1. Prompt: Alicia/Finn
Alicia decides, sometime between her second glass of wine and her third shot of tequila, that if the world is so determined to believe that she's sleeping with Finn, she owes it to herself to do it, just once. He answers the door in sweatpants and a faded NYU Law teeshirt and she hesitates, just for a moment.
"Witness prep?" he asks, and she laughs, is still laughing when he kisses her.
2. Prompt: Alicia/Finn, Living on the Edge
They don't talk about it, not really, not ever, and sometimes Finn wants to, but whenever he thinks that it might be okay to try, he remembers the way she tugged her legs to her chest and breathed her confession–yes, Will mattered–as if it was too painful to speak, and he changes his mind.
He was shot and they don't talk about it, because to admit that a slammed door is enough to stop his heart, to admit that the sight of blood leaves him nauseated, to admit that when she is asleep beside him and the world goes quiet he thinks that he can almost hear the words that Will was trying to say—to admit any of those things might break her, he thinks.
He thinks that his words might break her, so they don't talk about it, and they break each other in different ways, in rough kisses and gentle touches, and in the kind of affair that has the potential to destroy them both, but maybe they need that, too; maybe they both need it as much as he needs to say the only words he's ever had the strength to hold back, maybe they need the feeling of falling, need the new-familiar rhythms of quiet lovemaking and the jolt of adrenaline of fucking up against her front door—maybe, he thinks, it's enough.
3. Prompt: Alicia/Will, Late-night phonecall
Alicia's voice is barely more than a whisper, and he wonders whose sensitivities she's trying to protect, wonders if its her kids or her husband, or just a habit she's never managed to shake.
Will doesn't ask, though, and he contents himself with the knowledge that she called him, is always the one (has always been the one) to call on nights like this, when the air is thick and humid, when it seems to wrap itself around him and stay there, so still that he might believe that time has stopped, but for her voice on the other end of the line.
A lifetime ago, in a city on a swamp, she would whisper secrets and he would cradle the phone as if it was some precious, delicate thing, as if the care with which he held the receiver could be felt three floors away, and he does the same thing now, listening to the sound of her voice and time doesn't stop but he thinks that, maybe, it moves backwards.
4. Prompt: Alicia/Finn, Discoveries
Alicia still has a scar on her shin from when she scraped it getting out of the pool when she was nine, and when Finn presses his lips against it and asks, what happened here?, she is struck by how strange it is to be with a man who she hasn't known for half her life; it is freeing, in its way, and exhilarating, and for a brief moment she considers lying to him, making up some fantastic, wonderful story because he would never know the difference.
She doesn't lie, though she could, and he's secretly delighted that its origin is so ordinary, so human, secretly relieved that it doesn't need to be a Conversation, because he still hasn't taken off his shirt and a part of him hopes that he won't have to because— he just nods, keeps moving until his tongue finds a spot behind her knee that makes her twitch and laugh and mutter I hate being ticklish, until his fingers brush against her thighs and she gasps, and her skin is softer than he knew adult skin could be.
He likes the sound of her breathing, as he touches her, likes figuring out how to manipulate it, to turn it sharp or ragged, to transform an exhale into a moan or a whimper and it's all different from what could turn Annie on, but then, Alicia is so very, very different from Ann, so that shouldn't come as a surprise to him and he wonders, idly, who she's comparing him to, but then, he thinks he knows, and Alicia– she doesn't mean to think about Will or Peter, but she can't help it, can't help but think about how reverently Will touched her that first time, how he leaned back for a moment and just looked at her, as if he was almost afraid to move– Finn's not afraid, she doesn't think, and she revels in it, lets herself laugh and sigh and, when he finds just the right angle, breathe his name.
5. Prompt: Alicia/Will, Sunday
"I have to go," she murmurs, and she presses a kiss against the corner of his mouth before she extracts herself from the tangle of sheets, starts collecting clothing from his floor, grins, and adds, "I have to pick up my daughter from church."
Will chuckles and props himself up to watch her get dressed, thinks that he finds it far sexier than it is, probably, thinks about the way, ten minutes ago, she was panting oh God, oh God, and his mouth was at her breast and it felt holy and sacred, like praying, and he wants to tell her that, wants to tell her that there's no irony or shame in what they're doing, wants to tell her that he shares her skepticism but she gives him faith, makes him want to believe in all of the things that he chose to forget the day after his bar mitzvah.
"Peter has them, next weekend," she tells him, and she missed a hole so she unbuttons and re-buttons her cardigan, eyes on him the whole time, and he's still in bed, still naked, still trying not to suggest that she stay even though he knows that she can't, knows that she never does, when she adds, "so if you want to come over on Friday night, I'll let you explain football to me next Sunday afternoon."
6. Prompt: Alicia/Finn, Goodnight
Finn calls her, sometimes, when a car backfires or his neighbor's sixteen-year-old daughter slams the door to storm off in a huff, when it's dark and he is on edge and he wants to vomit or scream, when he wants to tell someone that he can't close his eyes because he's afraid that if he does he'll get stuck in that moment all over again.
Finn calls her, in those moments, and he doesn't say any of those things because she is the last person he should be confiding in, but the sound of her voice keeps him grounded, through the phone line, and it lets him know that if he chooses to close his eyes, he can choose to open them, too, that the car was just a car and the door was just a door and she never has to tell him that for him to know it.
Finn calls, and Alicia talks more on the phone than she does when they sit together in bars and offices, and he wonders if it's easier for her, not seeing, or if it's easier for him to listen when he's not biting back you're beautiful or I'm sorry, when he's not reminding himself of all of the hundred reasons that he can't have her, all of the hundred reasons that he doesn't even know if he wants her— It's easier, talking on the phone, and it's what he needs, really, because when she whispers goodnight Finn, he knows that it will be, knows that if he sleeps, he will wake up, knows that she will too.
7. Prompt: Alicia/Eli, Take-out
It's almost midnight when she hears the knock at the door, and she hesitates for a moment, prepares herself; she expects Johnny or Diane, or even Finn, maybe, but when it's Eli standing in her doorway she can't decide if she should smile or frown, if she should say hello or not now, go away or come on in.
In the end, he saves her from having to say anything at all, just holds up a white plastic bag that smells divine, that makes her stomach wake up and remind her that she really can't keep skipping meals like this and—
"Marissa said she hadn't seen you eat all day, and that your fridge is even more empty than mine," Eli explains, and Alicia is so grateful that she forgets to be angry, forgets to resent the way the campaign means that her life is no longer her own.
They eat in companionable silence on her sofa, sharing kung pao and lo mein and when she rubs at her eyes and yawns, Eli clears the mess of cartons and soy sauce packets away, shoots her a shy, sad little smile on his way out the door.
8. Prompt: Alicia in Will's Office, baseball
Alicia doesn't see it until she drops her lipstick and has to bend over to pick it up, doesn't even known it's there until she's on her knees in bathroom and groping under the sink–
–and God, the last time she was on her knees in this bathroom his hands were in her hair and she was–
–and her fingers brush against it, there, in the corner, and she–
–she leaned back, when he was finished, sat back on her heels and smiled up at him and thought that he'd never looked so beautiful as he did in that moment, with his pants around his waist and her lipstick on his thigh, and he was a mess, but a beautiful mess, her beautiful mess, beaming down at her, mouth hanging open in what almost looked like awe and she couldn't stop smiling–
–she feels the leather against her fingers, smooth and familiar and her hand instinctively curls around it. The stitching is worn beneath her thumb and she leans back with her prize, cradles it to her chest and closes her eyes and remembers–
–he pressed the ball into her hand and smiled at her, positioned her fingers just-so before moving to stand behind her, to mold his body to hers, and she let him, let him move in so close that she could feel stubble brushing against her cheek, and she let herself go slack, let him take control of her arms and her hips as he moved with her, slow and practiced, whispering instructions in her ear and–
–and the thing is, she doesn't want to remember because it hurts, and she is at work, and there isn't time to hurt and Louis Canning is waiting in the conference room so it's the wrong moment to be sentimental.
She is still holding the ball when she emerges and Canning is standing there, waiting for her, his hands in his pockets and a smirk on his face when he says:
"I was wondering how long it'd take for you to find that."
9. Prompt: Alicia, Finn, Zach, Pot
"Yeah, but in high school," he says again, and he flags down the bartender for a refill because it's not the sort of thing he wants to talk about, really, not the sort of thing he likes to talk about, not after— He doesn't want to talk about Leah, either, and they don't, for the most part, and he wonders if it's because she feels guilty for bringing her up, that one time, feels guilty for using his sister to rattle him– He wonders if it's that, or if it's that he might resent her for it, a little, might feel like she picked at a wound that she had no right to touch, but he doesn't like to think about that, doesn't want to think about—"But then, in college, I figured out that I wanted to be a lawyer and started worrying about being arrested, so…"
He trails off, and Alicia nods, watching him, and he wonders what she's thinking, when she looks at him like that, and it's strange thing, feeling her eyes on him, constantly, and he wishes that he knew what it meant, when she looked at him like that, when she tracked him across a room, wishes he knew if she was looking or just looking, and it— It doesn't really matter, and it's not at all relevant, but he's lost count of the number of times the bartender has refilled his glass and he's a talkative drunk, which is something that even college and law school couldn't change about him, and he sighs, looks up at her, says, "But seriously, Alicia, he's a kid and he'll stop, once he figures out that it's not nearly as much fun when no one's going to tell him no, and even if he doesn't, it's still just pot, and maybe if you eased up a little, he'd stop—"
"—If I 'eased up a little?'" she asks, and her gaze has turned incredulous, now, so he knows that he's really stepped in it, but the thing is, he doesn't feel bad, not really, not at all, actually, because he's pretty sure she's one of those moms who comes down too hard on her kids to make up for all of the things that she doesn't know, all of the things she wasn't there to scold them for, and it probably makes her feel guilty, that.
"I still can't believe you never tried it," he says, trying to change the subject, sort of, or to change the conversation, because he doesn't want to talk about kids or high school or the fact that he was the one to hand Leah her first drink, her first cigarette, her first joint, so he grins at her to try to stop thinking about it and adds, as an afterthought, "I think you'd be fun, stoned," and the thing is, he means it, and he's pretty sure it's the bourbon but he wants her to try it, now, wants to get stoned with her, even though it's been years and there's nothing quite so pathetic as a couple of middle-aged lawyers getting stoned on pot that would have to come from her brother or her son, but it's not about the drug, it's about wanting to watch her as she has an experience that she's never had before, and that is something that he wants as much as he wants just about anything in his life.