didn't have the energy to analyze it.
She tipped back her glass, draining the last of the amber liquid that swirled within it, and set it back on the counter with a loud clink. Under different circumstances, she would have stopped after the first one. She would have been cautious, careful… responsible. But not tonight. Tonight was different. Tonight she felt the pull of irresponsibility, craved the feeling of numbness she knew would eventually come. Tonight she needed to forget.
She'd almost lost Cal tonight, and here she sat, in the corner of some dark, dingy bar, trying to drown her sorrows and forget the entire sordid mess. Alone, when she didn't have to be. Lonely when she didn't have to be. And utterly terrified to face the feelings that were becoming almost impossible to ignore.
Gillian sighed, suddenly tired from all the self-disgust. She waved down the bartender to request a third drink, shrugged off the instinct that told her she should've stopped at two, and happily accepted the fresh glass. She was a few sips in, still lost in thoughts of Cal and still hating herself for turning him away, when the footsteps approached behind her.
"Care for some company?"
She frowned, feeling the alcohol start to make her reaction time fuzzy. She didn't recognize the man's voice and she really didn't want to be bothered with small talk. The words sounded friendly enough, but without a thick, British cadence to accompany them, she wasn't interested enough to turn and face the speaker. This man wasn't Cal, and that's all she needed to know.
When she still hadn't reacted a few seconds later, she heard a soft chuckle behind her and then the man spoke again. "Never took you for the barstool type, Gillian. I always thought you were a little too… refined for that. All these years in Lightman's shadow must finally be taking their toll."
Realization dawned on her then, and she felt a clear flash of irritation. The drinks might've slowed her down, but they didn't make her desperate enough to spend the evening in a pissing match with this guy. She took one more pull on her drink and smacked the glass on the bar top again. The sound was louder than necessary, but she didn't really care. She wasn't in the mood to be polite.
Gillian swiveled on the stool and dismissed him with a look. Her frown was as prominent as his conceited smile. "Not interested," she said firmly.
And that was the truth – she wasn't. Not because Jack Rader repulsed her, but simply because in her current state, any man who wasn't Cal Lightman repulsed her. The alcohol was to blame, mostly. That and her own infernal stubbornness. The drinks lowered her social graces, and the stubbornness kept her on the stool, in Rader's company instead of where she really wanted to be… anywhere with Cal.
"Rough day, I take it?"
Jack slid onto the stool next to hers without an invitation. The man oozed smugness. It was as natural to him as breathing. He was an arrogant, self-righteous bastard, even on a good day. It hadn't bothered her too badly a few months earlier, when they'd worked that case together while Cal was in Mexico. She'd expected it, after all… hell, to hear Cal's take on it, she'd damn near expected horns and a tail to go along with the attitude.
But now, watching him as he perched beside her and dropped insults at Cal just as easily as the grey sky drops rain, Gillian didn't feel like making excuses. She didn't feel like brushing Jack's attitude aside, or trying to be the better person. She felt like throwing her drink right in his pompous face.
He must've grown tired of waiting for an answer, because he laughed again – and yes, even his laugh was conceited. He laughed and shook his head and leaned into her space, close enough for her to feel the heat of his breath reach her skin. His eyes danced an intrusive path across her face, down her neckline to the top of her dress, and back again. She felt exposed. And really, really angry. And that's when he said it… the words that made her skin literally crawl. "Come on, Foster. Let me buy you another drink. I won't tell if you won't."
Without thinking, Gillian closed her fist around the bottom of her half-full glass and hoisted it above his head. If anyone else noticed, they didn't interrupt. Her wrist tilted, sloshing the liquid closer to the edge, but just a split second before she poured it on him, Jack laughed yet again. Like it was all a game to him. Like his entire intention was to toy with her… knock her off her center… mess with her head.
"Look what he's doing to you, Gillian. The Doctor Foster I saw weeks ago was nothing like… this." Jack eyed her up and down again, faster this time and managing to lace his obvious attraction with just enough malice to make her want to slap him. Cat and mouse, Rader style.
She had no idea what he was trying to pull, exactly, but the specifics didn't matter. He was sneaky and deliberate and it was all enough to put her suspicions on high alert, even in her slightly inebriated state. Gillian didn't know what made her say it… what made her engage him in conversation at all. She should have walked away. But she didn't. She couldn't. Her gut reaction – aside from wanting to slap him or pour her drink on him – was to defend Cal. And so, she tried.
"Not that it's any of your business, Jack… but Cal isn't doing anything to me. Not every decision or action in my life revolves around him."
He grinned at her, pleased that she was playing along. "Is that right? Well, let's see… fancy black dress, killer heels, nursing your third drink, and sitting at a bar alone. You're either waiting for a man, or running from one. And given Lightman's control freak tendencies, I doubt he'd let another man within fifty feet of you. Come to think of it, he'd probably hate it if he knew I was here right now. Sitting with you… appreciating that aforementioned black dress and heels in a way he's never allowed himself to do. I'd say he'd be downright jealous."
Gillian didn't speak. She didn't move, didn't flinch… tried not to even blink, for fear of giving him a reaction to read. For a few moments, it was a veritable stare down. But he finally broke, looked away, and stood to leave.
He had only one parting comment. "Lightman isn't doing anything to you, huh?" The laugh was there again, quiet but still just as smug as he pondered the rest of his comment. "Maybe that's the real problem."
The innuendo hung between them, heavy in his wake as he walked away.
An hour later, the taxi pulled up in front of Cal's house. Gillian sat in the back, one hand on the door handle and both eyes on his dimly lit living room window. She saw his car in the driveway, saw his lone shadow as it moved toward the front door and peered outside. She knew he was waiting for her.
She paid the fare and thanked the driver, then offered Cal a shy wave. As if she wasn't sure she'd be welcome. But then he waved back, tossed her a warm smile, and motioned her inside. And she knew they were alright, then. Or at least that they would be. For now, that was enough.
When they finally stood face to face, Cal smiled. "Getting piss drunk is my job, darling. Best not to go trying to fill those shoes, yeah?"
She giggled, finding his comment much funnier than it probably was. She blamed it on the liquor… well, that and the total flood of relief she felt in knowing he was safe, and real, and alive, right in front of her. So much emotion. Too much to contain.
Not knowing what else to say, Gillian threw her arms open and just stood there, waiting. Within a second, he stepped into her space and she folded around him, hugging tightly and whispering apologies against his cheek. For not believing him. For not listening to him. For turning him away.
He felt so warm. Warm, solid, and safe. She didn't want to let him go.
Cal pulled back first – just enough to look at her face, but not enough to leave the circle of her arms. His eyes were kind and compassionate when they met hers. Trusting. Hoping.
"We certainly have our moments, don't we love?"
Days later, when she was clear headed and completely sober, Gillian would replay that statement a thousand times in her mind and wonder what it really meant. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.
Maybe in his own way, he was just still waiting for her.
Anoter note: I'm borrowing Cal's line from the end of Beat the Devil, when Gillian concludes that Cal really did love Helen. He replies, "We had our moments." Just a little play on that to wrap this chapter up. Thanks again!