A/N: Okay, I am actually super unsure about this piece because I feel like Alicia's tone isn't how I would usually write it, because I don't quite know what her reaction will be to Miss Isabel. So, excuse the OOCness, if you find it strange. I am thinking about writing a second part that includes sexy stuff and a resolution if you guys like this one enough. Anyway, hope you guys enjoy! :)
White Blank Page by Mumford and Sons is basically the theme of this whole story. So, I would highly suggest you guys go have a listen. Expect feels.
"My daughter is wound tighter than an eight day clock," Veronica jokes.
Her breath smells of whiskey and it intermingles with the chlorine of the swimming pool. The other mothers frown but nod at the statement, crossing their legs tighter in the only awkward way they can on the metal bleachers. Alicia is eleven and pubescent. Gangly limbs bring the team to state that year. She helps her school win the whole thing, and thirty years later Veronica still talks about it with a smile on her face, some vague semblance of motherly pride.
But all Alicia remembers about it is how the next day, at school, one of her classmates passed her a note entailing that the girl's mother says even Alicia's own mother thinks she's prudish, and Alicia can't fathom how that would come up in a conversation. Shudders to think how her mother happened upon that subject, with her loud mouth and her lack of social thermometer. There's a part of her that is wounded, but it's easy to fix with band aids and accolades. She learns how to wear her labels that summer, just before she turns twelve.
Thirty years later, she stands next to Peter and studies lent on his jacket and battens down the hatches.
When she listens to Amber Madison on Chelsey Lately, the first thing she thinks of is her kids hearing it, and then she thinks of looking down at sloppy handwriting on a paper note, and how the first time she held Zack in her arms she knew he was nothing like Peter.
Mother's intuition, and all that.
/
Insecurity is a finicky being.
Alicia Florrick is a strong, independent businesswoman. She embraces her natural femininity like a shawl, knows how to drag her skirt up her leg, how to sway her hips when she walks in heels. Though she's far from vain, if one were to sit her down with a piece of paper and ask her to write out the things she likes about herself, she could do it without flinching. When she was young, her father instilled within her the rights and wrongs, what matters and what doesn't, and that's one of the reasons the labels are swallowed like pills, things to digest but to placebo the mind. Labels do not define.
But Will is sitting next to her and David Lee across, discussing their client's interests, and David Lee, no nonsense, says, "Alicia, although I love your natural inclinations, do try and be extra soft when hand holding this client, alright? Five million dollars is on the line."
Alicia raises her head slowly from her legal pad, eyes narrowing. "Natural inclinations?"
From the place it is resting on her inner thigh, secret and beneath the table, illicit, Will's hand stops moving in circles. David Lee shrugs, clarifying, "Don't be as hard."
Will's chest puffs with restrained laughter, and when her eyes flicker down she can see the darkened bulge in his slacks, wonders if they'll have enough time to take a lunch-
"Don't be an ice queen," David goes on, and her eyes go to slits so sharply her vision blurs.
Will reacts in a similar fashion, and their simultaneous scrutiny makes the older man backtrack. "You know what I mean," he rolls his eyes, as if he hasn't just insulted the woman in front of him. "If anything, I respect your ability to maintain professionalism and leave emotions at the door. It's refreshing."
She's gone pale, swallows hard, glances in Will's direction and moves her mouth to say something before Will cuts her off. "Well, David, you're not exactly a big, fuzzy teddy bear," Will inserts smoothly. Deflects.
This is the appropriate place to laugh, so she does. And Will is laughing too. And David joins in.
But there's still a tightness in her chest.
A prick at her skin.
/
Alicia picks at her Chinese food that evening, and Will notices there's something wrong right away. How attuned they are to one another, even two months into lunches and clandestine evenings. She slips into the same thing they had back at Georgetown like a second skin. She feels good when she's with him.
Happy.
"What's wrong?" he asks her, putting down his chopsticks and resting his elbows on his knees. Her couch sinks with the weight, and Alicia's eyelids feel heavy.
"Nothing," she brushes him off, placing her own utensils in a precise way and scooting into his body, relaxing when he snakes a hand around her shoulder, allows her to cuddle into his chest. It's domestic in a way that would be dangerous, but at that particular moment she doesn't particularly care for appearances. She just wants to be held.
"Listen, Alicia," Will murmurs, right into her ear. He strokes the curve of her forearm. "If you want me to confront David Lee-
"No," she stops him, twisting to meet his eyes. She presses her lips to his cheek, whispers into his skin. "Thank you, but it's alright. I'm just thinking."
Will adjust to run his hand over her head of dark tresses. Massaging her scalp is nearly more intimate than sex, Alicia thinks. And maybe that's half the problem.
"About what?"
Against the tension strung through her body, Alicia refuses to run from answering a simple question, refuses to be coward to the realities. "Just wondering whether or not," she pauses, trying not to stumble over the syllables, "whether or not I'm your type."
Will looks gobsmacked, and his soothing movements come to a halt. "What?"
Her logic, in her mind, is sound. "We've known one another a long time," she introduced, tilting her head and going over her argument. "And we've always been good friends. But I've met Miss DePaul, and Tammy was even a few years younger-
"Alicia," he barks sharply, eyes saucers. "Are you asking whether or not I'm attracted to you?"
"No," she growls, pitch heightening. Feigning nonchalance pathetically. "I know you're attracted to me, Will. If you weren't attracted to me, we wouldn't be having so much s-
Will moves so fast she can barely recognize what's happening before she's on her back. Will pins her to the seat of the couch, the fabric soft against her skull. He delves his tongue deep into her mouth and sucks on her lips until she's breathless.
"I'm doing something wrong," he mutters before he presses his lips to the side of her neck, peppering her exposed collar bone with sweet, daunting kisses. "If you," peck, "have", peck, "to", peck, "ask."
Alicia's heart is soaring, her nails digging into his neck to pull him harder onto her, but the accusations still bubble. She forcibly puts inches between them, no matter how difficult the wanton need is, building ripe and ready in the pit of her stomach. She doesn't quite fathom why a part of her wants to know; it's a petty thing. She tells herself this isn't insecurity peeking through- just honesty. "Will," she amends, "I'm the first woman you've dated who has had kids. Yes or no?"
He scoffs. "Alicia-
"Yes or no question."
Amusement etched into his gaze, Will purses his lips, contemplating his answer carefully. "Yes. But you know what?"
Alicia circles her pointer finger around his earlobe, inhaling deeply. His answer she had expected- the churn in her stomach at the words coming out of his mouth she did not. It's not that she's insecure, but it's just a reiteration of all the ways they won't last. Will is probably used to Kalindas. Caitlins. And it's sad, that this is the very moment she realizes how much she craves Will's presence like an addiction. His timbre. His tact. They are so good together, but some fray of fate disagrees. And that is the crux of the matter, what's keeping the stars a part.
"What?" she murmurs too quietly.
He lifts off her body, leaves her cold to the apartment air. "Will," comes a breathy whine, right up until he proceeds to run cunning hands up her thigh, unzips her jeans while she watches him with lazy eyes. He doesn't ask permission, doesn't even stop to look at her until he thrusts a hand inside the denim, inside her silk panties. Alicia arches against the armrest for support, tries to shimmy off the material, but Will's in take no prisoners- goes straight for her most sensitive spot and begins to rub hard.
"Hmm."
Alicia twists, tries not to cry out. "Will, please." And then he shifts further, crooks digits to slide two fingertips inside her. Tossing her head, she bites down on her tongue and moans at the white hot pain and pleasure. Four seconds later, he snakes his hand back, leaves her empty and aching. She groans his name again, tries to get his attention, until finally, finally he gives her some kind of response. His eyes drill her own and he looks ravenous. Pupils dilated, almost as if he's the one who has been getting that end of the stick. The next thing he does jars her, makes her want to explode, light herself on fire.
He calmly, precisely-
Sucks his fingers clean.
His chin is still resting on her naval, when he tells her simply, "Just checking to confirm. Nope. There's no difference."
It takes her a little bit for her to process exactly what he's saying.
Then, she bursts into laughter.
"Will Gardner," Alicia shoots, shaking her head in disbelief. He leans onto his elbows and gives her a shit eating grin. "First of all, that's a myth. Second, did you actually just compare me to the other women you've," she breaks off, "tested?"
Will nods unashamedly, shrugging his shoulders, red across the bridge of his nose. It's times like these that she remembers just who the man in front of her is; the same man who once had every professor howling obscenities on April fool's Day, and the same man who has always dragged her giggling with forgiveness from any cellar of infidelity or scandal. She adores him. She really does.
And to top it all off, he goes, "In fact, you're tighter."
The blush that paints her cheeks a prudish pink isn't necessarily intentional. It's just the way he says it- so open and outward, so blunt.
"That's good to know," she chokes, and he crawls back up her body to kiss her breasts through her shirt, fondling them until she hums. Alicia can feel his erection against the top of her thigh, and she takes the opportunity to add some friction against it, if only out of respect for mutual satisfaction. Will's nostrils flare, trying to draw this out as long as possible.
He likes her like this; talking.
"So," he starts in again. "How do exactly do I measure up?"
"Measure?" she repeats teasingly. "Oh, I don't know."
Venturing back down her body, he raises up until there's a knee on either side of her hips, and she darts her hand out, cupping him through his own pants. Will hisses, grinding his teeth. She palms him like she's appraising and taking stock. She knows him well enough by now, but still. It's so nice to watch him squirm.
"I'm not exactly six foot five," Will acknowledges, husky.
No, he's not.
But Peter is, and she knows exactly what Will is saying, what he's implying, and the pivot is so sharp within her, so bright. She hates that Peter has any part of this, with his tight little hookers, with his anything. Alicia bares her teeth in what might've been a smile. If she was a good, decent woman, she'd keep these understandings to herself. They are raw facts, free from sugarcoating. David Lee and his careless words are long forgotten, kicked underneath the couch. In this moment, she knows how false David Lee's words were.
Alicia drops her hand and rests her weight back, on her forearms.
"You're the biggest man I've ever been with," she observes brazenly.
Will goes to say something, and then doesn't. He moves his mouth wordlessly. He sucks in air quickly, like he's ran a marathon. It's obvious he is painfully hard, and she wonders if he's going to take her hard right now- right until he scoots down, begins to rip her jeans from her hips, clawing at her panties to push them aside. Like an animal prowling for the kill, the hunt. A meal. The flurry of limbs is so quick, and she watches his head move down, but then-
"Will," she whispers to catch his attention, and he stops. She doesn't know why she's stopping him, because a part of her wants nothing more than him sucking on her clit, but insecurity is a finicky thing. A quiet, desolate thing, that's not spoken in more than a hushed resonance. "Will, I'm sure these are a change from the norm."
Alicia walks her hand down to guide his own to the soft part of her exposed mid drift, where stark, white lines run rivers across her skin. Some are fainter than others, as she's already pale complected, and there's a deep gouge from Grace, where they cut into her. Will's hand is hot on her skin, searing as he moves his palm over these markings reverently.
Alicia flinches when he suddenly, without pause- leans up and kisses those indentions like he kissed her neck earlier, like any other part of her body. Will kisses them like they are sacred, and he is serious again, her Will, with his strong opinions and his facts to back them up.
He makes her feel unbelievably warm.
"You're a tiger who has earned her stripes," Will says.
.
.
.
She practically flies out of the elevator when she exits. There's cold rage in her veins, and she's trying to get her words together to convey the exact degree of severity to what she's feeling, but even before it's began, she knows words won't be enough.
It has happened. Again.
And it would be okay, really- it would be fine if he would play the game the right way. If the clients he's persuading into coming back to his firm were given reasons that weren't intimate, weren't told in confidence. And it was alright the first time, something easy as her likes and dislikes when giving cross examinations in court, breaking up her rhythm, but this is personal. He's acting like a stranger.
He doesn't have her Will's eyes anymore.
He's this stranger with cutting throat techniques that go beyond wanting to win. He's trying to destroy her and it hurts to know the same arms that held her two years ago are the same ones that want to throw her to the ground, want to pound the hammer into her new firm. He's acting like someone she's never met, like twenty years of knowing one another doesn't count for anything. That would be okay, if he didn't know all her secrets. If he wouldn't stoop so low as to use them against her.
And Cary was right.
She doesn't think it's low.
She thinks it's desperate.
Like he's trying to get her attention by pulling her pigtails constantly. Like he's deliberately trying to make her wobble. Well, she thinks, here it is. Here's the bloodied knuckles. Here's the war cry. Alicia finds his door and strides up to it like she's going into battle.
Raps a total of seven times, and sooner than she'd expected, Alicia can hear the chain unhinging. Holds her breath and she knows her face is red.
The door swings open and Alicia-
Alicia's eyes go wide.
"Hi," the woman says confidently, flashing a Miss America smile like the perfect hostess. "Are you one of Will's lawyer friends? He's in the shower right now, but if you stay a moment-
"No," Alicia interjects, but her voice is barely there.
First impression of the girl is that she can't be older than twenty five, taller than Alicia and built like a super model. She's casually dressed in a long sleeved shirt, but bare feet because she's probably still not old enough to remember to wear socks. There's an innocence in her pretty blue eyes, hair straight from a California beach. Looks like she's never worried a day in her young life. Alicia's eyes flash to just inside the door, where Will's jacket is hung next to a purple pea coat.
Alicia swallows, realizes the woman is still talking.
"What?" she snaps.
"I just asked you what your name was three times. I'm Isabel. Would you like to come inside? You don't seem like you're okay."
Alicia turns to walk away. "I'm sorry, I'll-," and she spots the light fixture just inside the hallway of the apartment, how it had been so tacky before, but now it's trendy, new. A woman's touch in the apartment. In Will's apartment. Her vision blurs, then. Feels like she might faint.
"Thanks so much," the tone she uses is mechanical. Going through the motions, too much to process.
"Wait," Isabel nearly shrieks, and it hurts Alicia's ears so much she wants to cover them. She wants to run away. She needs a glass of red wine, but more than that, she needs to leave and never come back. But Alicia turns because she's going through the motions, and it's all instinct, really.
Isabel has one blonde eyebrow cocked, disbelieving. "You're Alicia, aren't you?"
Her stomach lurches. "Yes," she answers steadily, focuses on making sure her voice doesn't crack.
And then Isabel laughs. "Oh, wow. You're the woman I was worried about? Seriously? Wow, I'm dumb. Seriously?" Her pretty little head can't stop jerking with laughter, and Alicia swallows back something the size of a fist in her throat. She's horrified, but she doesn't quite know why.
"Worried?" she manages.
"I'd thought you were a threat."
Then, Isabel pointedly does a full sweep of Alicia. Head to toe. Wrinkles her nose in disgust.
Alicia takes a step back, because that snaps her out of the haze of morbid confusion and hurt. Alicia glares at Isabel, disgusted right back. "Don't underestimate me," warns a low, grinding voice. It's her own.
But Isabel shakes her head at Alicia like she's spoken a foreign language.
"He'd never take you back. He hates you."
Alicia draws back like she's been punched in the stomach. Knuckles going white, clenched into fists.
Truth is a bitter pill, but Alicia has always known which battles she'll win before they've even began.
Alicia looks at Isabel and her blonde hair and wonders why all the men she loves find blondes with knacks for saying things that tear Alicia in two. Halfway down the hallway, retracing her steps and finding her pride like breadcrumbs to lead her to a safe place, Alicia hears Isabel deliver the last, parting shots. "I won't tell him you were here."
When she bows her head on the ride down, it's almost to find her footing.
It feels like she's lost the ground.
/
Three hours and a bottle of wine later, she lays in bed and looks up at the ceiling, and tries not to think. Rests her hands on her belly, gorged from the alcohol- until she feels where her nightshirt has ridden up, looks down.
She traces the stretch marks with her fingertips and imagines Will fucking Isabel miles away. Imagines blonde hairs on Will's pillows. Imagines laughter and kissing and wonders if Will has bought Isabel lingerie like Will bought her lingerie. It's stupid and senseless and there's a reason for these terrible things. She can't spend her life dwelling on things that are shoved under a rug.
Her argument is simple:
If Will hasn't been pulling her pigtails to garner her attention, as he's already quite enraptured by someone else, then he well and truly is over her. And that's okay. That's fine. That's perfect, because that's what she's always wanted. She's married and the First Lady and the Good Wife and that's fantastic.
But, she counters mentally, that still begs the question as to why he's hurting her.
Lying in bed, completely and utterly alone, it fully hits Alicia for the first time that William Paul Gardner probably hates her. It was picked at, with Isabel. But this is different. Hates her. She'd thought he'd understand, thought he'd eventually ease off the pain. She thought they'd heal better, this way. And it hurts her that she's lost a best friend. It hurts her that she's lost a confidante. It hurts her that she's lost a lover. It hurts her in all the tender places, and Alicia hugs her own body and rolls onto her side.
Will can't stand the sight of her and Alicia feels like February is seeping into her bones.
/
The night of the Shamrock dinner, Alicia wears red.
It's her signature color. Wears the dress so well it feels like a second skin. Grace had commented how it looks like she's lost weight, and Alicia doesn't spare it a second thought. She hasn't had an appetite the past few weeks, more interested to go over a brief and strategize than to eat lunch. Here's the thing about Alicia: she's not a victim. If a situation can't be fixed, there are other things to deal with. Other things. But still, like a virus that's been consuming her immune system, it ticks, swells. Any time she can, she gives cases where Will is in any way involved to Cary. Cary wins them, generally, which makes it easier.
Tonight she couldn't avoid. Had almost, almost decided against attending until Eli had insisted, noted that Peter would be there making his rounds, too. So, here she is; a table with Cary and Robyn as his date. Peter to her left, Eli to her right. All was well-
Until, of course, along came trouble.
In the form of Will striding in with Isabel on his arm, and-
Oh. Alicia hadn't seen the tattoos.
"Gardner sure knows how to pick 'em," Peter snorts into his drink. Alicia cracks a smile, but she only spares Isabel a half a second look. Will looks good.
Will looks…like Will.
Alicia finishes drink in one gulp, and Peter, God love him, motions for a waiter to pour her another.
She goes to take a sip of her new glass, and then makes sure not to spit it out when she realizes exactly where the couple is going. "I didn't know they would be that close to us," Cary murmurs somberly.
"Try a table away," Robyn responds, uncomfortably shifting in her seat.
And Will, Will finally looks at her, as he help Isabel get seated. He doesn't take her in like she's any different than every other woman in the room. If anything, he looks even more bored. Like her smoky eyes and her plunging neckline and her bare shoulders are as meaningless as black and white ink.
Alicia bites the inside of her cheek.
Her chest hurts.
/
She's shadows Peter's side most of the night, uses him as a shield right up until the moment there's finally a collision, Will bumping into Peter and Peter bumping into Will, and Jesus, it almost looks like rams butting horns.
"Will," Peter calls in that menacing drawl. "How are you this evening?"
Will smirks, something awful, and Alicia narrows her eyes at him. He won't even look at her, and suddenly that makes her so angry. "Fine, Governor Florrick. Thanks for asking. Have you met Isabel? She's around here somewhere. Alicia, have you met Isabel?"
His brown eyes flicker to her own coldly. She's standing there like some dummy, but she can't find the fight within her to do anything else. A tiger in a cage.
"Robbing the cradle, eh, Gardner? She looks barely legal."
Alicia's maroon mouth drops open in an o shape pucker, like watching a train wreck and being unable to look away. But Will answers without missing a beat, delivers the words like they're the most honest thing in the world. "I prefer younger women," he addresses Peter. Like she's not standing there.
Like she doesn't exist.
The nausea hits her so suddenly she digs her nails into Peter's arm, and Peter doesn't even say anything about the vice. Malicious intent twisting Will's face into something like a smile. But it's not. It's not Will. She feels so sick.
This isn't Will when he says, "The best part is, they're willing to try anything. Then again, you probably understand exactly where I'm coming from. Don't you, Peter?"
He looks at Alicia and winks.
But Alicia is focusing on Peter's jaw, the way it clenches and unclenches. She notices, right then, how much gray hair he has these days. She's waiting for the bomb to go off. She's waiting for the ground to open and swallow her whole, and her ear feel hot. She's dizzy and she's waiting, and finally, her husband tells Will in an even voice that doesn't betray any of the rage she knows he's feeling,
"Get out of my sight, Gardner."
Will chuckles like Peter's told a joke, and walks away.
/
Nothing good ever comes from getting fresh air, and she should know this by now.
The balcony is nippy for March, and Alicia is trying not to feel. Pull herself back together, bit by bit, piece by piece. Reconstruct and renew, like those math formulas Owen is always going on about. It should be easy by now, rebuilding from wreckage and ruins. Done it so much in her lifetime, she's a pro by now.
Then she looks over and he is there, too.
Makes her jump and convulse in shock, because it's not like he's ignoring her.
He's staring right at her.
All she can find it within her to say is, "Isabel seems like a nice girl."
She doesn't know what on Earth possesses her to say this. With it being the last truthful thing on her mind, and all. But lies are easy things, aren't they? And she hates that she doesn't know which things he's said are truths, and which were just things he said to make her feel better, and it's been so long ago. She wants to leave it all in the past and never see him again. She wants to make him hold her like he once did and never let go. It kills her in little ways that the second option is less likely than winning some jackpot, some lottery of luck and timing.
She misses him and he's standing five feet away.
He says, "Peter is still an asshole," and she can't help it that she laughs.
It's a broken, mangled sound, near hysterical. She's afraid it might turn into crying, if she lets it.
When she eventually stops, she looks at him and asks, "Can't we be civil?"
The question has been haunting her for weeks. If he hates her, he hates her, and there's no going back to other balconies with views of far more beautiful skylines. There's no going back to the quiet nights of beer and pizza and work. No going back to kisses that may as well have been lies.
But maybe they could try. Maybe they could try for the sake of trying.
And then, and then Will laughs at her.
Like Isabel laughed at her.
Alicia snaps, throwing her hands down at her sides and stepping towards him, speaking in rushed bouts. "What did I do that was so horrible?" she desperately asks him.
"You stole my clients-
"Shut up. Shut up! Shut the hell up! We both know that's not what any of this is about. You could care less about the money. This is about us. This isn't about-
"You're right," he cuts her off, and she stops herself. He crosses his arms and lets her have it, and the next words out of his mouth makes her go pale, like he's physically slapped her.
"This is about you using me, Alicia. This is about using our friendship as a stepping stone, this is about you using whatever I felt toward you as leverage, and this is about you being a manipulative bitch who uses people to-
Something makes her inch closer, feel his breath on her face when she tells him,
"Don't make this into something it isn't. I have always respected you as a friend and I'm sorry I hurt you by doing what was best for me. But the way you are acting as a professional," she stops, chooses her words wisely, and she knows she's taking the scissors to sanity and she knows every word is a twisted truth, and she hates it all, hates when she says the words, "is making it clear to everyone involved just how pathetically in love with me you were."
For a split second, Will drops his façade- and she sees it, just a blip. The gut wrenching betrayal.
She almost takes it back, opens her mouth to because the drive in her core is so strong to save and not destroy, before-
"Fuckable."
It's a dirty thing. He says the word and she feels a gust of wind blow against the building, whistling. She almost thinks she's heard it wrong, but then he says it again, the syllables not quite going right in his sleek voice. It's wrong. "What?"
"I found you fuckable, Alicia," he explains. "That doesn't mean I was ever in love with you," words are soft, and it ruins her, how she doesn't know if it's a lie or a truth. She doesn't know anymore and she's losing her best friend all over again. She's losing a lover. He's dead and gone and it hurts and he keeps going. "Guess you should be glad at least I did, though, huh? Your husband has obviously never thought you were."
That does it.
Alicia makes a low, torn sound in the back of her throat. Stricken.
Picked apart.
And she thinks, if this is a taste of my own medicine, I am awful. Awful. Awful. Awful.
She raises her hand to slap him, and then drops it back to her side. Defeated, just.
Just done.
She practically bounds toward the balcony door, but then something catches her forearm, and she's pulled back. Alicia looks down at Will's hand gripping her arm, and then looks at him like he's grown a second head. "Let me go," she pleads, struggling not to cry. She doesn't want him to see her cry.
"Let me go, Will," Alicia cries again, but he tugs her back, and she goes, lets him push her up against the column. Closes her eyes against the sting of salt.
He doesn't kiss her.
He doesn't kiss her and she opens her eyes, and Will is looking at her.
Will raises his hand up, and strokes her cheek. Wipes a tear she hadn't realized had fallen with his thumb. He presses his forehead against her own, and she can smell his aftershave, can smell his skin. Craves. Needs. Wants. Misses. All in the same moment.
But his words are on instant replay in her head, and-
"Will," she whispers his name mournfully, lips quivering. Will doesn't kiss her, and anyone could come find them at this very moment, bad timing could wreak havoc, but it doesn't. They are dead to the world. Will gently slides his hands across her lower back. Alicia twines her arms around the back of his neck, into his hair. He pulls her into his embrace, and the wind begins to sing again.
He hates her, and when he pulls back, he tells her so.
He tells her, "I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I don't want to hate you. I've always just wanted you to be happy, Alicia."
He hates her, though. It's implied, and she knows it, knows that her imagined happiness meant hurting his, knows that he doesn't understand that this is happy. She didn't even understand it, before. He's holding her to his chest and she feels a shred of joy. Peace.
Somehow, that makes it easier when he finally pulls away with an achingly tender kiss pressed to her forehead. One peck. One peck and he leaves her standing there, windblown hair a mess. It's better to turn out the light for the night than to draw it out any further. She still doesn't know how many things were lies, and how many things were truths.
These little daemons, knocking at her door.
/
They ride back to Alicia's apartment in the limo. Peter falls asleep halfway through, and she's left to think about the night, about the last few months, about the drunks on the street, about Zack and Grace. The windows are fogged and Alicia remembers all the titles she's been stuck with, how being cold has always been a state of living and not a temperature. Then Alicia's mind flits to being kissed on the nose. To being tickled by long hands. To being held on balconies in some secret, torrid way.
Alicia writes a word on the car window like a child.
She thinks of Will Gardner and wipes frigid away with a swipe of her hand.