A/N: I don't even know, guys. It just happened. This show has thrown me headlong into 'ship purgatory. Thanks to lizook for the lookover and reassurance that this wasn't too far off the BS-meter.

Spoilers: up through and including 2x20 (Foreign Affairs)

Cary goes to Alicia not on a whim, but it's also not a carefully laid plan. He does it because he's been feeling softer lately, and while it's not entirely comfortable it's not unpleasant, either; to have people look at you with gratefulness and admiration not because you won them hundreds of thousands of dollars in a frivolous settlement, but because they believe you to be a good person– someone worthy of respect and trust.

He had tried to pull back some of that old, selfish ruthlessness just the other day by asking Kalinda to do him a favor: help secure his job with the State's Attorney before telling Alicia the things she needed and deserved to know about her husband. Even though that request hadn't resulted in a difference in the timing of Alicia's revelation, a heavy and foreign regret has settled over him.

Maybe it doesn't behoove him as an attorney to feel soft in any way. Likely not. But for the past few months he just hasn't had it in him to resent and scheme and hold grudges like he used to.

It might have been Kalinda that did it. Having someone who trusts almost no one put a little faith in you can be intoxicating.

Or maybe it was working for Childs. Everybody may think Cary turned to Childs for revenge against Alicia and the old firm, and it's only half-true; the other half had been a genuine belief that the man was a seeker of truth, concerned with fighting the legacy of Peter Florrick's corruption. Finding that Glenn Childs is more petty, matching or exceeding his predecessor in both animus and questionable dealings, was an unwelcome discovery indeed.

Cary still thinks (now, knows) that Peter Florrick is a dirtbag. Glenn Childs isn't better.

But Alicia Florrick… she is a good person. Not a perfect person, but still good. And because Cary Agos is trying to be a better person, he goes to her when he has a hunch she'll be in her office late at night (her car in the garage confirms it). He used to occasionally play basketball with the night security guard, and it's easy enough to bullshit with the guy and talk himself inside using a combination of legal terminology and made-up words that make his impromptu visit sound professional and important.

At least being softer hasn't dulled his manipulation skills.

He makes his way through the dim and familiar hallways and feels something approaching sentimental; he once felt at home here, even as he constantly struggled to prove himself the better junior associate. It wasn't so different from his time at Harvard. Competition has always been his nature, and at least at Lockhart Gardner, he liked and respected the people around him most of the time.

Which is why he felt so betrayed when they chose Alicia. But this is old news, and the tide has turned.

He sees her through the glass panels of her office; she is sitting with rigid posture at her desk, typing furiously. Her mouth is twisted in grim concentration, lipstick long worn off over the course of the day; she looks drawn and tired and hurt.

Beautiful, still. Always beautiful.

He's noticed her before. As his colleague, as his competitor, for sure; her intelligence and savvy, strengths and weaknesses – her style in the courtroom. But also in the way that most men notice most beautiful women – the soft paleness of her skin, the curve of her hips hugged by the pencil skirts she prefers, the endless length of her legs.

He was always suspicious of her beauty in the past; assuming it was part of the reason she gained the favor of the partners. Now, with lost cynicism, her loveliness only makes him feel somewhat sad.

She reacts to his movement outside; tenses even more, which he wouldn't have thought possible. He forces something approaching a smile and enters her office.

"Hi, Alicia," he greets her, but her former pleasantness is exhausted and she rejects the niceties.

"Why are you here, Cary?"

He knows how it must look, with their history; how it must seem he's here to rub it in. That her husband is as untrustworthy as Cary and Childs have been working to prove, that she got this job but lost the life she built. That it took some time, but she now is the loser, and Cary is the victor, arriving to collect the spoils.

Because of how it must look, he speaks directly and carefully; schmoozing is useless now. "I just wanted to say… I'm sorry. You didn't deserve this. You don't deserve this," he amends.

She looks patently unimpressed. "Am I supposed to say thank you?"

His eyes catch and hold on the gold-backed hinged frame on her desktop; he remembers when he worked here there were older pictures in it of Alicia and Peter and their kids dressed in their Sunday best, smiling angelically. He wonders if she changed those pictures; she must have. There's no way she's letting that image stare at her right now, fooling her with the laughable lie of a perfect family. He meets her gaze. "As far as I'm concerned, there's nothing you're supposed to do right now."

The clock is ticking loudly. Her face stays suspicious, but her shoulders unclench a little. "Did your friend Kalinda send you?" The your is barely emphasized, but enough to sound accusing, and he fights back a wince.

"No." It's true; Kalinda would be unhappy if she knew he was here. ("You could talk to her, once the dust settles," he had told Kalinda, but her chin moved in a slow, sad negative. "She can make the choices now, Cary. Other people have been making them for her for too long.") Kalinda had requested a few weeks off, and her employers graciously agreed. Probably mostly out of respect for Alicia, but also because who wanted to bear the awkwardness that will be Alicia and Kalinda's working relationship from here on out? Not Will or Diane, or anyone else.

Cary hesitates before adding, "For what it's worth though, she feels awful."

"Don't." Alicia's voice is sharp, and he knows he shouldn't have gone there but was unable to help himself. Thinking of Kalinda's stricken face made him do it.

He had been attracted to Kalinda from the start for her cool fearlessness and confidence, and maybe just a little (yes, he has a healthy masochistic streak) her ease in pulling him close enough to titillate before firmly shutting him down and pushing him away. But then she started… needing him, and she seemed so vulnerable and suddenly he wasn't just attracted anymore, he cared – and still does. He hurts for the sadness in her eyes. Wishes he could be the one to make it disappear (but he knows there's only one person who can do that, and it's not him).

But he's disappointed in her, too. He's always known that she uses her sex appeal to get what she wants (hell, she does it with him), but using sex itself – her body, as a means of transaction – it sits poorly with him. He wouldn't deign to get on his high horse about it, but can't help but feel it's so beneath the Kalinda he thought he knew. She's fallen from the lofty place in his imagination, and while it humanizes her, he finds the plummeting sensation a little sickening.

Because of that, he doesn't push that point, but does add, "I couldn't have been the one to tell you. You know it. You would have thought I was just being spiteful. You never would have believed me."

She fixes him with a stony stare that makes him squirm; the things he is saying are true, but he understands why it doesn't matter (like it doesn't matter that Kalinda and Peter were just once and before she knew her). He doesn't know why it's important that Alicia believes him. They have no reason to like each other.

The silence stretches, and his own sense of foolishness weighs heavily on him. "This was… obviously a mistake. I apologize. Be well, Alicia." He turns to leave. He should go home, have a beer. Start making career plans again because he's gone from an asset to persona non grata at the State's Attorney's office in the space it took a reporter to say "Peter Florrick wins."

"Wait."

He pauses with his hand on the door.

Her eyes are on him; he can feel them, dissecting him and examining each piece with the wariness of someone who suspects good intentions may be mythical things – rare as unicorns or friends who won't betray you. "There's something different about you."

Glancing over his shoulder, he tries not to betray his surprise that she'd notice, or care. "Maybe something like that."

She leans forward at her desk, gaze burning like dry ice on bare skin. "I have to say, Cary. You've underestimated my drive to succeed in the past. Weren't always very kind or mature. But you never tried to play me for a fool." A harsh and humorless chuckle escapes her. "That makes you one of the good guys, I guess."

She looks a bit like a hunter; he tries not to be unnerved. "If we were in court tomorrow I'd do what it took to beat you. Don't lower your standards of 'good' for me."

"Trust that it's not just for you."

Turning to her fully once again, there's a part of him that regrets not escaping when he had the chance.

Alicia picks up the picture frame Cary had noticed earlier; examines it and traces her fingers idly across whatever image is behind the glass. "Jackie has the kids. So that Peter and I can 'talk things out.' If you can believe it, I'm not really interested in going home to do that."

(Of course he believes. Because what kind of home is it, with the freshest humiliation and betrayal waiting between its walls?)

Her fingers still. She looks up suddenly, flipping the frame down in her palms. "You want to do something for me?" It's a challenge. Her eyes flash with something her tired face belies.

He finds himself gulping. But still he nods; after all, it is what he came here for. To offer apologies. See what he could do.

"Take me out for a drink."

It's almost one in the morning; the bars close at two. They'd barely have time to finish a beer, and then…

She said she didn't want to go home.

He's never let himself be intimidated by her in court, and he struggles to maintain that same composure now.

"What about after?"

She is fiddling with the picture frame, tipping it back and forth; the flash of the gold is nearly hypnotizing. Her fingers are long and really very elegant. She's not wearing her wedding ring.

Lashes rising, she regards him steadily. "Planning ahead hasn't really done me much good lately."

Oh yes, she's challenging him. Her look isn't seductive as much as aggressive, even a bit captious; like she won't be disappointed for herself if he turns her down, but she'll think less of him for it.

It's a slow realization that Alicia Florrick, who really is usually a very good person, may have (at least temporarily) had the good stripped from her. Strange, how it both makes him sad and turns him on.

"You're trying to get back at them." It's said with wonder; like he hadn't believed her to be capable of such petty human emotions. Underestimating her, again.

"Do you blame me?" she asks sharply.

And he doesn't. Not one bit. There is a lot of blame to go around, but none of it belongs to Alicia Florrick. She's earned the privilege of doing any selfish, stupid, just-for-herself thing she wants.

And, God help them both… he wants to help her.

He wants to make her feel better. Help her even the score.

He imagines taking her back to his apartment. These are premature thoughts, but his mind is Boeing jet-fast and suddenly has him picturing cupping her hips. Kissing her wide and lovely mouth.

For a tantalizing moment, he imagines burying his face between her legs. He's young, but he's done this more than a few times, and his experience has always been heavily supplemented by eagerness and enthusiasm. He thinks he'd probably be as good, if not better, than her prick husband. Maybe even better than silver-tongued Gardner.

Probably not better than Kalinda. But Alicia will never know that.

Emerging from his reverie, he finds her watching him. Knowing.

Not nearly as disapproving as he would have thought. She has her head cocked, is waiting for an answer.

"Okay. I know a place," he says, voice cracking shamefully on the last word like a much younger man.

The corner of her mouth turns up; a little grim, but not forced. She places the picture frame face-down on the desk in front of her. Shuts down her computer. Stands, grabs her purse, and saunters past him. She smells faintly like Givenchy perfume as she passes, and he wavers in lingering scent, feeling dazed until she flips the light switch.

Pausing in the doorway, she looks back at his still and dark form, appearing far more casual than she could possibly feel. "Are you coming?"

He looks at her, tall and graceful and harsher than he remembers, but sublime in her cool fury. Thinks briefly of Kalinda, wonders if this is some sort of betrayal of her, but he pushes thoughts of her wounded and guilty face from his mind.

He is trying to be a better person now than he was before; care more about people.

But he's not a damn saint.

"Coming." He moves through the darkened room until he reaches her; ghosts his fingertips at the small of her back as the door falls shut behind them, clicking as the lock engages.

She's gotten a little harder in the past few days. He's gotten a little softer. In some perverse way, they match now.

(And truthfully, he's feeling a bit less soft now. This way feels more familiar. Fitting.)

Tonight, they meet in the middle.