Author's Note: Can you believe what happened on the last episode? After seeing it, I could not get this scene out of my head. It was begging to be written. Hence, this one-shot. For my readers of Breathe You In, I promise it's coming along! I'm going to finish it before I start posting chapters up, so I'll try not to keep you waiting too much longer. For those who are reading my writing for the first time, I hope enjoy!
Disclaimer: The Good Wife does not belong to me. If it did, I would keep Will for myself.
One word. One word and your whole world comes crashing down.
No, you think. No it doesn't.
But that doesn't stop the tears from welling up in your eyes, the sobs from heaving through your chest. Why? Why does this hurt so much? You already knew he had slept with a hooker, what difference does another woman make?
Walking down the hall and out of the building, you hear everyone singing "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow" in the main lounge and laugh bitterly at the irony. Your husband, "a good fellow", the new state's attorney, slept with your best friend.
The voice of reason in your mind acknowledges the fact that it was in the past, along with the hooker. Shouldn't she just forgive and forget like last time?
And therein lies the biggest question of all. Have you really forgiven him?
Yes. Yes, you have. And maybe that's why the pain in your chest is only getting bigger. You truly believed that Peter felt guilt and regret over what he had done. He paid for his mistake. And you had forgiven him. But that didn't mean you were fixed, good as new. There were parts of you that were still broken, still trying to heal. And after tonight, all of those little fragments that had begun to piece together, all the pieces that were still in the process of mending, were now shattered, even more so than before. Would you ever heal completely? Probably not.
Your tears begin to dry on your face, and you absentmindedly think that you're glad you wore water-proof mascara.
Would Kalinda have told you? She was trying, you realize, all those times she said she wanted and needed to talk to you. Your blood boils at the thought of your friend. All this time, all this time, all of the drinks and late nights, all of the coffee and paperwork, she was sitting across the table from you with the knowledge that she had slept with her husband.
Fate really does have a twisted sense of humor.
More tears begin to stream down your face and you wipe at them with an impatient hand. Without realizing it, your feet have brought you to Lockhart-Gardiner. You walk into the nearly empty lobby, ignoring the calls of congratulations and the odd looks, and make your way to the elevators. Pressing the button for your regular floor, you pray that he is still here, because you can't imagine where you will go or what you will do if he is not.
You step out of the elevator and let out the breath you didn't know you had been holding when you see his office light is still on. Quietly, you walk over to his door and softly knock, stepping into the open doorway.
His head jerks up at the unexpected noise, but when he sees you, he smiles.
"Shouldn't you be celebrating?" he asks you.
You don't reply, merely walk over to his sofa and sit down. A lone tear makes its way down your cheek. You look away to wipe it off, a movement that does not go unnoticed by Will.
He quickly jumps out of his desk chair and kneels before you. "What's wrong?" he asks softly.
Again, you don't reply, a soft sob being your only answer. Each of his hands rest on your cheeks, and he moves your head until you're looking at him. His eyes are burning with concern, and your gaze unwilling drops to his lips, a gesture that he doesn't miss. But he doesn't move, letting the choice be yours and yours alone.
For a moment, you wonder if you should just throw caution to the wind and make the move. Why not? Peter did it twice, with no regard to you. Why should you be any better?
Because you are better.
The voice of reason wins, and you settle for burying your head in the crook of Will's neck. Sensing your anguish, Will sits down on the couch next to you, all the while pulling you into his lap and wrapping his arms around you, barely moving you an inch in the process. Gut-wrenching cries escape your lips, and throughout it all, Will stays quiet.
He is your rock, if only for tonight. Your solid rock to hold on to when the storm is raging around you. Never having any expectations, never asking any questions. And that is exactly what you need.
You quiet down after what feels like hours. Emotionally and physically spent, you make no move to extract yourself from his arms, and he does not offer to pull away. The room is silent, and you know he is waiting for you to speak first.
"I—" your throat is raspy. Clearing it, your voice is muffled by his neck as you speak. "I'm sorry."
He pulls back and looks at her. "Don't ever be sorry, Alicia."
Closing your eyes, you lean back into him. Silence descends again until you feel his fingers softly grazing underneath your eyes. You relax into his touch as he massages and kneads the tension out of various places on your body, though never making you uncomfortable. By the time he finishes, you feel like a puddle of goo in his arms.
A part of you realizes that eventually, you will have to leave. But if you were to be honest with yourself, there was no other place that you would rather be than Will's arms. Because there, in his arms, you can cry. You can lower the shield and show someone, him, how weak you are, how strong you truly aren't.
Already, though, your shield is raising as you gently push yourself out of his embrace. You wipe at your eyes to rid your face of any stray eye make-up and begin to gather your things.
"Are you going to be ok?" he asks, the concern in his voice and eyes nearly propelling you back into his arms.
"Do I have a choice?" you reply quietly, your voice breaking near the end of the question.
No, you realize, you don't have a choice. Because your husband is the new state's attorney. Both of your kids would now need your undivided attention, lest this secret were to get out. Your job will still require the late nights and early mornings, but you don't mind those, because at least you get to do one thing you love.
And so you will support your husband, you will be there for your kids, and you will continue to defend innocent people in the courtroom, all the while putting up a happy and strong appearance for the press, because they're dying to get something on you. And you do all of this without complaint and without showing an ounce of weakness except for behind closed doors, because that's what you do, and that's who you are.
The good wife.
A/N: Thoughts?