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Anne Shirley-Cuthbert is nervous.
Gilbert went out with Bash this evening and is due to be home any minute.
7 minutes ago, she received a text.
Gilbert (my hottie bf) <3
we r in da uuuber now see u soon 😘😘😘
He is not one to regularly use letters in place of words. He is not one to regularly use the kissy face emoji either.
So, she concludes, he is drunk.
She should have expected it, really. It’s not like he and Bash were going to a bar downtown to drink Shirley Temples all night long. No, him being drunk is a perfectly obvious, acceptable outcome of a night out with his best bud.
It’s not some wild idea, but, nevertheless, Anne hadn’t really thought about it. She’s never really been in the presence of Drunk Gilbert Blythe before.
Anne Shirley-Cuthbert, herself, has only gotten drunk on her own accord once before. The night of her high school graduation. Her small class of 35 students had gathered at the ruins and shared a couple of bottles of whatever-the-fuck 17 and 18-year-olds from the small town of Avonlea could get their hands on. Then, of course, there was the accidental intoxication that she and Diana had become victims to when they were merely 13. She’s not sure if that actually counts.
So, she is nervous.
The issue is, even without her own personal experience of being drunk, she is no stranger to alcohol. No, her various foster parents or, rather, foster employers made sure of that. Some of her worst memories center around a man with his hand wrapped around the neck of a bottle and the other winding up for--
No.
She won’t do that. Gilbert is on his way home. Drunk. She needs to be ready to help him get to bed. She needs to be ready.
She’s tidied as much of the house as she possibly could in the 7 minutes since she was notified with a kissy-face-emoji-accompanied text that he was heading to their shared apartment. Their home.
She’s twiddling her thumbs with a glass of water and 3 Advil sitting beside her on the kitchen counter while she actively does not think about her time at the Hammond's. Or most of the other foster homes she ended up at, for that matter.
She hears clambering from down the hall along with a sneeze that’s followed by a sort of cackle that Anne can distinctly identify as Gilbert’s.
Anne takes a deep breath and straightens her back. She keeps her hands together in an effort to stop the trembling.
She feels like a traitor.
This is Gilbert. Her Gilbert. The one who pretends to think Anne’s reality TV shows are annoying but always ends up on the couch alongside her, stealing her snacks, and making comments on whose outfit makes them look like they’re trying way too hard. The one who is horrible at cooking anything that is cooked outside of the microwave or wasn't previously frozen with instructions as simple as the degree to preheat to and for how long it needs to be in the oven. The one whose hands always gravitate to absentmindedly play with her hair and had learned to french braid the aggressively red tendrils that she used to be so insecure about. The one who can never say no to his niece and wears the beaded bracelet she made for him when she was 4 at all times (except, of course, when it may come into contact with water. Gilbert would never allow that). The one whose passion lies with healing those who have been hurt. The one she loves. The one she trusts.
She feels so much guilt it’s hard to breathe, but she can’t. She just can’t.
There’s the sound of keys on the other side of the door and Anne isn’t moving to meet him or to open the door. She’s too…
She hates this.
She hears a resolute, ‘Aha!’ then the sound of the key entering and turning in the keyhole.
Gilbert peeks his head around the door and his eyes catch Anne who is looking at him but not really at him. His face breaks out into a loopy smile.
He whispers quite loudly as he passes the threshold and shuts the door softly, “Hi.”
He drops his keys onto the floor and then plops himself down right alongside them to take off his shoes. A black pair of high-top Converse. He has blue and grey polka-dotted socks on.
He looks up at Anne who is carefully watching his movements, mouth in a flat line. She swallows deeply. Her Adam’s apple bobs a bit.
“Hi,” she returns, seconds later with an extremely poor attempt at a smile, matching his whisper. She calculates her actions based on the way in which he moves. The way in which he speaks. This tactic is familiar. She falls into the mindset so easily. Like riding a bike.
His shoes are officially removed and set next to her signature pair of red Converse she embroidered with flowers. He sits criss-cross applesauce on the rug just inside the door. She focuses on his polka-dot socks.
“Did you have a good time?”
He looks right at her with a dopey smile. “Yeah, but I missed you.”
Anne wants to genuinely smile back but she also doesn’t know if she can muster one right about now.
“I missed you too.” She did. She misses him even now. Especially now. She could really use a hug from her Gilbert right now. He would tell her that no one is going to hurt her and that she was safe. She would believe him.
She’s not sure if this is her Gilbert yet. She wishes she was.
Traitor. Traitor. Traitor.
“Yeah?”
“Mhm. Do you want some water? I’ve got some right here. Some Advil, too. To get a headstart on handling the hangover.”
The hangover. If Mr. Hammond managed to stop drinking for enough hours for his to hit… Anne holds back a shudder.
Gilbert stands up from his position on the floor. He uses their dining table to his right and the doorknob behind him to steady himself, looking at his feet. He wiggles his toes then looks up.
“Maybe you should be the doctor. Medicating me and everything.”
He’s joking. Anne can work with that.
“I’d hardly call Advil ‘medicating’ you, but okay.”
“Doctor Shirley-Cuthbert, I would love some Advil.” He shimmies a bit on the way over to her.
Anne holds her breath.
She slides over the glass of water and drops the three Advil into his open hand.
He plops them into his mouth, and then, with a big gulp of water swallows all three of them in one go.
He then holds out his tongue with an ‘Ah’ to showcase his brilliant work of swallowing down his ‘medication’.
“Well done.” Anne’s mouth is threatening to curve into a smile but it’s not quite there.
Gilbert’s face goes serious and Anne’s nerves multiply-- she knows that’s not who he is. She knows, but they do anyway.
He looks into her eyes so intently that she struggles to look directly back. She settles for watching his eyelashes flutter with his half-blinks and shifting of his eyes. They’re easier to look at. Less scary.
"You know I love you soooo much, right?”
Anne’s eyes snap to his. He has a big ol’ grin on his face. She wants to cry. Why do they get to have this power over her? They shouldn’t be able to still hurt her. To distort the beautiful image she has of the love of her life, even if it’s just for one night. It’s not right. It’s not fair. To either of them. This is Gilbert. She won’t let them. She can’t.
“I know.” She does. “And I love you.” She does.
He smiles softly up at her. His eyes light up like they do every time they exchange I love yous.
“I’m gonna hug you now. Is that okay? ‘Cause I really wanna hug you.”
“Yes,” she replies with a breath because, of course, he wants to hug her when he’s drunk. Of course. This is Gilbert Blythe we’re talking about.
He smiles brightly. “‘Kay.” Then, he puts his arms around her waist softly at first then more firm. She pauses unmoving for a moment then holds on tightly in return. It’s her Gilbert. It’s him. He’s not going to hurt anybody. He loves her.
Her emotions battle.
Relief and guilt.
Relief vs. guilt? She’s not sure.
It’s her Gilbert. That she’s sure of.
She knows it in the way that he nuzzles into her neck. Into her hair. In the way that he sighs and presses light kisses along the tops of her shoulders. In the way that he smiles. In the way that his eyes sparkle. In the way that he asked to hug her. In the way that he’s wearing goddamn polka-dot socks.
She loves him. She is safe.
And, as she aids him in his nightly routine and tucks him into their bed before getting in next to him, she knows that tonight wasn’t okay. She lies awake with a sleeping Gilbert cuddled on her chest. Thinking. She knows that she will have to talk to Gilbert in the morning and maybe go back to therapy. She knows she probably should have never stopped therapy in the first place. She knows that it’s not her fault that she was scared. She knows it’s not Gilbert’s, either. She knows that she’s safe and she’s loved.
And, for tonight, that’s enough. She lets herself sleep.