A/N: Five warnings, one disclaimer; my only advise is: read if you want, skip if you don't care ;).
1) So, first, this is LONG. And if you're hoping for a quick read to distract yourselves at work, this is not it. This is almost a story, maybe it could have been split into two or three chapters but it didn't really want to, so I just decided to let it go, I hope it doesn't bother anyone.
2) I'm French, un-betaed (though I'm now officially looking for one… *wink wink* if anyone's interested) so all mistakes are mine and again, I apologize for them.
3) I've discovered TGW about three months ago and pretty much drowned myself into episodes and fanfiction to the point that I'm not entirely certain what is cannon and what is not. Therefore this might be slightly AU, sorry about that. God, this show is so addictive.
4) I couldn't figure out what Will's younger sister's name was. I've read Aubrey, Audrey, Audra and Aubra and when I watched the episode, I couldn't really be sure. So I settled on Audrey because at least I'm sure that's a name. If it's not hers, then I'm sorry.
5) Volenti is short for what you can refer to as volenti non fit injuria, a Latin expression used in law meaning 'to a willing person; injury is not done'. If I remember correctly from my Common Law classes, it can sometimes be a defense at English Law, I'm not sure about the US but I was too tired to look it up.
Disclaimer: Not mine, don't sue.
Please read, enjoy (or not), and review (anyways).
Cannonballs
Sometimes, he feels like he's piling up memories like layers and layers of winter clothing.
He's got memories of himself cannonballing inside a pool during orientation and Alicia looking at him with a beer in her hands.
Memories of the first time he pitched: big bright smile, ten years old, baseball cap and all.
Memories of his first day in court. He was nervous, doing a terrible job at controlling his breathing, trying to recall his theater classes in 9th grade.
He has short scenes, snapshots from his childhood that sometimes flash before his eyes. Sensations. Noises. The sound of the wind rustling through the leaves of a tree. He hears Sara's voice. "Mom!" She says, "Will's up in that tree again!"
He must have been seven or eight and the heat was almost unbearable, his hands sticky with sweat and mud and pieces of bark glued to his palms. At the time, it used to be a habit of his, climbing trees. The closer he got to the sky, the higher he wanted to get.
His mother was inside the house - alert, he was sure - but no one answered. He decided to stay put, waited. Sara ran and came back as he climbed up a couple of branches. "Mom said 'get down, William,'" she quoted. He listened to the sounds of the birds.
"Mom!"
He sighed, thought he would never, ever, ask for help in his life. Even when he didn't need it, Sara would always be there to call Mom. Or Audrey. No, Audrey would tell Sara who would then tell Mom.
He hated being the middle child.
"Will's not listening!"
Sara. He looked down at her, her yellow summer dress and her ponytail tied so high up on her scull, it looked like a palm tree growing out of her head. He suddenly heard his mother's voice, soft and low in their ears, barely covering the sound of the wind, "Sara!" She said, "Could you just please stop shouting for once?"
His sister pouted and folded her arms over her chest. He lifted his foot over the next branch. "See?" He smirked, "I can do whatever I want."
Thirty years later, Diane's opinionated tone swoops down on his phone at the speed of light as soon as their flight back to O'Hare gets cancelled. She's angry, rants, talks about promises she's made to Eli about Alicia being back in Chicago tomorrow. Sometimes, he thinks, Diane has the stunning ability to be more annoying than both his sisters combined.
"What time is it, anyway?" He asks.
"Three fifteen."
He glances at the rent-a-car sign a few yards away. "Okay, let me call you back, I'll see what I can do."
3:37 p.m.
He glances at Alicia as she speaks on the phone. He's doing this for her, he reminds himself, driving for eight hours in a car that isn't even his just so that she can be back soon enough for the interview she promised to give alongside with Peter to demonstrate what a great husband he is, and how happy she is to support him now they've decided to keep on pretending everything is back to normal.
(God, she's admitted to sleeping with him in front of a Grand Jury, Peter's stated on the record that the both of them were separated, so, really, who do they think they're kidding? How long do they think they have until the press discovers everything, if they haven't already?
It's her life and it doesn't fucking bother him anyway. Not at all.)
3:38 p.m.
He remembers being in a hotel room a few days after the scandal broke, pulling on his jeans as Celeste let the news roll in the background. At the time, she used to call whenever she was in Chicago, 'for old times' sake,' she said. She'd show up, tease him, they'd have sex (great sex, to be honest) and he would pay for room service in the morning. Sleeping with her every once in a while would never be as bad as losing his car or jeopardizing his career with a catastrophic hand and a careless bluff.
He took a quick glance at the screen, knowing what was coming. "Turn it off," he said.
Celeste arched an eyebrow at him, her smile large and frank, blue eyes twinkling with the hint of something he didn't want to care about. She turned up the volume with defiance and the tape started again, playing in his head and on the screen, as if he hadn't heard enough of it already.
Does she? Does she do this for you?
Fuck.
He went to the bathroom and closed the door, opening the tap and splashing water over his face to block the noise. He glared at his reflection in the mirror. How could he –
Celeste followed him in, letting the door shut against her back. "Have you ever listened to it?" She asked.
"Yeah, what do you think? It's been all over TV for a week." She opened her mouth but he didn't give her enough time for any sound to come out. "I just don't like how nowadays, everything that is newsworthy seems to have to turn into entertainment."
(He'd stolen that one from Diane, but did anyone really have to know that he cared roughly as much about the state of society as about that of the mosquito he'd killed the night before?)
Sarcasm tainted Celeste's voice when she spoke again, her hands rising slightly above her head in defense. "I didn't mean 'have you listened to it?' as in listened to the fist two sentences and switched the channel, I meant 'have you ever taken the time to actually listen to the whole thing?'"
"Yeah," he snapped, holding her gaze, "absolutely."
Absolutely not, really, but no matter what everyone said, if there was one thing he had ever been good at, it was bluffing.
(That, and he wasn't going to tell her that for the last five days, he'd been turning off the TV every time the tape played, every time he heard talk about Amber Madison, about Peter Florrick, and especially every time hours and hours of airtime seemed to be spent trying to find the best, most cruel, humiliating nicknames for Alicia, was he?)
"Oh really?" Celeste whispered, crowding his space. Her hands found their way to his bare chest and cascaded down towards his hips, tracing the hem of his jeans with delicate fingers. Without her heels, she seemed so small. "So you've heard it all, haven't you?" She whispered as foreplay, her voice hoarse and low like the sound of her laugh. "More than just the beginning? More than what she says when she asks 'does she?'" His fly was pulled down in one swift motion, a familiar body pressing against his, "'Does she do this for you?'"
He thought he was going to throw up. Blinking rapidly, he caught her wrist, and pushed her away. He might not have known it at the time but that morning was the last he ever saw Celeste, at least until the negotiations with Alicia, years later. He just couldn't – No, not anymore. He ran a hand through his hair and told her to get out. He needed a shower. She didn't seem to care.
3:41 p.m.
Alicia opens the passenger's door and eyes him over the roof. "You want me to drive?"
"No, it's fine, we'll split halfway."
"Sure."
For thirty seconds, she watches him adjusting the seat and the rearview mirrors to his size with enough force and frustration to break the machine altogether. He takes off his jacket and pulls at his tie, opens the first two buttons of his dress shirt and groans as he throws his bag in the back. She almost tells him to get out and go punch a wall or something but then again, they can't really afford to waste time on a trip to the ER for a broken hand at the moment.
3:52 p.m.
After ten minutes of strained silence, she tries again. "You want me to turn on the radio?"
"Do whatever you want, Alicia."
Like you always do, he thinks, his foot hitting the accelerator.
3:54 p.m.
"You know, you didn't have to come with me, you'd have taken the plane tomorrow," she finally bursts out, throwing her head back against the seat, annoyed, tired, restless. "I don't think it's my fault a plane crashed or that Kalinda found out that –"
She doesn't want them to be like that, has never wanted them to be like that. She doesn't want him to resent her for some obscure reason she can't possibly know about, doesn't want to go back to pretending she doesn't know him as well as she does, like she used to before she needed him to help her find a job. She wonders if maybe she liked him better in her own memories, as someone to think about when Peter was away and she wished for everything not to be so complicated.
He closes his eyes for a second, lets his hand wander freely in his messy hair. "I know," he finally says, trying to forget, "I'm sorry."
"It's fine, Will, don't think about it,"
"Really, Alicia, I –" It's not just now, he wants to say, I've been a jerk to you lately and I'm sorry, but of course, he doesn't,because she doesn't realize her hand is on his thigh until her instincts trust her to squeeze lightly, offering the little support she can provide. And by then, it gets harder for him to think about anything else.
"It's no problem, I swear," she says and cannot believe it's the first time she's touching him in weeks, months even. She's missed this; the familiarity they shared, the confident contact between their bodies, it's like reclaiming old territory.
"Thank you," he says, eyes stuck on the road.
A while later, he smiles at her. "My IPod's in the front pocket of my bag," he says, eyeing the back seat, "just dock it in, find something you like."
Alicia's not entirely sure how to 'dock it in' until he shows her, pushing it onto some kind of plug on the dashboard. She scrolls through it and opts for his 'Jazz' playlist on shuffle but turns the volume so low he almost can't hear. Not that he cares, anyway.
4:37 p.m.
Just over an hour after his phone call to Diane about airports, bomb threats and deadlines, Alicia's sleeping in the passenger's seat while he drives, her head dangerously lolling back and forth between her seatbelt and the window. He wonders why she's so tired, what keeps her from falling asleep as quickly as she used to. Not that he'd ever ask, really, he just hopes one day she'll tell him.
Trying not to wake her up, he reaches for the glove compartment and catches a small bottle of water right before it falls onto her legs. He uncaps it, lips capturing the neck as he lets the liquid slide down his throat.
.
"I'd never thought I'd see the day," Celeste said, later, as he emerged from the bathroom, intending to race to the door.
"The day what?"
"The day you'd finally get the chance to win her back."
It was his turn to arch an eyebrow at her, poker face now on, along with his infamous act perfected to the millennium. "What do you mean?"
"Remember when we were at that conference he was speaking at, here in Chicago?" She pointed at the fleeting image of Peter and Amber Madison that appeared on the TV she obviously still hadn't bothered to turn off. Will nodded. "I'd always thought you were a bit weird. You were fine, willing to play, to have fun, but then you'd get that empty look in your eyes at the weirdest moments. I'd always thought there had to be some long lost love there, a high school girlfriend you tried to run away with before her parents caught you at the bus stop and lectured you all the way back home," she chuckled to herself, "but then Florrick showed up with that pet of his -"
"Don't -"
"See, Will? He drags to her galas so that people can compliment him, pats her on the shoulder when she does something funny: to me she's a pet. But suddenly, when she showed up – God you had that look on your face all night long, as if suddenly, the world could only be about her. And not just your world but the world in general, and you just could not understand how anyone could ever think any differently. I don't know what happened between you two but you should call her." Now that he knows Celeste regrets him, he sometimes wonders how hard it must have been for her to say that. "She's going to need someone to blame: that's him. And someone to comfort her. Now, who could that be?"
He didn't listen to her. True, it would have been simple and quick and all about blaming Peter from afar, but he couldn't find one rational reason to legitimate manipulating Alicia like that. Even today, he still doesn't regret not following up on Celeste's advice though every once in a while, he wonders if he should.
5:02 p.m.
He casts another glance at Alicia's sleeping form.
Two.
Three.
It reminds him of a weekend they spent at his apartment just months ago, watching movies, having sex, sleeping, and eating all day. An annoyingly naïve and romantic part of him thought he could make her believe it would last forever.
He thinks about what Kalinda once said about dwelling on memories and believing in things that aren't true. "I know what you're thinking," her voice still echoes in his head, accent brushing against the walls of an empty conference room. He'd been staring, following Alicia's every move for about an hour. That day, she was wearing a red shirt, a grey skirt, legs bare with a new, black pair of pumps that made them look like they went on forever. First she'd talked to Cary, then to Diane, her fingers curling around a brown file she hugged against her chest.
"Oh, really?"
Kalinda walked and sat next to him, throwing a suspicious glance at the mug he nursed between his hands. "Yeah," she said in that thoughtful way she usually fakes, "and let me tell you, you're wrong. And the worst part is: you know you're wrong."
God, she sounded like Diane. "No, actually, I don't. And you know what? Maybe I should try to find out."
Kalinda sighed, forcing him to tear his eyes away from Alicia. "It's like poker, isn't it?"
"What is?"
"One more game, one more night, just one, it's all you need to feel fine, detox. You out of all people should know it doesn't work like that, Will. It never does."
"Alicia's not an addiction, K. She's not a deck of cards."
"Really? And how's she different?"
His eyes were drawn to Alicia again. He wondered if she knew, wondered if she felt his stare following her everywhere she went. He couldn't even distract himself with cases anymore and it was as if Kalinda kept trying to dig deeper into his wounds, as if she found her own behavior altruistic. "It's complicated," he said.
She shook her head. "It really isn't. You sleep with her, you break it off, and you think if you can get her one more time, all this will go away." He thought he heard a hint of concern in her voice (for Alicia, probably). "You and I, we live on the edge. We get high on adrenaline but sometimes, we do fall. And this time, you might take her with you."
"Oh, you're clearly one to give advice on taking unnecessary risks, Kalinda,"
"I'm just saying –"
"I didn't," he cut her off. The first and only time he's ever said it out loud, he recalls, his ego being satisfied with the version of events Diane had come up with. One last secret he shared with Alicia.
(Well, one last secret he doesn't share with her anymore.)
"You didn't what?"
"I didn't break it off. She did. For her kids, she said, it was getting too complicated."
"Oh,"
He drank up, rose, and K didn't try to follow him. "Alicia's a big girl," he said, "and I'm not afraid to fall."
Back in the car, he places the lid back on, keeps following the McCain/Palin bumper sticker in front of him. Kalinda was wrong in what she said, Alicia's not an addiction, he can live without her, he did – does – he just doesn't like to. Still, it occurs to him that in forty years, she's the only woman he's ever fallen in love with.
5:35 p.m.
He opens his mouth when he hears her stir next to him. "Sweet dreams?" He asks. She takes the bottle he offers her and steals a few gulps before giving it back to him. He drinks, too, and thinks there's a joke about exchanging body fluids waiting to be made but he's her boss now and it wouldn't be appropriate.
"How long did I sleep?"
"An hour, maybe less."
"God, I'm sorry, Will, I just –"
"Passed out on me?" She doesn't seem to realize it's a joke and looks genuinely apologetic for a while, before he says, "Alicia, really, it's okay, don't think about it," and she smiles pushing his shoulder, a mischievous grin on her face.
Twice.
They've touched twice today.
5:37 p.m.
"So, how are Zach and Grace?"
He opts for a safe topic, her kids. Well, safe, that's a matter of opinion. The awkwardness of his last encounter with Zach still seems to follow him everywhere he goes.
"Good, good, really good," she stumbles over her words, smiling. She loves them so much. He knows she loves them so much and sometimes he wonders what it would be like, to have a smaller, more innocent version of himself toddling around a house, half of his genes growing to be another person he would love unconditionally. It seems weird. "They're growing up so fast. Last week, Jackie – Peter's mother – started asking Zach where he'd want to go to college. College. I can't even –" she trails off and seems to ask him for some help he can't provide. He was in college when they met and it feels like a hundred years ago. Trying to hang onto the time they can spend together reminds him of the times Sara and he tried to build a sandcastle. How he would always shout at her, ask her why the water just wouldn't stay in the moats, why it always had to infiltrate the earth or evaporate. He kept saying it was her fault; she accused him of being a sore loser.
Next, Alicia talks about holiday plans, taking two weeks off in the summer, just the kids and her. She feels like time goes by so fast, she wants to make the most of it, does he know what she means?
6:53 p.m.
He blinks, the line in the middle of the road becoming blurrier and blurrier before his eyes. He stretches his neck, yawns.
"You okay?"
"Yeah," he breathes. She looks worried.
.
Another yawn, another hand running across his face. He's drifting off again, and there isn't even a car up front for him to follow anymore.
"Okay no," he finally mans up, laughing. "I think if I don't stop driving right now, I'm going to fall asleep right there," he continues and she chuckles. It's quite a nice moment they share, he thinks. "Does it bother you if we stop for something to eat?"
"'Course not."
Around 7:15 they both settle in the booth of a diner near Nowhere, Wisconsin but he can't really tell when exactly because the clock seems to have stopped at one-thirty this afternoon. Or this morning. Or in the morning of August 19th, 1976 for all he knows.
He laughs to himself as a young woman in her early twenties comes to take their orders with her hair tied up in a vintage ten-years-old-Sara fashion. Alicia, of course, looks quite embarrassed by his behavior, refuses to cross anyone's gaze. "What?" she says as soon as they're alone.
"Nothing, I just - This is nice, isn't it? You and I, finally having dinner, out in the open -"
"Out in the open in Wisconsin," she stresses but he doesn't let his smile fade, not today anyway.
"Sure, Will," she blinks, "it's nice."
He nods, happy for a while.
.
"So?" She wonders, swallowing a piece of potato, "Are you going to tell me?"
"Tell you what?"
"Why all the anger, the frustration, lately?"
"Alicia, I'm so sorry about that, I just –"
"I know, I said 'don't worry about it, Will'. I'm just concerned, that's all."
By then, he wants to insist that the fact that he tries to buy time by finishing his drink and ordering another one doesn't necessarily mean he doesn't enjoy the thought of her being concerned about him. In the end, he settles on the suspension explanation, the one he's been feeding Diane for the last month and it's only half a lie. Sure, the woman might have underestimated his ability to survive without the law but now that he's almost there, that he can see the date of his first day back in a courtroom looming in his field of vision, that's when the minutes seem to stretch for as long as they would if he were sitting on fire.
"How long 'till you get back?" She asks.
"Three weeks."
She's eager, optimistic, sounding like she expects way too much of him. "Not so long now, huh?"
"Yeah," he says and talks in a light, conversational voice, not daring to lay his eyes upon hers. "Me getting back to the law, your husband running again, everything's coming back to normal, Eli's going to be thrilled," he jokes, hoping she'll be willing to play, to let the conversation go that way, or at least pretend to. Whatever she decides, she doesn't say anything for a while but when he looks up, there's a discreet smile playing across her lips. "Oh well, Peter Florrick, governor of Illinois, I'd vote for him," he grins back.
The look of surprise on her face is truly priceless, although if he looks closely, more than surprised she looks amused, laughing with him when he says, "What? I can't vote for the other side, Diane would have a fit!"
Hearing the warmth coming out of her brings back memories in him, ones of tequila shots and Sunday afternoons spent on his couch making out like teenagers and giggling at reruns of CSI: Miami.
Living the way real couples do.
"You wouldn't have to tell her!" She chuckles and he listens to the sound of their laughter melting until they die as one loud, bold, fun and nostalgic melody. Will admires her the way he usually does when he walks around a corner and catches her doing something he finds truly fantastic, like washing her hands or printing documentation from the Internet.
(The truth is that Peter is great at what he does, period. He was even great at twenty-seven years old when Will felt like an immature infant; he was charming, self-confident but not arrogant, caring and supportive towards Alicia, already looking at her like he wanted to be the father of her children. "I like him, he's good for her," Lisa, one of Alicia's friends at the time, once said and Will couldn't find a single rational reason to explain the constant urge he felt to throw his fist against the guy's face. Sure, now, he knows Peter's not really a good man but again, Will's not sure he, himself, is.)
"We should have dinner more often," he tells her casually and she nods, once, trying to lighten the mood.
She waits for a while before she talks again. "So tell me, Will," she says, her voice lingering on the sound of his name. (He wonders if she ever does this on purpose.) "Since when, exactly, do you listen to Hannah Montana, when even my teenage daughter doesn't?"
There is a profusion of pathetic, shameful explanations about his ten years old niece stealing his Ipod but the conversation is finally flowing. Effortlessly.
8:02 p.m.
He turns the key in the ignition, still defending the lack of change in his musical tastes; she asks him if he still plays the guitar. "Sometimes. My sister thinks I should have been a rock star," he adds.
"Oh, yeah? Which one? Audrey? Wait, I think, she's right," Alicia says, voice edging towards the hint of a smile. "I can definitely imagine that. Name spread out in big bright lights, touring all over the world, using your charms on the ladies, you'd have been the guitarist in a band called something ridiculous like 'The Turtles' or 'Skyscrapers'!"
"The Turtles? Really? You've got to be kidding me!"
"No! You'd be gorgeous!"
He almost considers it. "Nah," he tells her, in confidence, like he told her about his secret bladder syndrome, "my ego's much too big to be in a band."
She nudges him playfully, her palm brushing against his shoulder, because really, just like Owen once told her, it's not because they're aging that they can't have fun. And Alicia's positive, she imagines Will, remembers him, fingers dancing over a series of guitar strings until two in the morning, playing his own cover version of Losing My Religion. He'd stop every time she'd enter the room (this one was serious, not like the shit he usually played to pick up girls, he said) so for half of her first and whole second year of law school Alicia sat at least once a week at the threshold of their living room, hidden in the dark, contemplating him. His feet taped the beat, regular, eyes set on dozens of chords scribbled in the margin of his Admin Law notes.
"I'm sorry I didn't try to keep in touch with you after law school," He suddenly says.
His voice is so soft, so sincere, caught up in his throat. It occurs to her that she might be seeing Will through the same, thick, pierced veil she used to see Peter through. When she hears people at work say he's a jerk, a manipulative womanizer, ruthless and all about the money, she really, really, doesn't understand what they all mean.
So she tries to shift the blame. "Will, we both kind of drifted apart, I don't blame you for anything -"
"Stop," he advises. He likes to think he's in the business of admitting to his earlier sins now. "I pushed you away because of Peter, because you were already thinking about giving up your career and I thought it was stupid – I'm sorry."
Her gaze falls upon his and, for the longest time, she doesn't make a sound. He's dying, he thinks, pulls up on the side of the road to properly look at her. A car rushes past them honking when she says, "Okay."
He smiles and speeds up again. "Thanks," he says. They fall back into a comfortable silence until he goes to take the bottle, drinks a bit and she grabs his hand as he puts it back. Their fingers brush and she squeezes his palm inside hers, softly breathing out. He wonders if she knows how madly in love with her he is.
They don't forget things, they don't forgive them, he realizes, that's not how it works.
They just accept them and move on.
9:30 p.m.
They stop for gas and when she offers him to take over the wheel, he gladly accepts. He goes to the bathroom, comes back gesticulating in the air like an idiot because he couldn't find enough paper to dry his hands. "Peter," he hears her talking on the phone, her back leaning against the car, away from him. He doesn't move. "No, I – I just wanted to say thanks for the kids tonight, I just couldn't find a plane back." He hears a series of 'yes' and 'no-s' and he's about to stop listening when his name comes up. "Yeah, I'm with Will," then, "no," then, "yes," then "three weeks". Suddenly, her voice goes stronger as she warns, "Peter, don't."
To make his way back, Will waits until a) he's found a satisfying opening line and b) he's sure she hasn't seen him.
9:32 p.m.
"So?" He jokes, "Ready to break the speed limit?"
He says it in a way…
He doesn't need to see the questioning look on her face.
This sounded much better in his head.
Much, much better.
If he could just keep on keeping on digging his sorry ass into a hole and never have to look up, that'd be great.
And there, he makes the mistake of looking up at her.
Well, what did you fucking expect, Will?
Alicia has a way of discreetly make fun of him like no one else.
He paces a bit back and forth, pretending to be trying to unbend his legs, left hand massaging the nape of his neck. (And Jesus, he's coughing like that lunatic woman in the Harry-Potter-and-whatever movie his sisters forced him to see).
"I think we're still about two hours, maybe three away from …"
And her hand goes to cover her mouth, her body shaking with silent waves of laughter.
He rolls his eyes.
Well, at least he can make her laugh by making a fool of himself, now.
And God, the more awkward he looks, the more it makes her laugh.
So he starts laughing too, because really, what else can he do? He's pathetic and she's wonderful and it's late, (so, so late), and he's exhausted, and every inch of his body aches and Alicia Florrick is laughing at him in a creepy, empty parking lot with this wonderful smile of hers he won't ever be able to forget.
And the more he laughs, the less he can control until he's as bad as she is, his back hitting the side of the car and settling next to hers, bursts after bursts of wild laughter filling their silences.
9:43 p.m.
She's still trying to catch her breath and his stomach hurts like nothing else when his head falls against the roof of the car in a loud 'clunk'. "Ouch," he says and quiet chuckles escape her mouth as she places her hands on her knees feeling as though she's just run a marathon.
"Oh, God," he breathes, all smiles and tears of laughter in his eyes. He lifts his head from the roof, his neck still stiff but shoulders high. Her eyes are twinkling like they used to, hair mussed and make up gone.
It's kind of sad, he thinks, how he feels he hasn't laughed this hard with anyone – or about anyone - in years.
When a couple of minutes later, he's still unconsciously stretching the muscles that support his head, a worried look suddenly appears on her face. No, no, no don't worry, Alicia, he wants to say, don't break the mo –
"You okay?" She asks. (A smile remains, anyway.) "Maybe I shouldn't have let you drive that long…"
"No, I swear, I'm fine," he reassures, "just a little sore."
She titters again a bit though he's not entirely sure why (it's like the secondary shakes after an earthquake) and inspects his body, his posture, the way his tired gaze travels to meet hers. Will is tall, athletic, has put on just the right amount of weight since their Georgetown days. She has memories too, she muses, like that one time they went on a road trip near the shore and he stupidly stepped over a railing, his body inches away from tumbling down a cliff. She shrieked at him as he tried to explain. "It's not even about falling," he pointed out, reassuring, "it's about knowing you can if you want to."
It occurs to her now that she's watching him standing there in the middle of the parking lot after ten minutes of sharing his wild fits of giggles, that this is probably the scariest thing anyone has ever said to her. "Come here, turn around," she mutters and slowly, very carefully, she reaches up and places her hands on the back of his neck, touching the skin under his shirt, drawing circular patterns over the knots of his nerves. He doesn't move (would blame himself forever if she stopped), the soothing feeling of her fingers on his skin drawing his eyelids shut. He inhales deeply, calling the chill of the night inside his lungs. Her body pressed against his, Will can feel her shift behind him, earning better access up and down his neck, as if she doesn't realize how dangerous this is for them, how desperate he is to give them that one last night they didn't get, to just let go with her like he did with his career (with his life), like they did a year ago in that hotel room, even if just for a little while.
The strength of her touch gradually subdues and when he turns around to look at her, it seems so easy, so obvious for him to just run his thumb across her cheek and kiss her, close his eyes again and let his lips graze hers, feel the tension wash off her body like you brush the dust off a shelf. It's soft and passionate at the same time, her hands move up his chest and into his hair and before he breaks away from her lips, he wishes they could just run away from life together, settle down and buy a farm, grow crops and milk cows for the rest of their lives.
"I miss you," he whispers, heart drumming against her chest. Her lips meet his this time, hungrier, her tongue begging him for access, kissing him back like Alicia Florrick usually rules the world, unaware.
She keeps her lips so, so close to his and they brush when she says, "I don't know what I want, Will."
"I know," he whispers in her hair, pulling her into a hug as tight as he possibly can and nods. This might actually be the worst part for him, he thinks, the fact that he understands – or at least tries to – and tries to be the good guy, the best friend she used to be able to count on.
He thinks about farms and crops and is forced to admit that if their lives weren't so damn complicated right now, they'd probably get bored.
11:42 p.m.
The moonlight shades a pale light over the left side of her face as she parks outside his front door. It reminds him of how they used to explore each other's bodies in the dark, how he fell in love with her, not at first but overtime, study session after study session, elevator ride after elevator ride. How he's always thought Alicia was the most wonderful woman he'd ever met. How, unlike Celeste, he's never been able to read her.
For the first time in weeks, there's silence but it's neither awkward nor weird. It's silence he wants remember forever, just like the way he always wants to kiss her. There are about a hundred things he'd like to ask her. He wants to know why she thinks if had been them and not her and Peter in Georgetown, they'd have lasted a week. He wants to know why she once said they wanted different things back then, that he wanted to end up where he is today (or where he was six months ago) and she wanted to marry someone like Peter.
(There are quite a lot of things he remembers, true, but he really cannot understand what the hell it was that he wanted so damn much he couldn't be the person she needed him to be back then.)
Instead, he asks "Do you want to come up?"
(He doesn't exactly have a plan but he'd like to kiss her, tell her she's beautiful and tell her he loves her and think it'd make a difference.)
"And then what?"
(She says it's romantic because it didn't happen, that if it had, it would just have been life. He thinks she's wrong on this one because bad timing is exactly that, life, life getting in the way.)
He often tries not to lie to her. "Then you stay the night. Then I don't know."
"So what is this? Our last night before we go back to reality?"
"Does that have to sound so bad, Alicia?"
Yes, he knows, it does, but she doesn't move and she's close enough for him to smell the soft perfume of her shampoo on his headrest so he kisses her again, like it's the only thing he can do. It's a bit uncomfortable because he has to lean over the gap between their seats and it hits him that maybe this is all that's left of them now, stolen kisses, rough touches, the feeling of her skin against his. She sighs when they part. "Even if I wanted to, I couldn't, not tonight, not with the interview tomorrow, I –"
"Okay," he nods because again, he understands. "I wish – God I just wish – I wish I knew where we stand, where you stand. I -"
"Peter and I are separated, Will. We're filing for divorce after the campaign, I –"
It's oddly reassuring, he thinks, that he's not the only one who believes in things that aren't true. "You're never going to divorce him, Alicia," he cuts in, calm and real, "You're going to be unhappy for the rest of your life but you're never going to divorce him."
She stares at him, dumbfounded, and he realizes they're very different people, Alicia and he. She's quiet and he's loud; he thinks she's more confident than he is, but at least that's something he can fake. He's charming, a showman, like Peter and that kind of makes him want to throw up. He thinks about court. Thinks about that feeling he gets, the way everything around him just stops when he starts speaking. It's exhilarating, boosts his ego, gives him purpose.
They're not going to divorce because she loves her kids, because she hates the press, because she's discreet and caring and perfect. He feels like he's sixteen and romantic when he thinks he's just one out of the myriad of fantastic people who gravitate around her and he remembers what he promised Diane, that'd she'd get over him.
"Will," Alicia breathes and looks like she already knows where this is going, like she always understands before he talks. His fingers curl into a fist, silent anger spreading through his veins.
His mouth twists. "You really don't want me to say it, Alicia, do you?"
She shakes her head, closes her eyes.
"No, not really, no."
"Why?" He says, louder. "It won't change anything. You already know and it doesn't change anything. I'm not an idiot, I don't expect anything. They're just words, Leesh, three of them, like 'add some salt' or 'I'll be there',"
"Yeah? Then why do you want to say them so bad?"
She might have a point there. He meets her stare and thinks he could draw her face in his sleep.
He loves to toy with the rules, wonders why he doesn't ever do it with hers. "Because it's the truth. I don't often say the truth." She opens her mouth to say something; he shakes his head softly. "You do good at the interview tomorrow, okay?" It's kind of sad that his voice doesn't even break. "I'm here if you need anything."
She nods; he opens the door and gets out quietly, retrieving his overnight bag from the back seat. "Be safe," he says and uses the stairs to get home.
The next morning, Peter's almost the only one to talk. He talks and talks and talks as the interviewers both crowd them with questions and she studies the hemlines of the beige leather couch. Eli makes sure they don't make too many close ups on her face because she just looks like she's never going to see the end of it.
About five minutes before the end, she's asked (personally, as though they've just noticed her) what she thinks makes their love, their relationship so special, what she thinks always brings them back together, she and Peter, in spite of all the bumps they've encountered in the road.
Bumps in the road? Really? That's what it all was?
"I think it's not just about love," she says as Eli's eyes grow into a wide, warning stare. Don't go there, Alicia. "A relationship is also about luck, timing. And we've always had that Peter and I," she pauses, at peace with herself for once, "we've always had good timing."
She feels Peter's body tense next to hers but it doesn't matter because when they broadcast the whole thing, they edit the whole thing. "Too rational," Eli explains, "not romantic enough."
.
At night, she's alone (it's Peter's weekend with the kids) and she paces nervously back and forth alone in her living room for two hours before she finally shows up on Will's doorstep. In the time it takes him to get to the door, it occurs to her he might have company, especially after last night, she imagines him seeking comfort from someone else and it makes her feel sick. Kalinda's flexible, she said. What if Kalinda -
But it's eleven at night on a Saturday and yet Will's not with Kalinda (or anyone else for that matter), he's ready for bed. He opens his door in a plain white shirt and a pair of sweat pants, barefoot, his apartment dark, lights off.
(She wonders if he's tripped on anything on the way here.)
He steps aside to let her come in and she remembers how he used to hate his nose, memories of him poking at it in the mirror of their shared bathroom in Georgetown rolling before her eyes. So when she crosses the distance between them and pushes him firmly against the wall, body and lips pressing against his, she's amused by the fact that they seem to manage around it quite fine, actually.
Late night stubble brushes against her collarbone as he plants quick, soft kisses on her skin. His arms are strong and he doesn't pause, doesn't ask her if she's sure because he knows how fragile this truce really is. When he feels her body tense, trapped between his and the wall of his bedroom, he understands that this is it, - the end – and not the one that he's hoped for. Yet, he steps away from her.
"I can't do this to you," she whispers.
He tries to make it last a bit longer, laying desperate kisses down her collarbone, arguing volenti. Delicate, she pushes him away, head down, "I can't."
He leans against the doorjamb, scull touching the wood. "Fuck," he mutters and she looks like she's truly sorry.
"I-" she begins, straightens her skirt, "I've got to –"
"Go?" He fires at her a little too quick. God, he was already half hard the minute he spotted her in his doorway. "Don't be stupid," he sighs, grabs a pillow from the bed, a blanket from the shelf. "It's late, you're tired. Sleep here, I'll take the couch."
He tosses and turns until 3 a.m., goes for a glass of water and comes back. At least, in three weeks he'll get his job back, the chaos and boredom of this whole thing washed out of his system.
He chuckles to himself. It's so fucking hilarious how he thinks Alicia might actually be breaking his heart.
In the morning, she sits behind the wheel after a quick shower at his apartment that left her smelling of Will's soap and cologne because of course, she tripped on his slippery floor while getting out, grabbed the sink for leverage and splashed some of its contents onto the floor.
(Obviously, she left a note saying she'd buy another bottle next week.)
She drives, and drives, and drives until she ends up in front of the old house. She imagines Peter still in an old t-shirt and shorts, barely up, the kids still asleep. She thinks about Will. There's got to be some kind of balance in this, for every time she does the right thing, she should be able to do what she wants.
She just hopes the kids won't hate her.
She knows she'll call Owen afterwards, remembering how comforting her brother's voice can be on the phone. After the scandal broke, every single day around eleven at night, like clockwork, Owen would call, make sure she was okay, make sure she had eaten. He was the one who asked her to put on some make up and wear nice clothes, not for the press but for herself. It became a routine, something to look forward to. So she'll call Owen today and once again, he'll ask her if she's okay, if she wants him to move in for a while and she'll just say, "keep calling, okay?" and he'll know what she means.
Peter answers on her third knock, slightly irritated. "Alicia –" He speaks but catches the look on her face and steps aside, walks the both of them to the living room. He doesn't say anything about the way she smells or looks; he just waits for her to argue, already preparing his defense.
You're never going to divorce him, Alicia. She closes her eyes. She's not doing this for Will, of that she's sure. She just wishes she could say he wasn't her wake up call.
Deep breaths, deep breaths, deep breaths.
"I want a divorce, Peter," she says and her husband stares at her, empty. "I want a divorce and I want it now, not after the campaign, now. It's time."
He doesn't look surprised. He's calm, collected, much like the twenty-six years old young man she fell in love with. He looks back at her with a sigh and a smile, sad and sweet, vulnerable. "Should I apologize again?"
She lowers her gaze, shakes her head, wants to hug him. "You know it's not only because of that Peter, it's… I… We're not the same people anymore. We wanted to have a family, and we've had that," she lightens. "We have two wonderful kids, Peter, but this, the secrets, the lying, the separation, it's not what's best for us, it's not what's best for them."
The sound of Peter's bitter chuckle reminds her of someone else's. "Right, and it really, really isn't about you being selfish, is it, Alicia? Should I - I don't know – should I just go punch him now or wait until his face pops up in one their magazines with –"
"Stop. You know it's not about Will, Will and I are over and I –"
"Oh really? Because you sure look like –"
He trails off; he's already hurt her enough. She takes another deep breath, heart tumbling. "I need to do this Peter, for me. I want to be alone, I don't even remember what it feels like to be alone."
She thinks oddly enough, Peter is starting to look like he's not the one in control anymore. Like he'll just do whatever she wants, without discussion. Like he accepts.
Moments pass, the clock ticks. His gruff voice brushes against his lips. "The press will be harsh on you, Alicia," he says, "I'll tell Eli to do everything he can, and he will, but they'll just – What they say about me, it doesn't matter, I've made my mistakes, I just wish they wouldn't attack you but they will and I –"
"It's okay, I know. We'll deal with it. We'll make it through this."
When he finally nods, once, determined, she thinks it's all going to be over, finally. "We'll talk to the kids today," He adds, running his hand over his tired face. "Issue a statement tomorrow."
"Okay," she nods and he repeats.
"Okay."
Peter respects, he understands.
The men in her life always do.
.
THE END.
A/N: Congrats, you've made it! Thank you for reading! By the way, I just wanted to thank the guests who reviewed my last story The Things That Will Likes, because I couldn't do it by PM, obviously, so thank you, so, so much. Some of you said really, really nice things and it truly means the world to me.
Also, there was another flashback I wrote and took off the story because it didn't really fit but if anyone wants me to publish it as a standalone, just say so and I will ;).