A/N: For Jodes, a Post-ep for The Last Call
Alicia POV
Frozen.
That's how I feel.
Frozen and numb.
I've been standing for what feels like an eternity, and it's like I'm no longer connected to my body.
Almost like I'm dead.
That thought came unbidden. And unwelcome.
I can't go down that path of what if I'd been in the courtroom or what if I'd taken over the case or what if some other defendant – one of my clients – had chosen to do the same irrational and incomprehensible act.
Because as much as I'm hurting over Will, I'm still glad it wasn't me.
And maybe that sounds selfish, I don't know. I don't mean it like that. Obviously I don't want it to be Will either, but why does it have to be a one or the other type thing and why wasn't he able to finish his phone call, to just tell me what he had to say?
I can hear it perfectly in my mind.
"Alicia, I'm sorry. I want what we had. I want to be with you, and only you. Forever. Call me back please."
Is that what he wanted to say?
Was he calling to try to win me back?
Trying to seduce me away from my husband?
Because I'm married again. Not like before, when I first asked him about our future.
My eyes fall closed and I almost feel physically ill.
I made a choice, and it wasn't Will. But should it have been? And what if I had picked Will? What if I were still at Lockhart/Gardner, and what if Will and I were still sneaking off whenever possible, intent on stripping each other down and making passionate love, and what if that's where we were when the courtroom shooting occurred?
Then Will wouldn't be dead.
"Alicia."
Peter's voice interrupted my disjointed and desperate thoughts.
And suddenly I can feel his arms around me. Peter's, I mean. They've been there all along, but I just now feel them.
He's enveloping me completely in a comforting embrace, and the ice that's filled my veins for the past fourteen hours starts to melt.
Very slowly, but still…
"What can I do?" he mumbles, his lips pressed against the side of my head.
My kneejerk response was to shove him away and scream at him, rail against the unjust world that took away the man I love while leaving me with the one who hurt me so badly…but I don't do that. I don't push him away and I don't make a sound. Instead, I analyze my impetuous sentiment while my blood continues to thaw from the steady warmth of Peter's arms around me.
I love Will? Really?
I mean, yes, I love Will. But I love Will?
Tears burn my eyes as my mind supplies the answer.
No, not like that.
I will always love him for who he was in my life, what he meant to me and what he did for me and who we were to each other, but when posed with the opportunity to actually attempt a life with Will, things fizzled. Will was a hot sparks and intense flame kind of guy. Not the forever type, in spite of my romanticized version of how the phone message from him might have sounded.
My rational thinking took a nose dive as I recognized my use of past tense.
Will was.
Because Will is no more.
Tears came harder, although it's funny because I don't remember when they actually started to fall, but they're definitely running rampant now and there's nothing I can do about it.
Peter pulls me even closer. Kisses me, near my ear and then on the side of my throat. Not sexual kisses, but the kind that say I'm here. Because he is. He always is. When Grace was missing, when I got fired…he dropped everything and burst through the door to be here.
"Let it out," he murmurs.
But I have to wonder if he'd be so accommodating if he knew my thoughts.
Which are…oh, right.
That I love Will but I don't love Will.
And I'm here with Peter, whose callous actions ripped out my heart.
Years ago, I reminded myself.
During which time he repented. Reformed. Reinvented himself.
Mostly.
During which time I explored the white hot passion that was me and Will.
And then we broke it off. And I fell back in love with Peter. I'm not sure which happened first, but I'm not sure it matters. Because I'm not sure I ever fell out of love with Peter. I was just really, really angry. And again, I'm not sure I ever wholly loved Will. Not that kind of love. I think maybe I just loved being in love with someone other than Peter. Being in love with someone who didn't hold my heart in his hand. Someone who didn't have the power to destroy me.
But that's not love, is it?
Because it can't be both ways.
Love is giving all of yourself and taking all of the other person, and that includes giving them power, and them giving it to you in return.
That's why I was hesitant last fall when Peter proposed.
Marrying him would mean giving him the ability to devastate me.
"You promise me that you will never put me through the same thing again," I challenged him as we sat across from each other on the campaign bus.
He reached for me and I pulled away. I couldn't let him touch me.
Why not?
Because we have spark, my mind supplied with wonder.
I'm not sure why I never thought about it like that before. Previously, I labeled Will as passion, and Peter as love. Will as a fantasy – even when I actually had him – and Peter as my reality. Will was the hint of another life, a different life. Peter is the life I chose. The life I continue to choose.
And we do have spark. So much so that that day on the campaign bus I pulled back, not wanting to feel the touch of his hand until he made his promise because I needed his promise and I was afraid that his touch would set off those butterflies that make me lose my head.
"Alicia. I promise."
His words were sincere and honest and heartfelt and I believed him.
I believe him.
Because I love him, with all of my heart, like I've never loved anyone.
Not even Will.
I relax into Peter's embrace, realizing for the first time that all along I've been tense. My muscles were frozen, too, I suppose, so that I was standing rigidly, an inactive participant in the hug.
But I can feel now. The familiar solidness of his chest and the warmth of his breath in my hair and the light touch of one hand as it strokes over my back while the other stays pressed against me, holding me protectively to him.
I can feel his love for me, and his sadness over my loss. I don't hold any silly notion that Peter is actually hurting for Will, but he's hurting for me because I'm hurting. And he's probably racked with that sense of something that people feel when someone young is taken unexpectedly and senselessly, that feeling of confusion and gratefulness and commitment to appreciate life from this day forward.
Appreciate life.
Let bygones be bygones.
"Alicia," Will called to me. "Thanks."
We were outside of the courtroom yesterday. The one where Will was shot. I'd just told him about the Grants calling me for a second opinion on their son's case.
It pissed him off and yet he appreciated being told. Respected me for doing the right thing, I think. We stood there looking at each other, sizing each other up, and there was no hint of who we once were. Lovers, I mean. No hint of that at all, but there also wasn't much left of the hatred brought about by my departure from the firm. It was just…us.
And I had to smile.
Because I'd missed him as my friend. And how much time did we waste being angry at each other? How many days that we'll never get back?
"Hey, we might have our differences, but you're the better lawyer," I said to him.
And then he smiled. Chuckled, even.
"I am, aren't I?"
"And the more humble," I responded. And at the time, I felt like a weight was lifted. The dark days of the Alicia and Will saga were finally over. The world was right again. He was once again my friend.
Was.
Why couldn't we have buried the hatchet months ago? Why did we so arrogantly believe that life would go on and on and we had time to waste being bitter and petty?
I tuned in to the feel of Peter's body again. The steady thump of his heartbeat. The rise and fall of his chest with each breath. The light tickle of exhalations against my ear.
And then I realized that he's still just holding me. My arms are still lifeless at my sides, and I haven't spoken a word since the embrace began, and the clock has surely ticked off hundreds and hundreds of seconds, and he's still holding me without getting anything in return.
I take in a deep breath and our chests move in rhythm and I realize that my breathing is in sync with his. It's like he's been doing it for me while I was too numb to handle the task for myself, too immobilized by shock and grief to handle basic life functions.
But I'm feeling warmer now.
Not over my grief, obviously, but I feel like I can breathe on my own. I feel like I might survive this unusually cruel twist, this unexpected tragic loss.
Because he's lending me his strength when I have none.
That's what real love is.
I'm not sure if my arms will move, but I send them a message, and I'm surprised when it works. My hands slide around beneath his jacket, my fingers brushing across the smooth fabric of his shirt. I exhale heavily and so does he, and mine is predictably shaky, but so is his, and that takes me by surprise.
I've been so caught up in my own emotions that I haven't considered his.
I guess I am selfish.
I pull back from him. I don't want to because his embrace has done more to soothe my searing soul than words can ever express, but I need to see his face. Because I don't want to be selfish. I can't just blindly take from him. That would make me the woman I was before. Before the dalliance with hookers and before prison and before the split and before I slept with Will and before I married Peter again and before Will was killed.
I think these things as I'm studying Peter's face, and the horror of what I've just done stalls my assessment.
Because I used Will's death as a bookmark. Just one more event to mark the passing of time.
Prison. Separation. Will's death.
It's shouldn't be that simple.
It's not that simple.
"What?" Peter asks softly, clearly confused by my silent scrutiny.
"I'm…I…" I begin, and then I start again. "Are you okay?"
"Me?" he asks in surprise, his hand moving up to gently smooth over my hair. "I'm just worried about you."
And he looks unsure of himself.
Like he knows what I was thinking earlier.
That I'm mourning the loss of the love of my life.
"I'm fine," I say, but even I know it's a lie.
I'm so not fine. But not because of why he thinks. So I try again.
"I will be fine," I amend. "It's just…going to take some time."
"Of course," he agrees. "He was…he was your…"
"Friend," I supply, but that doesn't sound like nearly enough. I'm not sure there's a word to describe what he was to me.
"He was more than that," Peter acknowledges, and there's no heat in his words. It's a concession of sorts, not an accusation.
"Yes, he was," I admit, my voice cracking on the words, and I sought refuge in his arms again, that warmth and strength and stability that's drawn me to Peter since the day I met him. I suddenly find myself overwhelmed with love for him. Maybe it's that feeling I mentioned before, the one where sudden death prompts gratitude.
Today it was Will. What if it's Peter tomorrow? Rationally, I know that's highly unlikely, despite his very public position that often polarizes people and draws out the nuts, but still…what if?
"I love you," I say quietly as I bury my face in the crook of his neck. "I don't say that enough."
He responds in kind immediately. Peter never has trouble expressing his feelings for me, even though I often keep mine hidden.
"You have to be exhausted," he says, and it's like his words bring the condition to life.
I am exhausted. Emotionally, physically…just completely spent. I nod in agreement and reluctantly take a step back.
"It'll get easier, I promise," he says soothingly as he takes my hand and we head for the bedroom. "Tomorrow's another day."
"Is it?" I ask, stopping in the doorway so that I can once again look him in the eyes. "What if it isn't? What if it doesn't come?"
"Tomorrow?"
I nod slowly, and I know it's a dumb question because of course the sun will rise again but I'm sure Will thought he'd have a lifetime of tomorrows, too.
"Then…I'm glad I have no regrets. I mean, I do, but I guess I mean I'm glad I've had the chance to make up for my sins. To love you like you deserve to be loved, and to not take you for granted."
His response warms my soul, but it also makes me wonder. Did Will have regrets?
Why was he calling me? What did he want to say?
I might make myself crazy if I keep it up.
It doesn't matter what he was going to say.
We were back on the path to friendship, and that's what counts.
I reached out to him, and he reached back.
"I guess that's not the answer you were looking for," Peter states with unease, and again, he looks uncertain, like he doesn't know where my mind has gone. And I guess he doesn't.
"Is it the truth?" I ask, forcing Will from my mind. I need distance from him to let myself heal. This isn't going to be easy, I know, but I can't make it harder on myself by dwelling on it too much.
"Yes."
"Honesty is never the wrong answer," I reply, and I make a point to smile because I need to and because he needs to see it. It's small and brief, but it's still there and that's what counts, and then I step into our bedroom, tugging on his hand to bring him with me. I only let go long enough to strip out of my clothes, and Peter does the same although he never takes his eyes off of me while he does so, and then together we climb under the covers.
"Thank you," I tell him.
"For what?"
"For being here. For me, I mean. For…I don't know," I say, and then because it's exactly what I mean, I say it again, "For being here."
"I wouldn't want to be anywhere else."
I feel his hand reach for mine, his fingers sliding between mine and taking hold, and as the warmth rolls through me, I release another deep breath and close my eyes.
The End