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He harbored an obscene amount of good will and affection for her these days, so much that some of it had slipped out, unbidden, in front of a recording camera and audience that day. He, therefore, decided that a more controlled environment was necessary, one better-suited for dumping this cacophony of feelings onto her.
So, he invited her to dinner. He was hoping she wouldn't mind the extra burden.
She wanted to let him choose the restaurant. She said she didn't care, that she wasn't the picky eater of their twosome. He acknowledged the truth in that, though remained insistent, and pointed out that he would know if she was only picking something because she knew he'd like it. He also knew that she believed he would complain no matter what place she chose.
If a skittish Gillian was the worst punishment for his sins, he supposed he was lucky, plus it gave him something to work for. Goal: Make sure she knows she no longer has to walk on eggshells around him (he had a much thicker skin these days—life does that to a person).
Path to goal: Invite her to dinner.
Eventually, she chose an organic Italian place as a form of compromise. He didn't want to compromise, really. He wanted to choke down disgusting, synthetic piles of shit that night, just for her. But he also realized that this switch his brain had flicked would probably be a shock to her system, and he should ease her into it all. Let him look like the fickle old David a few minutes longer.
They called ahead to the restaurant while en route. No, there were no private rooms available, but they did have a table for two in the main dining room. It would have to do. Their table was small, allowing for the not-infrequent brushing of legs beneath. The lighting was dim, meant to capture a mood of intimacy, perhaps even romance. As luck—or, more accurately, the unceasing and altogether unforgiving passage of time—would have it, the mood lighting only served to make comprehending the minuscule cursive lettering on the menu impossible, for both parties. They reached for their glasses at the same time.
Gillian commented first. “Oh, were you—“ she gestured with her own glasses, clutched in her left hand, toward David, who had already slipped his onto his nose. She let out a little giggle, making David smile.
“Yeah, I guess I was,” he chuckled, making Gillian laugh harder. Shrugging, David pointed out the obvious: “Well, they make the print so small on these things.”
Her eyes widened in agreement and she gestured toward the tasteful centerpiece. “I know! And this fucking candle is all they give us to read it with.”
David affected an advertisement voiceover. “Tiny print? Well, here’s a fucking candle, have at it.” Then, in his normal voice, added, “It’s not 1864. Give us bright, electric, light.”
Gillian’s giggles overtook her momentarily. When she’d recovered some, she suggested, “Maybe we should start a campaign to get candlelight out of our restaurants.”
David’s face transformed into an affectionate smile. “These days, I’m pretty sure that you could convince anyone to do anything. Though, usually, your causes are far nobler than being anti-candles.”
She was shaken by the unexpected compliment, and smiled self-deprecatingly. “My charity work is the least I can do, really.”
“No, whatever the fuck I do, which isn’t much, is the least a person can do. You are, honestly, truly, dedicated to using your fame to help people. And that is…inspiring. You…you make me want to be…more, to…be better, Gillian.” David felt bare, exposed, vulnerable, but wasn’t going to let the emotional weight of it crush him this time. He made sure to hold her gaze, and maintain a confident posture. After all, this was why they were here, for him to shower her with capital-F Feelings.
Gillian’s reaction was to freeze, deer-in-the-headlights-style. She was waiting for David’s joke to diffuse the situation, he knew, but it wouldn’t come. Ever-resilient, however, she soon returned to the present and seemed to take David’s unexpected sincerity and run with it. “Thank you, David. I…I don’t think you’ve ever said anything like that to me before. Except maybe earlier today, during the panel.” As she said this, a terrible train of thought passed through her mind. “Is something wrong? Are you sick? Is it one of your kids? And can I help? What do you need?” She rubbed her foot over his soothingly under the table.
He finally had to look away from her, the shame of his past transgressions enough to shake his resolve. “Gillian, nothing’s wrong. No one’s sick, or dying, and I don’t want anything from you. And that’s precisely why I’m here, actually, why I invited you to dinner tonight.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Things are good with me. I feel good, better than I have in a long time. I’ve been reflecting, and the other day, I realized…something.” He was nervous now, trying to stall as long as he could.
“Something…that has to do with me?”
“Yes.”
A lengthy pause stretched between them. “Well,” Gillian asked, with her eyebrows raised in expectation, “are you going to let me in on this…realization, or would you like me to start guessing again?”
He looked down at his lap, chagrined. “No, no, sorry, I’m just trying to figure out how to word this.” A lie; he’d spent the previous week creating a speech in his head and memorizing it, so that he wouldn’t misrepresent his thoughts.
“I don’t bite, David.”
His eyebrows rose in disbelief, and his voice deepened automatically with his next words. “I have it on good authority that you most certainly do, Gillian.”
She shrugged, and flashed him a suggestive smirk and a waggled brow. At that moment, the waiter came up to take their orders. When he was gone, they returned their gazes to one another, in the effortless, magnetic way that they’ve somehow always been able to do. It was Gillian who resumed their conversation. “Weren’t you about to tell me how great I am?”
She was joking, but David was not. “I was, actually.” He sighed, squared his shoulders, and dove into a speech that was fifteen years in the making, though had spent a shamefully small amount of time in excogitation. “I was sitting in my apartment a few weeks ago, and I started thinking about all of the people in my life who I’ve lost, whether from death, bad blood, or because we simply stopped keeping in touch. People have reasons for why they do what they do, and a lot of what has happened to me is just what happens. It’s human nature to grow and evolve and move on from people, to decide, consciously or otherwise, for example, that a pretentious, capricious, megalomaniac is no longer worth their time.
“But, then I remembered: Well, there’s always Gillian. There’s always you. Despite a good amount of bad blood, and long periods of not keeping in touch, you’ve remained in my life. And for the longest time, I never questioned why. It was a fact of life, as inevitable as death and taxes. You’re the Scully to my Mulder, linked by our past and eventual legacy. But now I understand how deeply flawed that mentality was.
“You have been responsible for keeping us from falling off of the faces of each other’s earths; you have been the one to reach out and make sure we give back to the world which has given us our livelihoods and wealth and success. It was all you, not some mysterious force in the universe.
“You’re in my life because you choose to be, not because you have to be. In fact, you could tell me to fuck off, never talk to me again, blacklist The X-Files and me as topics in interviews, and still have a long, beautiful, classy career—and life, for that matter. But you’d never do that, because you’re you, beautifully authentic and giving.
“You’re one of only a few people in the entire span of my life, in over half a century, who hasn’t given up on me, Gillian. You didn’t give up on me when I was nearly asking for it, I was being so cruel and unfair to you. And I’m so gratified, but ashamed in almost equal measure that I’ve only just realized it.
“I’m sorry if I’ve been rambling. But I just wanted you to know that I’ve finally figured it out. And I wanted to thank you, sincerely, and apologize for any and all distress I’ve caused you over the years. I care about you, I love you, and I’m glad you’re in my life.”
David took a deep breath after he finished speaking, and reached for his water glass, downing half of it in one swallow. It took a minute for them to be shaken from the trance under which David’s rhythmic voice had put them both. The proverbial ball was in Gillian’s court, and she slowly reanimated, sitting up and covering her face with her hands to help collect herself. They both seemed surprised to see the tears and smudges of mascara that stuck to her palms after she’d pulled them away.
She opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again. She was blatantly flustered and overwhelmed, and focused her eyes on the much-bemoaned candle as she spoke. “David, that was so incredibly lovely of you to say. I…I don’t know how to respond, if I’m being perfectly honest. Except…thank you. I’m not going to lie and say that your behavior towards me, especially in regards to…certain events…didn’t sting. Because it did. I felt so alone for a really long time, especially when you were standing next to me.”
He looked contrite. “I know you did, Gillian. I saw, but I had this whole concept of misplaced blame that I’d blown out of proportion in my overly analytical brain, and I lashed out—“
“I didn’t make it any easier for you.”
“But I set the rules for the game.”
“I didn’t have to play.”
"But-"
“David, please.” Gillian finally looked up at him, reached out and placed her hand around his where it was in the air, being used as an aid to the point he’d been about to make. She clasped it and, after only a moment’s hesitation, David let his own fingers wrap around Gillian’s. They smiled at each other, almost in relief, as two decades worth of secrets and hurt and laughter flowed between them. They’d always been more fluent in tactile communication than any other language, least of all English.
“What I was trying to say was that you weren’t just some hideous monster all the time. You were supportive and kind when it counted. When I really needed it, you have never let me down. We were too cool to talk about feelings back then, and I share the blame in that respect. I care about you, too—love you, too. We both took for granted what we had with each other, in just about every sense. Wouldn’t you agree?”
David pouted at her in jest, and Gillian’s eyes were drawn to his lips, her hand unconsciously squeezing his a little harder than before. “Yes.” He could see it in her posture. She was forgiving him, and he was elated.
“Good. Will you accept an apology from me, too, then?”
David took Gillian’s hand, the one he’d been holding, and turned it around, so her palm was facing up. Then, he took his other hand, and mimed taking something from her open palm and placing it in his jacket pocket playfully. “There. Apology accepted. Right next to my heart, too.” He coupled that move with a disarmingly adorable smile.
She looked at him, stunned and thoroughly pleased, and gestured toward him over the table. “And that is precisely why I’ve never been able to stay mad at you.”
He looked at her, still feeling his good mood like a light buzz, flowing from toes to fingertips. “Why? Cause I’m just so damn charming?” He fluttered his eyelashes at her for effect.
In response, she simply smiled at him enigmatically and shrugged.
Almost like clockwork, the waiter showed up at that moment with their food (a duck risotto for Gillian and vegan spaghetti for David). After he’d left, Gillian looked at his plate and exclaimed, “David!” in disgust.
“What?” he asked innocently, preparing to dig in.
“How can you eat that?”
He scooped up a forkful and took a bite. With his mouth full, he answered, “What? It’s good.”
“The noodles are green. And so is the sauce. Since when is spaghetti sauce green?”
Again, he simply shrugged.
“Gross.”
The rest of dinner passed in a similarly companionable way. They were lighthearted, traded barbs back and forth across the table like Tracy and Hepburn. By the end of the meal, they were amazed to find that they enjoyed one another’s company even more now that some of the air between them had been cleared. Their main problem, of which David had always been aware, but powerless to fix, was insecurity. She didn’t think he really cared about her and he had no idea what she thought of him. Now that they’d both established that they cared for one another, that last layer of tension between them dissipated.
They walked outside to wait for their respective cabs. “So, this was fun,” David said, looking down on her. She was standing mostly facing him, arm brushing his as they leaned casually against a building.
Gillian smiled, almost bashfully, and gazed out onto the street. “Yes, it was.”
He grasped her chin between his thumb and forefinger, gently forcing her to look at him. “I’d like to talk to you more often, see you more often. If that’s okay with you.”
She shrugged. “I’ve always left lines of communication open with you.”
“I know. I’m just warning you, I’m going to be using them now. And I hope you feel free to do the same.”
“You want to be proper friends, then?”
“Sure, yeah, proper friends.”
“Well, then, we have to spit on it.”
“Spit on it?”
“My sons do it at school. When you decide to be friends with someone, you spit into your hand, your friend spits into theirs, and then you shake on it.”
“That sounds disgusting, Gillian.”
She shrugged, as if to say, what are you gonna do?
“I can think of other, far more enjoyable, ways to exchange saliva.”
“Yes, but as we well know, those aren’t eternally binding.” She looked up at him hopefully, with those big, blue, wet, eyes for which he held so much pent-up affection. A sense of dread washed over him, as he realized that he might never be able to say no to her ever again, especially when she looked at him like that.
Sighing the sigh of everlasting suffering, he relented, and spit in his hand. As soon as he did so, Gillian burst into surprised giggles, which kept interrupting her as she spoke. “I didn’t…think you’d actually…do it.” She swayed, drunk on her amusement, leaning her head into his chest for a moment. When she was again standing upright, she looked into his face. He was glaring at her, mostly in jest, but he was a little irked that she’d tricked him. “Sorry.” She looked a little sheepish, a tad remorseful, and that was enough for him. Besides, she was awfully cute when up to no good.
“Now you have to do it, too. It’s only fair.” She smiled at him and gamely accepted his challenge with a brisk nod. She spat into her hand, held it out in front of him, and they shook.
Just then, a cab pulled up to the curb in front of them. It was Gillian’s. She looked up at him, head cocked, smile bright and sweet and full of affection. David reached down for a hug, which she returned. When he started to pull away, she moved her hand to the back of his head, holding him there, and placed a quick, chaste kiss to his lips. Then, into his ear, she whispered, “Thanks for asking me to dinner, David.”
She pulled away, and he was smiling serenely at her. “Anytime.”
She nodded her head a few times and started to walk to the car. As an afterthought, she turned around and said, with false enthusiasm, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He groaned. “Ugh. Do we have to go? And there’s another panel, isn’t there?”
She nodded her head sympathetically. “Yep.”
“Shit.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve procured some kickass pot for the occasion, and I just might share it with you, if you’re nice to me.”
He looked at her in disbelief. “You get baked at these things?”
“It’s the only way to do them.”
“I like the way you think, G-woman.”
“So do I, G-man. So do I.”
With a flourish, she opened the cab door, slid in, and then she was gone.
David noticed his surroundings for the first time since she’d entered his space hours earlier, and found himself calmed by the goings on of the city, his city. The air felt rife with possibility for the first time in a while. His relationship with Gillian: In a good place. He wasn’t certain where it would lead. If the stirring in his groin at that little peck she’d just given him was any indication, however, he’d be willing to bet that, at the very least, it wouldn’t be boring.