A/N: FIRST, DO NOT READ IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN 5x15.
Now, this is the least proofread thing I have ever published but whatever. I have been struggling with some sort of TGW writer's block for a while and have written more pages than I can count that never got uploaded out here. I wouldn't even call this fic, to be fair, it's a jumble of words and the tale of my broken heart. If you've ever read any of my fics before, you've probably noticed that I seem - seemed - to have a deep fascination for Will's character and, yeah. Dramatics, Your Honor was scenaristically brilliant and I completely support the Kings' choice, which doesn't mean I have any idea of what I'm going to do with myself while I watch the show now.
Anyway, I wanted to keep this short so it's only about 1,000 words which I hope you review so we can share some of the angst, though I have to admit this was undoubtedly written more in an attempt to make peace with everything for myself than anything else.
This is also part of the Once universe, kind of.
He used not to know her.
Before.
Before they were friends and lovers and strangers. For years he watched her image flicker on his TV screen and held back. She held back, too. Cold, distant, foreign. Florrick.
But boys always fall for the pretty girls, don't they?
.
He sees Kalinda. His vision is blurry but he sees her and it doesn't hurt. That's how he knows. Before.
At the hospital, he sees her, too. She's warm against his legs, Sunday morning, the kids are at Peter's and she's stayed the night. They're happy, he thinks. He wakes and the sun is rising, it's too early, too soon. Alicia smiles.
Close your eyes, she whispers.
He does.
.
Eli drives her. She stares out. Silent.
She reaches the hospital and skims past people and Diane and Kalinda and no. She remembers her father, she remembers the need for reality to kick in. And that's how she knows it's true. Before.
She thinks it could have been her. In court, yesterday. She thinks of her kids, she thinks of Peter. She thanks a God she doesn't believe in. It's horrible but at least he didn't leave a wife and a kid.
.
She thinks of his mother. She thinks of his sisters. She thinks of Aubrey and their Dad and that morning. After. That's a pain she can relate to. She thinks of all this when she rushes to the morgue, lifts the sheet off his face herself.
The perks of being the First Lady of Illinois, she knows. People don't try to stop you.
Except that he did.
.
She wants to lie there. Between blood and stains and the gruff feeling of his stubble against her cheek. She can't, though. Because Kalinda and people are looking and –
His shoe's missing, she says and turns around.
She's never seen Kalinda crying. She used to think Kalinda couldn't be thrown by anything.
Find it, Alicia says.
It's a mission. Kalinda takes on missions.
.
When she kisses him, under the flickering neon lights above her, he tastes wet and salty.
.
She remembers Will's kisses. A living, breathing Will. He caught her hand under the conference table at Lockhart, Gardner, once, two years ago. She was teasing him, tracing the line of his thigh to the bulge in his pants. Stop, he whispered, swallowing.
She turned thumb over his pulse point, his blood thumping against her skin. Really, Will? She smiled.
Will Gardner's kisses used to taste like passion and summer heat.
.
Thanks, she thinks. Better lawyer, most humble, confidence is an act perfected to the millennium, isn't it? Thanks, she thinks again. And Caitlin and thank you's.
She touches the blood on his chest, the bullet wound on his neck. It doesn't look like it's hurting him, he looks peaceful, rested.
I'm sorry, she breaks down. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, louder and louder and louder and It's not my fault, it's not my fault, it's not my fault.
All she wants is for him to wake up and tell her that she's right, it's not. To tell her, like she did back then, that night. Before.
Eli drags her out of the room.
.
Their something was the worst kept secret of Chicago's legal family and people tiptoe around her like she's a widow. It's nice, she likes being alone. She likes not having to talk.
Alicia's just private, she remembers him telling someone in school.
.
Diane gives her his wallet, one night, before his funeral.
There's a picture of you in there and it just –
It's old, from school, the both of them lying in the grass. Safe.
.
He's glad. He's glad it's Kalinda, and not her. He's glad it's someone he trusts because he's at his weakest and can't finish a line of thought and –
It just drags on for too long.
I'll be washing your blood off my hands for weeks, Will, don't do this to me, Kalinda says and he –
That's your kind of pep talk? He wants to ask, How is this better than mine?
He wants to joke and he wants to smile but he can't. The air gets stuck in his lungs and it's – It's unfortunate but he's lucid enough to figure it out on his own. He wants to hug her, he wants to tell her that it's going to be okay, that they're all going to be okay. And Will's never not put himself first before.
Kalinda will be washing his blood off her hands like he held onto the guilt from his father's death for years though, not weeks, and it kills him a bit inside. He wishes he could tell her that it's not her fault, that he's glad she wasn't there, didn't get hurt. He wants to tell her none of it, anything, is anyone fault's except for that poor, desperate kid. He wants to tell not to leave a work she's good at because of him.
He can't though. He can't move his lips and just lies there, waiting for the medics to take him in. He wants to tell them to stop, that it's pointless, to let him die in peace.
It's not bravery. It's fear. Fear of the pain and of the fact that there's nothing, nothing behind that veil - he's always been sure about that – and that the longer it goes on the longer he'll have to think about it. He's terrified of not dying quickly.
(Like actors who die on stage he was meant to die here, he thinks. It feels like home.)
He wants to tell Kalinda to tell her things, too. That they were good, that he was happy, that he didn't hate her, that bad timing sucked, that he didn't –
Tears roll off his cheeks and she understands. Kalinda understands something he's not even able to think about anymore.
I know, she says, as the paramedics crowd around her. He doesn't see her but he hears her right and she repeats anyway, I know, and you'll tell her yourself.
Will's normal, she thinks. Normal people think of loved ones.
Will's always been normal.
.
Kalinda forgets. In the drama and the hospital and the senseless, heartless, discovery of his body, she forgets. She's seen dead people before and it shouldn't put her off but it does, because with Will, the only person who's ever been her friend for who she really was dies.
She only sees Alicia a couple days later. She looks shell-shocked, empty.
Alicia, he said -
Alicia looks away, distant, scared.
He said that –
Don't.
She whispers so low Kalinda almost can't hear it. I can't – She breathes. Whatever he said I can't hear it, I think –
He said he loved you. Kalinda says, almost snaps at her. Almost, and he almost said it. He meant it, though; she saw it in his eyes, open like a book.
Tears roll slowly on Alicia's face like they did on Will's. She looks like she doesn't even feel them, anymore. Alicia looks like he wasn't the only one who got shot that day.
I don't think he wanted you to feel sorry or guilty about it, he just –
Fell in love and never got the opportunity to fall out, Alicia says, her voice even, calm. I know.