A/N: I'm copying this from my ao3 account for two reasons: 1) I found other Doctor Who RPG fanfics on this site (the major reason I hadn't posted this here was because I wasn't sure if it was allowed-in face, I still don't think it is, but so-and-so did, so...), and 2) the authoress re-read this and thought 'This is good.'
Disclaimer: This story is fiction, and I don't know much regarding Matt Smith's and Alex Kingston's personal lives—honestly I know a lot less about them than most fans as I'm somewhat of a newbie. I assume, and hope, Alex Kingston does not have an eating disorder. In fact, it would upset me to learn that this beautiful, wonderful person felt so terrible about herself and be caught up in the hell that is an eating disorder.
Oh, and the fan is not me, nor is she based on myself.
...
Chapter 1: Trigger
"I come across as quite strong as a person but actually I am quite vulnerable." ~Alex Kingston
It was pleasant dinner. Reservations had been made at one of London's higher end restaurants (picked due to its location at the hotel most of the cast members booked a room at for the next round of interviews for the Who 50th Anniversary special), and Alex had thoroughly enjoyed the meal. Well, it had been more of a degustation once the wait staff and chef recognized the people sitting at the long table in the center. Even with the occasional awkward, excited waitress imploring for signatures on various regalia—"it's for my son; he's a huge fan of yours!"—Alex savored more than enough of very decadent, very expensive food. As testament to that, she popped an extra mouthful of garlicky, succulent roast in her mouth without thinking.
Dinner plates cleared and desserts half eaten, a young girl, maybe thirteen, Alex surmised, broke apart from a couple Alex assumed was her family and gazed upon Alex with reverence. Matt leaned across the table where he sat smack dab between Steven and David with a wicked grin plastered to his face. He whispered in her ear, "Got yourself an admirer there, Kingston."
Steven's face, the drawn eyebrows and slight thinning of his lips, expressed his dissatisfaction at another interruption. Alex adored the man's writing, but, god, his forte was not social relations. She shot him a small smile, an indication she was unruffled by the young girl. She knew she was fairly eminent, particularly because of Doctor Who, and she appreciated every fan. She remembered an instance where her fans cheered because she opted to push back her lunch to finish the queue. Forcing that thought to the back of her mind where she didn't have to dwell on the verity that her intent hadn't been solely martyring, she, instead, bit into sweet and tangy lemon custard.
She smiled at the girl, a charming enough child. The effervescent smile reminded her of a recent visit to Hollywood where twelve year old Salome had stumbled upon a member of her newest favorite boy band. Quickly, Alex discerned the girl was startlingly thin. "Hello," she said, and the girl flashed a tense smile.
"Um," the young fan glanced at the floor, "Sorry for interrupting…" She gestured at the table where only petite fours and various wine glasses remained. "Mum didn't want me to…you know, bother you." Alex glimpsed up, over the girl's head, at her parents. She noted the mother sent the girl a look of disapproval, similar to the same maternal consternation she found herself using with Salome on the occasions she had to discipline her (and, god, she felt so much like her own Mum in those moments!). She nodded her head perceptively at the mother—a universal 'it's all good' sign.
"That's alright, dear," Alex said, maternal instincts directing the conversation as usually she was wont to do with her younger fan base. The girl appeared barely older than Salome, so it was especially difficult to be strictly professional. "What did you need?"
The girl mumbled something too softly for Alex to make out. She twisted herself out of her seat and knelt by the girl. Up this close she noticed a blush forming on the girl's cheeks. "I-I. I wanted to let you know…"
Out of the corner of her eye, Alex saw Steven's impatience and Matt's curiosity. She ignored both and waited in silence for the girl to conclude her deliberation. The quiver in her hands as she clutched a small composition book to her chest clued Alex into her nervousness. "You're such an inspiration to me!" The words tumbled out of her mouth in one big jumble, and Alex couldn't help but deepen her smile.
"Aw, that's sweet. Thank you. Did you want to me to sign that for you?" She motioned at the composition book, and almost recoiled when the girl fervently whipped her head around.
"No!" The girl's eyes widened and her face looked outright horrified, and Alex felt as if she'd been plunged under ice cold water. "I mean, I don't…" She shook her head, less fiercely than a moment earlier and backed away from Alex.
Before Alex comprehended what happened, there was a tumult as the girl tripped over one of the bus boys (fortunately his hands had been empty save for a few dirty rags) with a squelch as two bodies plummeted to the floor. The girl's composition book fell to ground, opened, and Alex immediately recognized the writing for what it was.
A hand flew to her mouth. Intake charts. The familiarity of the carefully tabulated caloric and nutrient information was akin to a punch in the gut. When she calmed her racing heart to meet the girl's eyes, she realized her fan was near tears. Out of deference she handed the composition book, closed, back to the young girl whom reminded her so much of Salome it felt as if her heart was breaking.
"I think you're very brave," Alex said, weak words of encouragement when she could finally articulate rather than gape silently. "An eating disorder isn't easy to recover from." For a split second, she hoped she hadn't said something presumptions—just because the girl had a tally of her food intake didn't necessitate an eating disorder! She chided herself for her singular thinking.
She intended to apologize, when the girl beamed at her. "That means a lot…coming from you," she said, before her parents reached her and prodded as all parents do concerning her physical wellbeing. "Mum, I'm fine," she said with a slight whine of exasperation to her parents. Another grin, a silent: thanks, at Alex, and the girl was gone. The busboy stood as the young girl offered her hand and an apology, and the restaurant returned to its previous orderly routine.
"You alright?" Matt asked when Alex resumed her seat at the table. Thankfully, the commotion had occurred far enough away the cast and crew could not distinguish the specifics of the conversation.
She swallowed a sip of her wine, before answering. "You should worry about that girl, darling." She tightened her grip on her glass to stop her hands from shaking. Everything she had eaten turned to stone in her stomach as she envisioned the precise charts in the fan's book.
"You look a tad pale, Kingston." He leaned over to peer at her, and Alex sensed the theatrics with Ralph Fiennes and the last four years of the 20th century unraveling like a movie reel in front of her eyes. She pasted a smile upon her face as her stomach churned. Suddenly, she became conscious of just how much she had eaten. The feeling of drowsy satiety after a tiring day doing promotional work contorted to heaviness and an anxious empty sensation in the back of her throat. It had been a year or so (frankly, since that one interview last summer) since she'd experienced this… And it was still just as complicated to depict. "It's been a long day," Alex said, an excuse, "I think I'm going to head up, yeah?"
She waved at the cast members who wished her good night as she left the table. She pressed her lips together and absentmindedly ran a finger across the plump surface of her lower lip. The back of her throat was slick with moisture, and she had to keep swallowing back bile. Her stomach ached; in mind's eye, she swore it expanded with the multiple course dinner—never mind she had eaten a light lunch between tapings early this afternoon.
On autopilot, she called a lift, stepping inside when the door opened.
"I'll ask again," a smooth voice shattered her thoughts ending in a porcelain bowl. She jerked her head up. She wrenched away a hand that had found itself curled against the awful tightness in her throat.
She gaped at him, silently mouthing, "Matt?"
She didn't want to give in, reminiscent of days, weeks, years passing in cyclic self hatred—loathing herself, loathing that she could not rise above this. Now, fifteen years later, not quite in that suicidal place with knife pressed to wrist, she found herself sharing a lift, ascending with the brevity of molasses, with Matt.
"What's wrong?" He stuffed his hands into his pockets, looking every bit like a chastened little boy. She fervently wished he remained at the dinner so she could clutch her swollen, aching, stomach, so, the silence prodded her past indecision, beyond guilt.
She hesitated. "Don't say you're fine, Kingston, cause you're pale and sweaty, and you're never so, well, vulnerable looking."
She chewed at her bottom lip as she considered. The frantic need to rid herself of the ache in her throat won out, just like that day she chose not to eat a lunch after hunger had faded an hour past her planned meal. She massaged the bridge of her nose, sweeping across her eyes. "Can this wait?" It wasn't spat out rudely, just a calm inquiring to finish this discussion at a later date.
The lift doors opened as they arrived at the floor Alex's room was on. She stepped out of the lift as Matt acquiesced. "Uh, sure. Tomorrow then?"
She neglected to respond, hurrying down the hallway to her room and sliding the card in her door the moment the lift closed behind her with a ping. She tossed her outer coat on the bed too large for one person along with her small clutch and, the shaking in her hands gone, entered the small private lavatory the hotel offered and shut the door behind her out of habit.
She had the toilet lids pulled up and found herself bent over the bowl, face reflecting in crystalline water. Fingers poked at her mouth all autonomously. And the years slipped away, time rewinding as the position so familiar with her past rushed over her. She flipped her voluminous hair over her shoulder with her free hand. One hand acted as a makeshift elastic around her curls, arm twisted round her back, whilst the other plunged into the cavern of her mouth, index and middle finger thrusting in her throat, an awful pantomime: in, out, up, down, front, back, gag, please, please, please come back up.
Saliva dribbled down her hand and her eyes burned with the pressure building in her head. She retched—finally—and the last sip of wine, a pinkish color, a shadow of the ruby-red merlot she had sipped, trickled down her hand and plopped into the toilet. She relaxed slightly, knowing the process would be easier for a few more heaves.
Her prediction turned out to be correct; she yanked her hand from her mouth, back clenched as half digested lemon meringue pie spewed out of her mouth, into the toilet and splashed back yellow globules that splattered against her cheeks. Hand returned to her mouth, she tasted the beginning hints of garlic from her entrée interspersed by tangy and sweet citrus, when the lavatory door knob clicked, and the door opened.
She spit the last bits of dessert in the toilet as Matt slapped a hand against the wooden doorframe. "What the hell?"
Alex jerked her head up, heart racing from more than the vomiting, and groaned involuntarily. "Please, go away." Ignoring that her plea was reminiscent of the young fans' whining assurance of health, she prayed Matt would turn around, leave, and overlook what he saw.