In my head, this takes place in the same universe as the phenomenally talented Pebblysand's "Once." ( s/9189451/1/Once) Many, many thanks for permission to play in this sandbox.

They are sitting at the dining room table, the moving boxes stacked high around them and in two days, she'll walk out of his life. For now, though, they have coffee cups and notebooks and a stack of bar prep material and he doesn't think that he can jam one more fact into his head.

She says, "I'm pregnant," like she's asking him to pass the salt or reminding him about the contours of the business judgement rule, and he thinks don't let it be mine and please let it be mine in the same fraction of a second.

It's probably not his. That's the next thing he thinks. It was months ago and she would have known already, would have told him. It was just that once, that one time right after he found out about his father. It was just that one morning, before Peter showed up to beg her forgiveness. Even that one time, though, even dull with grief and exhaustion he didn't let himself think that maybe, maybe– But now, suddenly, he does. Now he thinks that maybe it is, maybe somehow they managed to take the ashes of his family and create something that's alive and growing and suddenly he remembers how it felt to kiss her, remembers the way the light and curtains drew shadows over her back when she slept. Maybe she was holding back, giving herself time to sort it all out, to make a decision.

"You're– ?" He doesn't know if he's hopeful or terrified. Doesn't know anything, really.

"Don't worry, it's not yours," she says, and he knows she thinks that this should make him feel better, make him feel comforted, but he doesn't. He feels like he's just lost something, feels the grief he's been avoiding for the past few months come crashing down on his head.

"You're sure?" he whispers, and he doesn't know if he's asking whether she's sure she's pregnant or sure of paternity but he needs to be sure, needs to know for certain.

She nods. "Yes," she says. "I mean, I'm four days late and I took three tests this morning, so– Pretty sure, yeah."

"Are you going to–?"

"I don't know," she admits. "I haven't told Peter, yet. I haven't– I haven't told anyone." She looks worried and tired, looks smaller than he's ever seen her.

"Hey," he says. He doesn't tell her that whatever she does, he's sure she'll make the right decision. They aren't those people. He doesn't say congratulations or I'm sorry or everything will be okay. He doesn't say I love you, either, but he thinks it anyway. "Alicia," is what he does say, and he can't tear his eyes away. "What do you need?"

"Um. I don't–" She shakes her head and he holds up a hand before she can tell him that she's fine.

"No. Alicia. What do you need?" He keeps his voice soft but firm, insistent. He's lost track of the times they lied themselves to fine over the past three years and he can't do it again, can't hear the words one more time.

"I made a list," she says, and he thinks of course you did. "This morning. Pros and cons, that sort of thing."

He nods. "Do you want me to…?" He doesn't know what he's supposed to say, doesn't know what his role is, all of a sudden. There was that one time, then Peter, and they never talked about it, never let it change anything and now it never will but she's sitting across the table from him and trusting him with this secret and he needs to do something. He needs–

"I– " She shrugs, then flips to the back of her notebook and rips out a sheet of paper.

He knows the wide loops of her handwriting as well as anything, but on the list she hands him it's strange and inelegant and the lines of her Ls and Ts and Is are shaky. Still, it's unmistakably her, and he reads the list carefully, doesn't want to miss a thing.

He reads it twice, then looks up at her. "Do you want it?" he asks. "Not someday, not eventually, not– not some hypothetical future baby, but this baby. Do you want it?"

She closes her eyes and goes quiet for a long time. "I think– I think I might," she says, voice soft and small.

"Okay then," he murmurs. "Then there's nothing on that list that you can't overcome," he says, jabbing at the cons with his finger. He can't quite believe what he's saying. He wants to say that there's nothing in the world she can't overcome, but that's not his style. "If you want it, I mean," he says instead.

"So," she says. "Derivative suits, that's what's next on the agenda, right?"

Will nods. "I think so." He hesitates for a moment. "Look, if you want to…" It's not their style, and he kind of hates himself for saying it because if she wanted to talk, she would. He wants it, though, and it's selfish. He wants to talk about the baby that's almost his, about Peter and that one time and fatherhood and–

She shakes her head. "Don't," she says, and there's something wild and desperate in her voice. He remembers that case they read for 1L property about the fox hunt, remembers how she said it was a barbaric sport. Looking at her now, he wonders if that's how Pierson's fox felt as Post was chasing it along the beach. Their grasp on this moment–pregnancy or not–it's so tenuous and he's been trying so hard to hold on for the past few weeks that he never noticed how hard she was trying to get free. Now, though, he sees it. Sees the dance she does, drawing him close then turning to run, disappearing into herself or her work or Peter and he wonders why she didn't try to stop him when he kissed her.

"Please don't treat me any differently."

He swallows. "I wasn't," he says, but they both know it's a lie. "I won't. Shareholder derivative suits. Let's do it."

###

Peter gets in early the next morning. Alicia isn't up yet, so Will opens the door in a t-shirt and boxers, bleary-eyed and hungover. "Hey, Peter," he says, and it hangs awkwardly in the air, the way everything has always been between them.

"Will."

Peter takes up space in a room like no one Will has ever met, and the apartment always feels smaller when he's in town. It's worse now, cluttered with boxes and knowledge and Will pushes a chair out of the way to get to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee.

"She's not up yet," he says, leaning in the doorway to the kitchen. "We were at it pretty late last night."

Peter arches an eyebrow at that, and Will laughs. He laughs, but he thinks that it's interesting the way Peter's looking at him. He thinks about that morning again, wonders if she told him after all. Probably not. They weren't together then, she didn't owe him anything, and Alicia's always been smart about things like that. She's always known that what you don't say matters more than what you do so no, Will decides. She didn't tell him.

"She said you were thinking seven, tomorrow, to start loading the truck?"

"Six-thirty, maybe," Peter says. "Can we give you anything for helping? I know she said you offered, but– " Peter reaches for his wallet, but Will stops him with a shake of his head. It makes him sad, thinking about it. Makes him wonder what kind of people Peter surrounds himself with that he thinks Will would ever ask for money, would ever accept it.

"It's what friends do," he says. "Isn't it?" Peter shrugs and Will hands him a cup of coffee before pouring one for himself. "She should be up soon. Ish," he adds, grasping for conversation. It occurs to him that they never say Alicia's name to one another. It's always she or her but never Alicia. "Good flight?"

"Is there such a thing?" Peter asks, and Will laughs again.

The coffee burns his tongue and he takes Alicia's carton of half and half from the fridge, pours a bit to cool it down. "I should have asked, you don't take milk or sugar or anything, do you?"

Peter shakes his head. "Black's fine," he says. "I leave the cream and sugar to her."

"To Alicia," he says, and he doesn't know why, but he needs to say her name out loud, needs Peter to hear him say it. It's as if he needs Peter to have a memory of the way his mouth forms the syllables, as if that memory can keep her from disappearing out of his life altogether. She will, though. Will knows that, too. He knows that after tomorrow there will be a few phonecalls and cards at Christmas and birthdays but they won't last forever. There will be the bar and work and the baby and whatever their friendship is, it isn't built to withstand distance. It isn't built to withstand life, really.

Peter doesn't say anything, just takes a sip of his coffee. Will wonders if there's anything in the world that's too hot for Peter Florrick.

Will's head is pounding a steady beat into the space just behind his eyes and his stomach growls. "Do you know how the Cubs did last night?" he asks. He returns the half and half to the fridge and retrieves eggs and bacon, decides, rather charitably he thinks, to make breakfast for all of them.

"They won," Peter says. "Six-to-five. It was a decent game, actually, they were up most of the way until they gave up four in the seventh but they took back two in the bottom of the ninth."

This makes Will feel better, in the way that only sports can, and he grins at Peter. "Nice," he says, and it's Peter's turn to laugh. "You okay with scrambled eggs?"

Peter is, so Will cracks eggs into a bowl and remembers teaching Alicia to make bacon, last September. How do you not know this? he asked her. Bacon's its own food group. She hadn't disagreed, just pointed out that they lived three blocks from an all-night diner and she'd never needed to learn. Still, he taught her how to make bacon, and it makes him feel good remembering that. He wonders if she'll remember learning when she cooks for Peter and the kid, wonders if she'll be a responsible parent and insist on turkey bacon. Fakon, Will had called it when she brought it home from the grocery store, once. Bacon for wusses. She had laughed.

"Something smells good," Alicia says as he's scooping eggs onto a plate.

"Will made breakfast, Peter offers. "I'll get you coffee."

"No– " Alicia is quick to stop him, and Will looks up then. "No, I'm good," she adds. She catches Will's eye and he nods, encouraging.

"You guys catch up, I'm gonna get a quick shower." He grabs a slice of bacon before ducking into the bathroom. In the shower, he tries not to think about the conversation that's probably happening in his dining room. Everything ends, he thinks.

###

The wedding in August and Will is invited, but he doesn't go. He's had a post-bar exam trip to Maui planned for months and he won't know anyone there, anyway. He spends the day sitting on a beach flirting with a blonde in a bikini.

###

Will takes the anniversary of his dad's suicide off to sit in his apartment and stare at the walls and ignore the ringing phone. He tells himself that he isn't dwelling, but that's bullshit and he knows it. He spends the morning questioning and doubting and blaming himself until he can't take it anymore.

He gets dressed and goes for a run and when he gets home, there is a robin's egg blue envelope in his mailbox, tucked between a copy of Sports Illustrated and his electricity bill. He'd recognize Alicia's handwriting anywhere and for one brief, horrifying moment he thinks she might have sent him some kind of sympathy card.

That's not Alicia, though. That's never been Alicia. He wonders if hers was one of the half dozen calls he ignored so when he gets upstairs he presses the button on his answering machine to check, to twist the knife that's taken up residence in his gut just that much harder. She didn't call. His mom called. And Aubrey and Sarah and his secretary to let him know she's rescheduled a meeting for eight tomorrow so if he's still sick he needs to let her know ASAP.

He opens a beer and calls work, lies to Katie and says he's feeling better already so eight o'clock tomorrow is fine. The card is still sitting on the dining room table and he picks it up, studies the writing and the postmark and turns it over in his hands until he realizes that he's being ridiculous.

Inside, there is a birth announcement, elegantly printed with a picture of Peter, Alicia, and the baby. Alicia's wearing the biggest smile he's ever seen and her happiness is fucking palpable but he doesn't remember what it was like to feel. Introducing Zachary Florrick, it says. His throat closes a bit and he tosses the card down on the table and closes his eyes. It's like everything he knows is connected through her, somehow. Death and life and it's all wrapped up in Alicia Cavanaugh's smile.

He remembers what Aubrey said to him after graduation, the two of them sitting on the back porch of their parents house–their mother's house–sharing a joint and staring up at a cloudless sky. "It's weird," he had said to her. "It's like everything's ending." She had laughed at him and shook her head. "Haven't you figured it out yet?" she asked him. "The end's just the beginning of the middle of the story of your life."

He thinks about getting out of the shower that morning in July. He felt like he was intruding in his own damn apartment. Peter was looking at Alicia like she had just handed him the greatest gift in the world, looking at her the way she deserved to be seen. Alicia was smiling too, more softly, more peacefully, but when Will caught her eye he saw the glint of excitement that she couldn't suppress.

"We're having a baby," Peter said. It should have bothered him, the way Peter just blurted it out without giving Alicia the opportunity to share the news herself. It didn't really register at the time, he was too worried about letting on that he already knew. "We're getting married."

"Yeah?" He looked at Alicia, at her smile, and he couldn't keep from smiling himself. "I'm glad," he whispered, and he likes to think that she knew what he meant.

He looks back at the card and notices that the scratch of pen at the bottom isn't a signature. The card's not even made to be signed, but Alicia's embellished it anyway.

Thank you.

That's all she wrote.

Note: The case with the fox that Will thinks about is Pierson v. Post, 3 Cai. R. 175, 2 Am. Dec. 264 (N.Y. 1805). Post was pursuing a fox along a public beach with his hunting dogs. Pierson, knowing that Post was pursuing the fox, captured and killed it. Post sued Pierson for possession of the fox and the Court held that mere pursuit of a wild animal does not give one a legal right to it. Title goes to the person who deprives the wild animal of its natural liberty.