A/N- This is for the lovely Josie, who had asked for 5x10 from Alicia's point of view, in particularly a similar decision tree scene. This is as close as I could get. Hope you enjoy!
Alicia Florrick kicks off her heels, fading into the white noise of the rusty pipes, the growl of the old central heating system. Her fingers tremble, but she blames it on the fact she hasn't had a bite to eat since seven this morning. The simplest lies are the easiest.
She arches one perfect eyebrow at the stillness, breathes in deeply. Her offices. These are her offices. She basks in this peace, this quiet.
It reminds her of months ago, little visions of his dress shirt pushed up to his elbows, tie loosened, a faint stubble on his cheeks from working a case for two days straight- she loved watching him work. She thinks, errantly, that she's been watching him since twenty three, when they'd be studying and he'd take a moment to stretch, the pale column of his throat enticing and forbidden. They were kids, then.
Sometimes, even now, even after everything, they're in the same position they were when they were young and naïve. He said to her once they were on a merry-go-round, needed to get off. She thinks that life is like that, just this constant turn of repeating moments, repeating mistakes.
She wonders if he's doing what she's doing now, lights dimmed. Trying to make sense of it all.
Alicia sets her jaw against the feeling, then reaches for a pen, grips it so tight her knuckles turn white.
She begins to write.
/
They are a hundred and fifty reasons why they shouldn't be doing this, she could count them up, each more damning than the last, but it's like one moment the logic and excuses are bubbling to her lips and the next they are stuck on the honey of her gums, victim to the way his long boned fingers creep.
Matthew asks her "Well are you married, or aren't you?" at the exact moment Will meets the edge of her panties, and well, that does it.
"Yes," she startles, finally able to jump like she needs to, body a coiled spring. He knows how to wind her up, his finger continuing to rub small circles on the lace, and she's glad she treated herself a few days ago, glad she took the time to go to the spa and get everything trimmed all neat and proper. It makes the skin smooth beneath his fingertips.
Sensitive to touch.
Matthew's inquiry has pulled her from the haze only slightly. Her thighs begin to quiver.
Yes, she's married. There's a ring on her finger.
Truth be told, it's never felt lighter.
"I'll fire you if you continue this inappropriate behavior," Matthew raises his voice, and suddenly Will retreats. Sweat is beading on the back of Alicia's neck when his hand slips altogether from beneath her skirt, rests back on the desk within her sights. She could whine.
But, really, this is the third time Ashbaugh has interrupted intimate Will time, and maybe this time Will brought himself into Ashbaugh time, but it doesn't matter- she wants it over. Alicia Florrick prides herself on tact, self control, and responsibility. But then, right then, all she truly wants is Will Gardner to drive her up against whatever flat surface is within a thirty foot proximity and-
"That won't be necessary."
Alicia's head snaps towards the sound. The timbre of Will's voice is one she has heard few and far between, and she has never been the reason for it, either. It's stern, but the kind of harsh that has steel. But- whereas before it was detached, cold- now, it's a new animal. Will goes, "I'll speak to Alicia, and we'll forget any of this ever transpired, alright Matthew?"
His voice is steel, but there's an undertone to it that makes her want to cross her legs. She can see the burning desire in his eyes. She can hear it, too, because she knows him so well by now, knows that the way his Adam's apple bobs means he'll press his thumbs into her hipbones hard enough to bruise, knows the way he pushes his chair back to stand means he's trying to adjust himself in his slacks.
It makes her stomach clench, makes heat pool in all the right places.
Alicia Florrick smiles surreptitiously at Matthew, and says her goodnights.
/
The guest floor is above the main apartment, and the moment they're in the elevator everything comes undone. He presses her against a metal panel and kisses her hard, and if she were the woman she was three years ago she'd be blushing at the way her legs spread, breath hitching when his hands find position again, just the same as they were beneath the table. Will only caresses the insides of her thighs for a moment before pushing aside her underwear, damp for her trouble. Brushes his fingers through her wetness. He moans, low and delicious, and it almost makes her laugh- almost, if not for the way his thumb begins to flick her clit steadily, making her toss her head and bite her lip-
The elevator doors open.
Alicia finds the restriction within her to place a hand on both sides of his jaw, kiss him fully.
"We have all night," she reminds him, grinning from ear to ear. "Pace yourself."
"Pace myself?"
And there's the voice again, that cadence that makes her toes curl a little in her heels, makes her mouth dry. He pulls her hard against his chest, takes her breath from her lungs. He jerks her like a rag doll, getting so close his lips tickle her ear, make her shiver with unkempt need. "Not so sure I'm the one you should be worried about, Leesh."
Her lips part and her eyes widen at the nickname, something she's heard him use with her once or twice over the past few weeks, something old. He called her that at Georgetown. Peter hates the nickname. It's one she's nearly forgotten, the way his tongue rips at the syllables, carries it perfectly. God, she's missed him, and she didn't even realize it.
And she's a little in love with him, too-but before Alicia can even begin to let her mind trail down that beaten path, Will leans down to wrap his arms around her knees and hoist her up. Bridal style.
Carrying her across the threshold of the room. Laughing like they used to; like they are still kids that they haven't been in years.
/
When Alicia remembers that weekend, she remembers bliss.
In reality, it was an affair. A torrid, unspeakable affair, between a man she had known for half her lifetime, one who once upon a time she could have spent her life with, but time was fickle and now she had a ring on her finger, had the press, had two beautiful children who suffered with every discrepancy their parents reaped upon them. She had to be responsible.
Yet, it was easy, in New York, to allow herself to drift away from the prerogative. Taking her time, memorizing every inch of his skin, imagining what it could have been like, had things been different. If she and Will could be together like that all the time, it was easy to romanticize it: What else would she ever need? Because he loved her, the kind of love that she could hear in the way he said her name, feel in the way his touch worshipped- he made her feel alive, like she hadn't felt in years. He gave her hope. He gave her peace. He made her feel like she could take on the world, and anyone who would question them, question their love's adequacy.
Reality was different:
Security was something that came once in a blue moon.
Security wasn't her boss, wasn't just up and leaving a fifteen year marriage and two children, and she had an image to uphold, she had a life that didn't center around flowers and romance and lights and making love under an open sky.
But for the duration of that weekend, none of it was at the forefront of their minds. They were inside the bubble, safe. It didn't feel like an affair. It felt a little like coming home, being comfortable in her own skin; breathing. It felt, in that moment, as if they were attainable, and so, so close.
Perhaps, she thought as his tongue dove inside her collarbone, even bad timing had to take vacations.
/
She imagines him asking her things that burn her insides clean, make her reevaluate her priorities and her tactics.
"Did you say to me, on September 23rd, 2011, that you could use Matthew Ashbaugh's love to manipulate him?"
She imagines him saying this like he speaks to every other witness. Calm, controlled. Detached.
His face would be blank of all emotion- no lilting smile as he traced patterns across her ribs, no nefarious smirk as he teases a strand of her hair between his thumb, tugging at it like a school boy, laughter, his laughter- no, his cross examination would be stern, in all the ways she never wanted him to be.
It would hurt her, his indifference. His anger was better, fueling. This is just uncomfortable, painful, the kind of thing that makes her want to scream and fist her hair in her hands all at the same time. He'd use it against her, wouldn't he? He'd use it, and he wouldn't care that it was them, it was their love. But she'd left hadn't she? Taken his world and tore it in two, and now they don't know how to be. She's ruined everything they could be, and he doesn't understand that the moments they spent together are the quiet little parts of her, the tinderboxes ready to ignite and leave her, and she never wanted any of this, never wanted his pain. She didn't mean to break his heart. She only meant to break her own.
"Do you need me to repeat the question?" he'd say.
She would just want him to feel something, to show her some semblance of hope that whatever he felt toward her ranged from more than just indifference.
"No, sir," she would murmur, play the devil, play the devil. She would lean forward in her seat and flick her tongue across her top lip. She knows how that gets him going. Know how it winds him up.
/
It's midnight, and the city is still as awake as they are.
They'd retired to their rooms around nine, him taking her from the elevator to his room, to the bed, to the dresser, to the shower, to the bathroom counter. As Alicia finished drying her hair Diane called. On a whim, while waiting for him to get off the phone, Alicia pulled the silvery blue comforter from off the bed, wrapped it around her naked body, and padded out to the balcony.
It was nippy, but not intolerable. She sat on the edge of a chair, feet dangling onto the chilled concrete. It was beautiful, the kind of thing one only sees in movies, on television. Alicia has been to New York before, but not like this. The passing cars on the street below are loud, but the moon is bright, and among the tops of buildings it's all white noise. She'd want to live here, if she were a different person.
The sliding door opens quietly, and Alicia meets his gaze steadily.
He's only wearing boxers, and she lets her eyes linger on the parts of him people rarely see beneath suits of gray and navy- the light smattering of hair across his chest, the muscles that dip down, beneath the fabric. Her lips tug heavenward.
"Enjoying the view?" he asks her, and the question is so innocent it makes her giggle.
"Oh, yes."
He strides over to where she's seated and swings his leg around behind her to sit. She adjust the duvet until they're both wrapped around it, her back pressed to his chest. "Cold?" Will whispers, pressing a kiss into her hair and holding her tight.
"I'll warm up."
They lie there like that for what could be hours, what's likely minutes. Their heartbeats nearly match, the rise and falls of their rib cages in synchronization. She doesn't want this moment to end, wants to hold it like a wish, wants it to be cherished in the dark hours when reality returns and takes, takes, takes. Will hums, breaking her of her revere.
"You know," he runs his hand up and down her bare arm once, leaving goose bumps in his wake. "I'm supposed to reprimand you for your inappropriate behavior toward Mr. Ashbaugh."
She catches on immediately, allowing the other unnecessary worries that harp at her to recede from her mind. She's twist her body until she's straddling him, knees pressed against the canvas of the chair. Their bodies are warm, together. "Oh, yeah?"
"You've been a bad girl," he teases her, moving to press himself between her thighs, the tip sliding gently against her slickness. The welcomed friction sends her nerves firing, makes her grind herself down against him. She could lose herself just by watching him watch her, eyes dark, mouth set like he's on a mission. She loves this power.
"Whatever could I do to make up for this inappropriate behavior," her breathing is uneven already, needy and wanton."Sir?"
He starts to laugh, until she drops herself down onto him without warning, taking him in completely until he's seated inside her, her clit pressed up against his pubic bone, sternums aligned.
His hands in her hair, tangling up. They're all tangled up, and she doesn't quite know where he ends and she begins, doesn't know how to put a stop to the way he makes her feel like everything she's ever believed in is a lie, like he is the only truth. Like any of this is possible.
"God, Alicia," he swears, and she wants her name to be the only one he says in that timbre, ever again. She wants to claim him like he claims her, because Alicia is not one to be outdone, not one to be herded. She hasn't been the good wife in a very long time, and there's no going back. Timing, not all of it bad, has made very sure of that.
/
In this scenario, she'd use their weekend with equal fervor. She knows he remembers because his expression changes instantly- he doesn't even have time to school his features from the memory- the way she thrust her tongue into his mouth in time with the slamming of her hips, the way they were sweaty and perfectly fit together, her scent all around him-
"Yes, sir. I did say that," she would admit openly, leaning forward to dip her cleavage into his face just enough. She'd watch him shift his stance to accommodate for something the court shouldn't see. Watch his Adam's apple bob, his hands clench into fists.
Anger.
Bingo.
"You made Ashbaugh believe you cared about him, in order to manipulate him into doing whatever you wanted him to? Giving you whatever you wanted him to?"
She knows this Will because it's the one she created. The jury disappears. The judge vanishes.
She blinks at him, game still on, breasts heaving with every word spoken. She wants him in her mouth, she wants him back in her life, wants to be held like she was on that balcony. She wants him back, and she can't have him because life is never fair. That's what's wrong with it all.
That's what's killing her.
But, in this crystal vision, she can tell him.
"Will," she'd murmur, standing.
"The witness has not been excused," he'd growl, anger and arousal seeping through every pore, physically visible in more ways than one. She would walk on nearly steady legs around the bench, to stand inches away. "Stop this, Mrs. Florrick!"
She'd ignore his attempts. He wouldn't flinch away, though, not when she would take his trembling jaw in her palms and kiss him, a kiss that would symbolize everything they are, everything they aren't. "Will," she would whisper, when she'd pull away. "We have bad timing."
And he'd be crying, that same look in his eye that he had when they were twenty five and she told him she was marrying Peter, the very same look he had when she told him it was all too much, that everything had to end and she could make so. She would wipe away his tears with her thumbs, kiss the ones she couldn't catch.
He would still look at her like she is the sun in the moon.
She would tell him, "I never wanted any of this. I wanted something easier, but this is killing me. I look at you and it kills me, and I can't show any of it."
In her fantasy, he forgives her.
He loves her, still.
/
She's still in the throw of afterglow.
The feeling is infectious, makes her high on it, makes her want to live here for the rest of her life, right in the moment. She wants to divorce her husband. She wants to go home and tell Zach and Grace she loves them enough not to pretend. She wants everything. He makes it all feel possible.
This tangible proof beneath her fingertips is raw beauty. It's not something to let go of.
(This is before Grace and life and being outside the bubble, before bad timing flickers back and laps at her heels.)
She leans into him, breathes in the scent of his aftershave and Will, the man who is real and perfect, and, in this moment, completely hers.
"This is the happiest I've ever been," she whispers.
In that moment, it feels like the truth.
/
Her eyes snap open. The legal pad before her is barely used.
Alicia swallows back the tears that pool, her throat tight and her lips quivering.
There's a sob, ready to emit from the confines of her chest, ready to see the stillness of her office as a beacon, an asylum, but before she can begin to cry and think and regret, her phone rings.
Hey mom, pick up the phone. Hey mom, pick up the-
"Grace?" she asks quietly.
"Mom? Are you okay? Where are you? Working late? It's eleven," Grace inquires, worry coloring her voice. It's cute when her daughter mothers her sometimes, but in the moment it only makes her tired, makes her want to close her eyes and sleep for a year.
"Yes," Alicia manages, but it comes out half there. "I'll be home in about twenty. Just leaving."
She hangs up and stands, legs shaking, still. The memories are too much. It's all too much.
Before she leaves, she glances around the empty office. The stillness. The quiet. Remembers laughter on a rooftop, the pain in his eyes, the way he can barely look at her altogether, sometimes. Her office. This is her office.
Not for the first time, she asks herself what is the price?