Will's got one hand on her knee, underneath the table; his mouth is moving, but she's only half hearing.
Her pants are thick because it's starting to get a little too nippy, the kind of Chicago cold that sinks into your bones. The flesh of her face is hot, though, the blood rising in apple cheeks. It's not because the gesture is sensual or precarious- it feels like the sound of wine glasses clinking together.
He's touching her like it's the easiest thing in the world.
Things come at you in funny ways sometimes, like how the first time she cried about her father's death was when the woman at the funeral home had given her an option of metal or wood. Will's hands have always reminded her of her father's; they're wide enough to wrap around her wrist and ground her.
Sharp and sudden, she misses him. Drowns her in the knowledge that if she were to sneak her own hand beneath the conference table, if she were to surreptitiously take control of his hand, slide it higher-
But then the meeting has ended, and the touch is gone, and Diane is asking her a question she doesn't know the answer to. When she barely responds, the older women takes a rare moment of empathy. Diane tells her, "It's the weather. It's getting to everyone."
Alicia tries not to think about that first night in the Presidential suite, with Will's hands beneath her blouse and his tongue in her mouth.
She's not good at forgetting. Never has been. Every time she tries there's little pieces of memories and sentiments hanging on her soft parts like fishhooks, unrelenting and present. She'd been wrong when she'd told Will she felt cursed. She feels branded.
An hour later, she can still feel the burn of his long fingers across her leg. Cary is saying to her about the client's medical history, but she keeps giving two word answers. Her throat feels constricted.
The second Cary leaves, she checks her watch. Smothers her morals. Sends Will a text.
Lunch.
And she knows they aren't together, knows that word was common place months ago and she's trying to fix things with Peter, but she can't focus. She can't get him out of her head, almost doesn't want to, because the fact still stands that she likes him living there, likes the way all of his corners match her own, that they fit together like puzzle pieces. Sometimes, it's almost like despite the bad timing, despite the entire world plotting against this, it feels like they were meant to love.
But Alicia hasn't been a romantic since the day she realized CNBC knew more about her love life than she did.
When the phone vibrates a response, she doesn't flinch.
/
The hotel is the same, and Alicia thinks it must be the same room, it's so familiar. Will is waiting for her there, jacket already thrown over a chair, tie loosened. The door closes softly behind her.
She takes a deep, measured breath. Sits down her purse. Steps out of her heels.
/
It's like it's always been.
He sucks at the skin of her throat and she digs her nails into his shoulder blades, legs wrapped around his waist, keeping him there. Holding onto something beautiful, pure. She begs him not to stop. He whispers her name like a prayer. It feels like coming home, like fifteen years and wasted time, and not enough words. There are never enough words.
/
Afterward, she lies there, under him, until their chests stop heaving and the sweat begins to cool.
He rolls over, shifts his body so that his hand can enclose on her waist and he can trail his fingers up and down her sides.
They kiss with open mouths. This is what trust means.
She is beside him.
/
Will moves to tangle up his fingers in her hair, digging into her scalp, hips pressed against hers in a way that makes her spine go all soft and pliable. He smells good, of that aftershave he's always worn and something that is indescribably Will.
She moans into his mouth, breathy.
"I want to stay like this forever," she whispers, like it's a secret.
The sheets are white and soft. This warmth is what she's missed. This warmth is what she's craved, the kind of raw need that digs into her in all the wrong ways. She needs this. She needs him. It's not a want if someone is so apart of you that you tremble and quake with loss when they're gone.
It's not selfish if it matters.
These thoughts are fleeting, but they do happen- and something about the realization makes Alicia grin, ear to ear, like she's just discovered something entirely new about life. Pulling away from his heady mouth to fix him with a stare, she relishes in the strength of his jaw, the line of his nose, the brown of his eyes. She drinks in the sight of him.
But then something in Will's expression changes, darkens.
"You ruined this, Alicia."
.
.
.
Alicia awakens with a gasp.
The alarm clock makes her ears ring, and she turns it off mechanically, heartbeat thundering in her chest. She can't catch her breath.
Alicia doesn't realize tears are streaming down hot cheeks until she tastes salt.
Her eyes are burning. She sobs once. Then twice.
Then again.
And she can't stop.
Panic, unbidden and unexpected, mars at her as she rolls over and hides her face in the pillow to muffle the sound. Nobody can hear her. She has no right. The pain is sharp, clenching in her abdomen and her chest.
It comes at her in a funny, funny way.
It takes a moment to get a handle on herself, but when she does, Alicia inhales the scent of her sheets and tries not to think about aftershave. She reminds herself that she is strong, the strongest of them all, and that he hates her more than he hates anybody else. Reminds herself that it's better this way, because Grace is in the other room and happy, and she's managing partner at a law firm where she's not putting her marriage at stake. This is for the best. This is for the best.
Her skin is swollen when she rolls out of bed, and to her disgust she realizes there's not time for a shower. She blots on the powder extra thick, lines her lips ruby red. And when she's done she looks in the mirror, gives her own reflection a harsh reality.
"You ruined it," she reminds herself in a low voice, and if the words break in the middle there's no one but herself to hear.
Alicia Florrick is the worst kind of brave.