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The first time Will Gardner spots Alicia Cavanaugh, he's enamored by her mouth. Not her lips necessarily (though his eyes do catch on them briefly), but by her smile and the laughter that spills forth from them. He's 22 and in the duration of the first semester of his first year at law school, and he's standing in line beside Craig, his roommate, awaiting his turn to purchase tickets for a Georgetown football game. "It's the first month of law school," his roommate had reasoned, "one game won't kill us quite yet." Craig's blathering on about some girl he's chasing after who "won't give him the time of day," and then about his Civil Procedure professor who apparently is "holding a personal vendetta against him."

Will nods here and there, making a few noncommittal grunts as he buries his hands in the pockets of his dark jeans and looks around desperately for something—anything—else to focus his attention on. He's almost to the front now—only a few more minutes of this torture until he can make some bullshit excuse about needing to head to the library to research something about the voir dire process and dash away. It's not that he dislikes Craig—no, they're actually quite good friends. But Craig doesn't seem to comprehend the fact that Will's not much talkative when he hasn't slept in the past three days.

"I don't get why Ariadne isn't into me into me," Craig's saying, hands waving around animatedly in his passionate offense.

Will sighs, leaning against the concrete pillar beside him and scratching the back of his neck. The student in line before them can't seem to get his credit card to work in the slider. Great. "Maybe it has something to do with the fact that she's dating Chet Carlson."

Craig doesn't seem to pick up on the dryness in his roommate's voice, and, instead of silencing him into a ponderous quietude, it does the opposite, enflaming Craig. "Yeah, see, that's what I don't get!" he rages, eyes focused upward. "Chet is a complete tool; he couldn't be more wrong for her if he tried. Meanwhile, I'm always here for her—I'm the one whose shoulder is available for being cried upon. I'd do anything for her. Can't she see that?" His question isn't particular directed at Will, so there's no answer before he continues, "It can't be because I'm ugly. I'm attractive, right?"

"Sure, Craig," Will remarks with a faint smirk, rolling his eyes. "I can't fathom why I'm not tempted to jump your bones right this moment."

Some snarky retort is shot back at him, but it falls on deaf ears as a sudden burst of vibrant laughter pulls his attention away and towards the back of the line. The sound isn't melodic like in the movies, the bright and bubbly thing that makes boys' knees quiver. No, it's hearty, rich—not smooth like milk chocolate, but full of life and exquisite like salted caramel. He's unsure, but he has a slight suspicion that it might become one of his favorite noises, and he wants to hear it again.

The source of this sound just happens to come from a stunning young woman with pale skin and ebony hair that tumbles down her shoulders in grand, curly springs. She's not the type of beautiful like the models you see on reality television shows—the flawless, too-perfect appearance. She's rooted, eyes bright and dancing and with a smile that could illuminate an entire room the moment she entered. Her clothes are modest yet flattering, fabric hinting and occasionally revealing her slim curves, but not clinging to them in a blatant flash. She's so unlike his type that he's automatically drawn to her—not because he wants a change, or a challenge, but because she's not afraid to be heard.

"—Hey, Gardner, get up here," Craig's voice and tap on his shoulder brings him back to the present.

Will blinks and offers a sheepish smile, then moves up to purchase his ticket. When he turns around, hoping to catch the girl's eyes, he discovers that she's hoarded away in a corner, faced towards the wall and chatting on the phone with someone. Will hides his look of slight embarrassment and exits the building at Craig's heels before informing him that he has to visit the library, veering away.

/

That night, after having unsuccessfully been on the lookout for the girl at the game, that laugh appears in his dreams, and he smiles in his sleep.

SPLASH!

Will lands into the water, setting off a grand wave with his cannonball. When he surfaces, he grins broadly at the group of girls giggling coquettishly at him, and he sends a wave in their direction, which sets of another round of giggles. Their laughter is so unlike the kind he heard a couple weeks ago, he can't help but realize. Speaking of which, he'd actually been looking around as casually as he could for sight of the dark-haired student, but had ultimately come up empty. He figured she was holed up in her dorm, studying the night away.

Music pulsing, he swims over to the edge, then rests his forearms on the surface and grins boyishly at the girls. One of them, clearly the leader of the group, shoos the others away, then approaches, leaning suggestively over him. Halfway through his flirt-fest with her—her name is Scarlett, if he'd heard correctly—his eyes catch on someone who's making her way through the crowd, looking a bit lost and out of place. His heart stutters in his chest as he realizes it's the owner of the wonderful laugh, and he excuses himself from Scarlett, telling her that he'll call her later (he will, though he'll wish it was someone else).

Toweling off the water dripping from him, he approaches the young woman and smiles smoothly, sidling right up beside her. "You looking for someone?"

Taken off guard but not startled, she turns to face him, eyes dancing either with mild annoyance or amusement. "Perhaps."

"I can try helping you," Will offers.

Her lips twitch, concealing a smile, and she crosses her arms over her chest (she's wearing a peach-colored, short sundress and a white, unbuttoned sweater; there's a hint of cleavage, so unlike Scarlett, whose chest is spilling out of her gold string bikini). "I tend not to accept help from strangers."

He chuckles, cocking his head to the side and little droplets of water falling from his hair to roll down his chest (much to his dismay—or pleasant surprise, he hasn't decided—her eyes don't stray once from his own to ogle him). "Alright then. Wise decision. I'm Will, Will Gardner."

"Alicia Cavanaugh," she supplies in return with a polite smile. "Nice to meet you."

"Nice?" he echoes with a slight pout. "Pity, I was hoping it would be a pleasure."

She doesn't even bother to hold back a theatric eye roll, scoffing softly under her breath. "Maybe on your end."

"I could make it a pleasure on both ends," he suggests with a grin. Twirling a lock of sleek, midnight black hair—similar to the dark sky above them—around her finger, she just bites her tongue and examines him with a look, thin eyebrows raised, that makes the tips of his ears burn with embarrassment. When she looks as though she's debating just walking away right then and there, he quickly pipes in, "So, am I allowed to help you now that we're acquainted?"

Much to his surprise, she shrugs and nods faintly, lips pursed. "Sure. But are you only offering because you want to sleep with me?"

He's a little taken off-guard; most girls he's hit on have used the hard-ass comment of "I'm not letting you get into my pants," or "We're not gonna fuck, if that's what you think." Of course, all the girls who told him that were still bed by him, but he already knows Alicia is so much different than any other woman he's met.

Placing his hand on his chest in a dramatic fashion, he feigns a look of absolute insult. "Why, you wound me, Alicia. I wouldn't dream of such a thing." (He'll dream of it on so many occasions after this night, most of which not by his own will.) When she regards him as though he's just stolen her wallet, he holds his hands up in a surrendering fashion. "Hey, no, honestly. I've been doing cannonballs all night; I'd say it's time for a break."

"I noticed," she admits quietly, expression unreadable, and he's taken by surprise once again. Without elaborating, she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, glancing towards him. "I'm looking for my roommate, Talia Donovan. D'you know her?"

Will thinks a moment before nodding. "Kinda, yeah. I didn't realize she was your roommate." The young Asian, some intellectual genius and only 18, had gotten into Princeton when she was 14, transferred to Georgetown, and was now studying Law along with the rest of them. They'd spoken a few times; now that he thinks about it, he's pretty sure she was the girl Alicia was laughing beside back in that line.

Alicia just nods, and the two head off in search of the roommate. He studies her in the pale moonlight, and he wonders just what it would take to make her laugh like she had around Talia. (He also wonders whether she's single or not, though he tries to push that thought away.) They spend a good twenty minutes searching the packed, drunken orientation, and, when they finally find Talia, she's sitting on the pool's ledge at the shallow end, legs in the water and squinting to read her textbook. Before her, her boyfriend Logan is tugging on her shins playfully with a puppy-dog pout, wide blue eyes staring up. She chuckles though she obviously tries not to, half-heartedly protesting about getting water on her book and glasses.

When Alicia approaches, her roommate looks upward and beams brightly, greeting her friend as she takes a seat beside her. Will awkwardly lurks nearby, unsure of what to do next. Logan glances questioningly at him, and he offers a crooked smile, which the younger man returns with a slight wave and nod. Alicia, seeming to finally realize that he's still there, looks back towards him with a feeble but sincere smile. "Thank you, Will. It was ni—a pleasure meeting you."

It might be the darkness, but he's pretty sure he sees her lips twitch into a smirk.

Will lets out a low, throaty chuckle, nodding and taking his cue to leave. "The pleasure's all mine, Alicia. I'll see you around."

"Maybe you will," she concedes, expression once again indecipherable.

As he leaves, he can hear Talia and Alicia arguing softly, and then there's a sudden splash. When he glances backward, Alicia has the textbook in her hands, and Talia is sputtering the water. To say he's surprised would be an understatement when she looks back toward him, and, while she quickly averts her gaze, he likes to think he saw the hint of a blush on her cheeks.

Will casts his eyes to the ground before him and grins stupidly.

Will doesn't run into Alicia until the next semester, when they share the same Democracy and Coercion course. She's already there when he enters, her laptop, notebook, and text book all laid out neatly before her and a cup of coffee in her hand. She's taken an end seat about half way in between the front and back of the room, and there's no one in the chair beside her. He really shouldn't be surprised that she's raring to go a whole fifteen minutes before class starts.

When he passes her, she catches his glance and smiles faintly, and he actually has to tell himself to keep it cool and stick to a simple nod and wave. He almost moves to sit next to her, but someone snatches the spot before he can, and he brushes off his embarrassment by running his hand suavely over his hair—much to her amusement. Her body curls over as she snorts, and this time he doesn't hold back his grin.

Some caramel-haired girl with blocky glasses and a pencil skirt that is so working for her coos his name and flutters her fingers at him (Candice, he thinks—he's pretty sure she gave him her number at a Starbucks a couple weeks ago), patting the seat beside her, and he chuckles, sitting beside her instead. He doesn't see the purse of Alicia's lips with his back turned.

He doesn't spend half the class watching the way Alicia listens so intently, finger absentmindedly twining that one curly spring of hair around her finger—such a stark contrast, the raven on ivory—as she diligently takes notes at a rapid rate he's never seen before, he really doesn't.

/

The next week, after he's shared a few sheet-rolling sessions with Candice and broken it off before she could become too attached (she just has that clingy vibe), he makes sure to arrive early enough to slip into the seat beside Alicia before the other student can. He ignores the daggers Candice drills into his head as she heads towards the back and quirks his head at Alicia, who's so intent on reviewing her notes that she hasn't even noticed her new seat mate. "Long time no see," he finally greets.

Her eyes swivel up to his, and he's struck by how gold they look in the light. "Will, hi."

Her gaze darts behind her, and a slight frown flits over Will's features. "Something the matter? I can move if Greg or whatever wants to sit here—"

"Clark," she corrects, and she shakes her head, offering a sheepish smile. "No, it's not that. Just… I think Candice wants to kill me at the present moment."

A scoff escapes him, and it's his turn to shake his head. "Oh, I doubt that; I wouldn't worry about it."

Her lips curl into a smirk. "Love 'em and leave 'em, eh?"

"There's no love involved," he informs her without a second thought, and he immediately regrets it, though she doesn't show even a hint of a sign of disapproval.

"How's classes going for you?" she changes the subject, taking a sip of her drink of the day—diet Coke, this time.

His shoulders rise and fall, tilting his head about. "Oh, y'know, can't complain this early in the semester. It's nice not to have to worry about finals for a few more months again." Her head bobs in agreement. "How about for you?"

"Same," is all she supplies, and she runs a tube of chapstick along her lips with a sigh. "Wish I could tell my mom how well I did on my exams," she mumbles, so quietly it's nearly inaudible. Before he can make a move to reply, she glances up at him resting her chin in her palm. "What elective did you take?"

"Sports and the Law," he informs her, and she smiles, admitting that she could picture him doing quite well in such a course. "But not in a course such as this?" he teases, and she rolls her eyes good-naturedly.

"Not what I meant, and you know it."

"Do I?" he snickers, and she blows a few curls away from her face with the shake of her head. "What elective did you take?"

She's about to respond when the professor calls for attention and begins giving out instructions. "Alright, students, we're starting research for our first partner project in this course. You all may be able to prattle off facts about century-old cases off the top of your head—or some of you that paid attention during your pre-law studies might be able to—but, the true question is: can you handle the simple task I'm about to propose?"

Chuckles echo throughout the lecture hall, and the professor continues. "Starting with the chairs on the very left of the rows, I want those sitting in odd seats—for those of you that don't know, that's the first, third, and so on chairs—to face the right." Will turns to face Alicia, and he waves goofily at her, which causes her to laugh and cover her mouth to avoid being heard.

"Congratulations. You have your new partners."

Will first suggests they meet each other for reasons outside of the classroom when they're studying in his apartment's living room a couple months later. After her umpteenth time of scouring over the same three pages in her textbook, Alicia glances upward, eyes catching on a worn baseball on a shelf beside a few trophies.

"Do you play?" she inquires, and he follows her gaze.

He shrugs modestly. "Yeah, a bit."

"It must be more than just a bit to accumulate those trophies," she remarks.

A chuckle escapes him, and his eyes flitter to the coffee table before him, papers scattered about. "I played competitively in high school, but I threw my shoulder my senior year and was unable to after that. I just tinkered with it through my undergrad studies."

He can faintly feel her watching him. "Definitely more than a tad, then. Were you any good?"

How is he supposed to answer that without sounding like an arrogant jackass? "I was alright."

She calls his bluff and snorts, shaking her head as she jots down a few more notes. "Don't be so modest. Do you still play?"

"Yeah, with a few friends of mine."

She nods and returns her attention to her work. He watches her over the top of his notebook that's already spilling out various, misplaced sheets here and there. Her lips are pursed the way they do when she's in the focus zone, attention completely and utterly honed in on the task at hand. She's already easily the sharpest student in their class, though she doesn't make a show about it. She's not one of those try-hards, hand always shooting up in the air like a bullet at each question. But when the professor tries to throw her a curve ball, her answers are sure and swift. He wonders if she was always this way, even back in her childhood, or if she ever lets her hair down.

"You should come watch me play," he blurts out suddenly, startling both of them.

Her mouth opens slightly in surprise, and he kicks himself mentally. Too soon, he berates himself. There's no way she doesn't see me as a cocky prick now. He's not quite sure why he offered in the first place; while they are friends—good friends, in fact, he likes to think—they don't exactly interact outside of class work. He knows she doesn't have a boyfriend, but he has a feeling she's not exactly concerned with such trivial things anyways. Not that the only reason he'd asked was to get her to become her boyfriend; that wasn't his motives—not that he wouldn't mind becoming her boyfriend, because he so wouldn't, but—

"Yeah, I should," she puts a sudden halt to his inner turmoil, and he blinks in surprise.

"Really?" he inquires dumbly.

A smile flits across her soft features. "Really. I'd love to see you in action." The way she says those words, with her eyes dancing with just the hint of mischief, makes his stomach do this weird thing, flip-flopping a little.

He tries not to look like too great an idiot as he scribbles down the date and time of his next game on a piece of notebook paper, rips it out, and hands it to her. She smiles, glances at the information, and informs him that she'll be there.

And she is.

He's warming up with his friends, throwing fast pitches, and he's trying not to look like he's been spending the past twenty minutes he's been there on the lookout for his ebony-haired partner. When he finally catches sight of her in the stands, law book in her lap, her smile warms him up even better than his pre-game drills could, and he returns the wave she sends in his direction.

He puts forth extra effort in this game, and both his teammates and opponents are a little taken off guard. Of course, he's not only fueled by the desire to show off for Alicia, but by the cheers she calls from her spot—little whoops and claps and "Go, Will"s. After he pitches a no-hitter, the ball flying forth from his fingers with a satisfying whiz each time, he makes sure to high-five his teammates before jogging over to Alicia.

"Hey," he greets with a bright grin.

"Hey yourself," she returns with her own smile, hugging her text book to her chest.

"Sorry I smell like sweat," he apologizes, and she shakes her head in return.

"Don't be. I kinda like it."

His fingers involuntarily tighten around the baseball in his hand at the admittance.

Before either can think about the context of the confession, she speaks again. "You did a great job out there."

He tries not to look as proud as he feels. "Impressive, huh?"

The familiar eye roll he's come quite fond over the past few months occurs as if on cue (he once teased her about how her eyes would get stuck up there). "Don't get too big a head," she chides, but the corners of her lips are curled upward with a hidden smile.

The innuendo You wanna see how big my head is? is dancing on the tip of his tongue, but he restrains himself; she's not that kind of girl. He settles for a laugh, tossing the ball up and down, and he watches those hazel eyes follow its path. "My father's," he supplies as an explanation, offering it out for her to examine. Her soft fingers brush his as she takes it from him, and he watches as she admires the round object, those same fingers brushing over its worn material. "He taught me how to play when I was six."

"That's sweet," she tells him earnestly, studying the tight threads that are dusty from years of rolling about in the dirt. "Did he want you to be a professional baseball player?"

He thinks a moment, thinks about the way his father showed up to each game, took him out for pizza and sundaes after them. How he would talk about his son with such abundant pride to his friends, take him to baseball games every other weekend. "At first," he admits. "I think my injury upset him as much as it did me—if not more. It took him a while, but he eventually accepted the fact that I wouldn't be able to play as competitively as I used to."

"Does he live here in Washington?" she inquires curiously.

"No, uh…" he pauses, voice trailing off a bit, "he passed away last semester. Heart attack."

Her eyes widen, a little intake of breath escaping her. "Oh, Will," she breathes, fingers skating over the tough surface of the ball one last time before she hands it back. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know."

"You didn't even know me, really," he dismisses her with a small but appreciative smile. "So there's no need to apologize." When she just nods, he feels badly for dampening the mood, and he moves to break the silence. "Did your father want you to be a lawyer?"

"My father left when I was young," she states plainly, and it's his turn to be surprised. "I don't think my mom expected me to amount to anything that remarkable. She's always liked my brother more." She speaks so simply, as though she's pointing out a common fact like how the sky is blue, that it almost hurts more to listen to than if she were hostile about the situation. "Anyhow, I didn't join law school to prove my mom wrong or anything like that; I did because I had a feeling I'd be good at it."

He regards her carefully, realizing how hardened she already is against the world underneath that bright exterior, and it actually makes him a little sad. "You are," he informs her, and she looks up at him, a startled expression on her face. He's almost worried she's going to break down at him when her features soften into a genuine smile.

"Thank you, Will." He's trying to summon up the courage to ask her out to lunch when she shifts her book in her arms, glancing off towards the parking lot. "I should go; I've got some Contracts work to do."

He nods, bids her goodbye, and watches her walk away, resisting the urge to follow her and offer help.

They have a lot of non-dates over their semester working together—countless all-nighters that end in take-out boxes littering one or another's apartment. Most of them usually result in each other stealing bites from the food they didn't order, but neither of them mind. The first time they go on a real non-date is the night after they finish their finals and are free to leave back home for the summer. She offers to take him to a bar across town, and even though the only thing he really wants to do is crash in his bed and take a month-long nap, there's no way he's going to turn her down.

The place is packed tightly; apparently everyone else had the same idea of letting loose before they all have to board planes and crawl into cars to go back home. Will and Alicia both flick back a couple beers each before a pool table frees up and Will makes a dash to take it for himself. The cue ball cracks open the triangle, and he can't decide whether to watch the balls roll across the green velvet or her instead, in the Alicia-zone but for a completely different reason this time.

She lets out a triumphant little noise when two stripes are sunk, wide beam spreading across her features, and he's stuck just staring at her for a moment. Now that she doesn't have to worry about their exams anymore, she seems freer already, lighter. When she glances over at him questioningly at his lack of action, smile merging into a more amused one, he's struck with the sudden urge to lean over the table and kiss her.

"You can go sometime today, y'know," she remarks wryly, lips twitching into a smirk and breaking off his pleasant distraction.

He snorts, shaking his head, and he flashes an impish grin. "I'm just giving you more time to brace yourself for inevitable defeat."

A low, throaty chuckle surpasses her lips, and that paired with the way she's cradling the pool stick between her legs is really making it difficult for him to concentrate. Her eyes are dark, almost predatory as they observe both him and the table before them, and he finds her focus even when it's not her turn a bit of a turn on.

When she takes the blue chalk cube and rubs it leisurely (suspiciously deliberately, it seems to him) along the tip of her stick, his breath goes shallow, and he jerks forward, stick just barely grazing the cue ball. A sharp sigh escapes him. "Damn."

It's Alicia's turn to smile devilishly as she moves behind Will, placing her hand on his shoulder and sighing dramatically. "Shot too soon, huh?" she teases, and her voice is laced with mirth and perhaps even a hint of suggestion. His breath stutters just barely, almost unperceivably, and, as she bends over the edge to line up her shot (good God, Alicia), he really just wants nothing more than to spin her around, spread her across the green felt, and kiss her senseless.

Not surprisingly, she sinks another couple balls, and her cocky taunting finally refuels his desire to beat her. His competitive side kicks in, and he surprises her by landing not one or two balls but three on his next turn, and then another one. He smirks at her obvious disbelief, and she rolls her eyes, quipping something about a lucky shot.

In the end, the game results in Alicia's victory by one mere ball. "Try not to look so defeated," she chides with a grin. "I'll buy you dinner."

He waves her off with his hand, laughing. "Oh, no. You already bought us drinks; I'll get us dinner." She stares at him with this indignant look, and he's pretty sure she's about to go into some rant about how society somehow feels the need to have men pay for women, so, before she can do so, he holds his hands up. "I just know of this great place."

That seems to satisfy her, and, an hour later, they're sitting in his car in the lot of her apartment. A two-serving Chicago-style pizza sits between them, and they both nurse another beer. They talk about absolutely nothing and everything at the same time, about favorite songs and films and novels and futures and families and odd favorites (like the hissing sound the strike of a match creates, or the way snowflakes get caught in hair). Once, she inquires about Bridgette, a girl from one of Georgetown's undergrad programs he's been seeing for the past two months. He informs her that he broke it off a couple days ago, and she's silent for a few moments.

He realizes at some point within the conversation that Alicia is the person he most cares about in his life, quite possibly the best friend he's ever had.

He's just about to reach for her hand some two hours later when she squints at her watch in the dim moonlight. "Oh, wow, it's already one in the morning." She glances at him and offers a sheepish smile. "I need to be at the airport in five hours, and there's still a bit of packing I need to finish up."

He nods and scrambles out of the car to join her outside and walk her up to the front of her building. At the door, he smiles at her and dips his head forward. "Well, after a long, grueling first year of Law School, here we are."

"Here we are," she echoes, returning the smile with one of her own. She reaches forward and touches his elbow. "For what it's worth, I'm glad you were my partner."

"Oh," he says, cheeks flushing, and he's grateful that the night hides his reaction, "thanks. I'm sure you would've been great with anyone, though."

Her elbows rise and fall with a chuckle. "Perhaps. But I probably wouldn't have liked him or her as much or gotten along with them as well as I do you."

His heart skips a beat.

"In that case, it goes without saying that I'm glad you were my partner as well." He pauses before adding, "You're probably the best partner I could ask for."

She doesn't respond right away, and, for a moment, he's worried that he crossed the line in confessing that (shit, it was too soon). But then he notices an unmistakable rogue tint to her cheeks, and she hides her grin behind her dark curtain of curls. "Thanks, Will."

He just nods, then glances over his shoulder. "I'm probably holding you up, so I'll let you go. See you in the fall?"

"See you in the fall," she agrees, and she leans in to hug him, her grip loose but sure.

He finds that he doesn't want to let her go.

There's good and bad news to the following fall. The good: he's elated to discover that Alicia shares his Criminal Law year-long course and still considers him the most ideal partner (the professor allowed them to choose their own, figuring they were all at the stage in which they'd choose based on skills and not personal preferences). The bad: Alicia got a boyfriend over the summer (he can't decide whether he's more taken off guard by that or the fact that he wasn't involved with anyone over the entire break).

His name is Peter Florrick, and apparently he's studying Political Science intensively. She seems to be happy with him, but she's still far from the gushing type that many girls seem to become once they engage in a relationship. He hates himself for not asking her out while he had the chance, but she always seemed so untouchable to him, and he didn't want to ruin what their friendship. Besides, she's happy, and that's all that he wants—right?

Bullshit.

She tells him she thinks he'd like Peter, but he's not so sure. There's no valid reason to hate the guy already, especially when he's never met him (jealousy is such a petty motive, he tells himself), but he can't help but not view him in the best of thoughts. He wonders just what about Peter makes her drawn to him, and what he lacks that didn't make her as such to him before. She's just so enigmatic; he rarely knows just what's going on in her head, though he's gotten fairly capable of reading her plethora of expressions. When he looks at her during the day, he wants to know what she's thinking.

For now, however, he's just content to spend as much time as possible with her. Currently, they're alone on the baseball field, Will practicing his pitching against a limp, dirtied mattress leaning back on the fence and Alicia watching directly off the field on a blanket, text books scattered about. Glancing over at her, he ceases his slugging for a moment, fingers curled around the ball.

She's sprawled out on her stomach across the thick, tightly-knitted blanket, combing over the hundreds of pages of text. The pale yellow shade of the fabric starkly contrasts with her dark raven ringlets, and he wants to run his hands through them. The crisp air is a bit sharp, so she's dressed in a tan sweater with hefty black buttons, black leggings, and dark brown leather boots. A mixture of crinkled, vibrant ruby, blood orange, gold, and rich brown leaves litter the grass surrounding her, and he's reminded of why autumn is by far his favorite season.

Glancing upward, she catches him staring, and, to cover his embarrassment, he flourishes a broad grin and wave. Her body ripples with laughter, and she returns both gestures. He resumes his drills as she looks back to her books, and, after a few more minutes, he makes his way over to his friend. Before she notices him, a lone, tomato-red leaf drifts to rest on the top of her head. When he's close enough, he gently takes it by the stem and chuckles. "Nice accessory."

Tilting her head upward, a grin spreads across her features when she notices him twirling the item between his fingers. "It is, isn't it? I just make everything work."

He chuckles and plops down beside her, resting back on his broad palms. His navy gym pants are warmed by the sun, and the neckline of the grey tee that sits over his baby blue long-sleeved shirt is a shade darker from his sweat. "How's studying going?"

She moves to rest her head on top of his thigh, looking up at him. "Well," she informs with a small shrug. "I'm absorbing the material pretty nicely."

He smiles down at her, and, even though they've long passed the point in which they're more than comfortable with each other and are okay with physical gestures like this, their close proximity and the utter ease she displays by sitting like that makes his stomach do a flip-flop or two. He feels a little ridiculous that she can evoke such a childish corollary from him, but that doesn't stop him from tapping the tip of her nose lightly and inducing a giggle from her end (that sound will never get old, and he hopes he'll hear it long into the future).

"As you always do," he replies, and she scoffs, reaching up to give his cheek a gentle pat. Holding the baseball into her view, he moves it around between his finger pads. "Wanna play?"

"You know I have work to do," she protests half-heartedly, and he grins at the obvious confliction in her eyes.

"You'll have plenty of time for that later; we were just assigned all that crap today. C'mon, you're getting a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to play with a could-have-been profession player; are you really gonna pass that up?"

He cheers internally when she caves with a grin, rising to her feet. "Oh, well, when you put it that way, I simply can't refuse."

Leading her to the pitcher's mound but facing third base as opposed to home plate, he points to the worn mattress and simply nods once. "Go ahead. Unleash all that pent-up power."

Without a second thought, she hurls the ball towards the target, and a chortle escapes him before he can help it as it completely misses and slams into the fence instead. "Whoa there, 'Leesh, where's the fire?" She casts him a death-glare, one that could kill, and that just makes him burst out in full-fledged laughter. "Oh, shh. You did just fine; the power's definitely there. The only thing that needs work is your form."

As he jogs forward to collect the ball, he risks a glance over his shoulder at her. She's smiling to herself, and he realizes that's one of the things he loves about her: she knows her limitations; she knows she's not perfect—but she's always trying to improve what she can and never takes herself too seriously.

Returning to her side, he hands her the ball and moves behind her, curling her arms and fixing her shoulders as well as her stance. His hand covers hers, moving her nimble, pen-stained fingers to the best position for throwing. Moving her arm back, with one hand on her elbow and the other on her waist, he mimics the motions of pitching for her, explaining as he goes along. He can feel the warmth of her body heat through the sweater, pressed up completely against him, and he wonders if she can feel how rapidly his heart is beating through the layers of cloth separating them.

She twists around in his grasp, tilting her face upward towards him, and she's so very close that he can feel her erratic, warm breath cast over her face. "Will," she breathes, and her voice trails off like a hidden question.

Right when he thinks she's about to kiss him (or, more likely, he's about to kiss her), she swivels around, pulls back, and sends the ball whipping toward the mattress. This time, it nails the furniture with a satisfying "thump," not quite on the target but just a hair away. He's still recovering from the sudden lack of contact, but she whoops loudly in triumph, pumping her fists in the air.

Her enthusiasm brings a beam to his face, and he can't help but laugh along with her, holding his hand up for a high-five as she cheers joyfully. "Did you see that, Will Gardner? That's how it's done."

His eyes roll theatrically, and he sighs with a chortle. "Yeah, yeah, okay. It was a definite improvement, but it wasn't that impressive."

"Oh, I dunno, Will," she ribs teasingly, voice low as she leans in closer, body canting on its own into his. "I think that, between the two of us, I'd be the one more likely to become a pro baseball player."

His eyes light up mischievously as he nears her. "Oh, that's it," he grows playfully before he lunges at her, fingers darting up and down her sides and eliciting squeals out from her (and since when were either of them ticklers?). Her body writhes against him, and he wants to make it do it again, but for whole other reasons. She trembles with laughter as he continuously, and she kicks futilely. Her physical protests are so grand that the two move all the way over to the fence, and, when he stumbles, she falls back into the chain link.

"Oh my God," he manages to wheeze between chortles, hands moving out to steady her, "I am so—I'm so sorry."

She shakes her head, laughter as loud and uninhibited as the day he first saw her, and she bats away at a few stray tears. "N-no, no; I didn't fall."

He can't remember the last time he's ever laughed so hard, and, when he finally manages to compose himself just a little, he realizes with a start that his hands are still bracketed around her waist. She's still laughing, and he can see the emerald specks in her irises dance with glee. In that moment, she seems so incredibly exultant that he can't help it; one hand moves up and slips to the back of her neck so he can slant his lips over hers.

A soft gasp escapes her, and he steals it, his fingers threading through her smooth hair and arm wrapping around her waist to bring her closer. Their kiss is gentle at first, like the flit of butterfly wings against the breeze, but she suddenly surges against him, touch firmer and hands sprawling across his shoulders. He can feel every line of her against him as he traps her against the fence, one hand grasping a few of the chain links and the other moving to brace against her hip; he can feel her heat radiating under his palm.

Her mouth opens beneath his, and, oh, Jesus, she can do some wicked things with her tongue. She tastes like pumpkin spice coffee creamer and knowledge. His heart is beating so rapidly he can feel it in his ears; he wonders if she can hear it too. Her fingers cradle his jaw, and her other hand is playing with the hem of his shirts as he begins to fumble one of the buttons of her sweater. Suddenly, reality seems to hit at full-force, and she breaks off abruptly, breathing rapid and uneven.

He can't seem to catch his breath as they stare at each other, his hands stilled against the fence and her sweater. He jerks away, stepping back a few paces as if burned and rubbing the back of his neck. He can still taste her on his mouth, still feel the pressure of her lips. "Alicia, I'm so sorry," he stumbles over his words (he never flubs verbally; what on Earth is wrong with him?), running a hand over his face tiredly. "I shouldn't have done that."

Her head moves back and forth in a distraught manner, and she looks so torn he hates himself for not regretting kissing her. "You weren't the only one there," she mumbles, and she runs her hand through her hair, messing up the bouncy tresses—though they fall back in their wild places fairly quickly. "Will, I—"

"Don't," he cuts her off, but gently, eyes morose as they look at her. "Peter."

"Right," she confirms with a sigh. "If Peter and I weren't… then maybe we…"

His lips press together in a thin line, and he shakes his head, moving to collect his baseball a few yards away. "But you are," he states simply, and she nods. When she looks as though she's about to speak, he manages a wry smile. "Look, Alicia, this is just life. This doesn't have to affect our relationship in any way, okay? Because I—you're my best friend, 'Leesh, and I don't wanna lose that."

"I don't either," she admits quietly, and the two stand there for a few moments in thoughtful but surprisingly not awkward silence before she speaks again. "Wanna go over those Constitutional Law II notes in the library?"

"Sure," he agrees, and he's grateful they're going someplace discreet because he's not so sure he can force much conversation at the moment.

They carry on afterward with their friendship as if nothing happened (they even return to the baseball diamond, though he doesn't touch her when she practices pitching once in a while), but both know nothing will ever be the same again.

They sleep together for the first time a couple months later. It's a week before winter finals, and people have already long given up bothering with simple necessities such as sleep, daily showers, and healthy, balanced diets. Students buzz around the campus at all hours of the night, most as active even at three or four in the morning and all bearing hollow rings around their eyes and hats to hide their matted hair, bags of greasy fast food or double-shot lattes in their hands.

Will and Alicia are studying in the warmth of the library at one of the oak wood tables, only illumination provided from the corner light with a chain string. It's 2:47am, and despite the fact that the library closes in thirteen minutes, the place is all but packed. The two are shooting questions to each other—little quizzes about vocabulary, hypothetical situations, past cases, and certain laws and regulations, and, even with both their plagues of insomnia, she's on fire (he's a little worse for wear, though he fires back just as rapidly).

The two have been non-stop studying for the past week already, not having slept a wink in what must be the past seventy-two hours at least (and, before then, they'd only gotten an hour or two in here or there, sprawled atop their books). They don't budge unless it's to move from one of their apartments to the other, or occasionally to the library when they need a change of pace.

"Alright, three AM, everyone go home," the librarian barks at the students, and there's a collective groan mingling with the scuffle of boots on carpet, and the scrapes of chairs being pushed back.

As Will places his texts, notebooks, and portfolios in his shoulder bag, Alicia buttons her coat shut, pulls her knit hat tightly over her midnight mass of curls, loosely wraps her scarf around her neck, and slips on her fingerless gloves. When she begins to pack her own things away, she makes a soft tsk'ing noise as she watches Will shrug on his jacket. "You really should wear some more, y'know," she comments with a concerned look. "At least a hat or something. Heat—"

"—rises and escapes out the head, I know, 'Leesh," he fishes for her. His words make his point, but his tone is teasing, and his smile is crooked. "You never fail to inform me. I'll buy a hat later, okay? Promise."

"You always say that," she reprimands with a humored snort, but dropping the subject and heading for the door. He holds it open for her.

They step outside, and snow flurries down in thick flakes, sparkling in the lamplight. When she speaks, her voice expands before her in a billowing cloud, stark white against the dark, plum-shaded sky heavy with precipitation. "Talia and Logan are at my place right now, and, while I'm sure they're studying, I'm not sure if…"

He shakes his head, effectively cutting her off as their boots make wet noises and imprints in the thick, greyish-brown slush. "We can continue at my place. Craig's over at Ariadne's right now, anyways."

Her head swivels to face him, and he can see the snow crystals twinkling in her hair. Her golden-jade eyes narrow in scrutiny. "Wait, she finally agreed to see him?"

"He did," he confirms, and, when she releases that glorious laugh he's grown so fond of, he can't stop himself from joining in.

"Wow. I just… wow. Good for him waiting over a year for her," she remarks, mirth dancing in her voice, and he's a little surprised she's so impressed.

He doesn't point out how he's already waited the same amount of time for her, and he certainly doesn't tell her how he's willing to wait as long as she'll let him.

The walk isn't too terribly long, and he's always preferred walking with Alicia as opposed to driving or taking a cab. Her silence is more telling than her words, oftentimes, and he treasures how they get to share private, quiet trips like this together. As he occasionally steals a glance or two at her from the corner of his eye, he can practically feel the wheels turning in her mind; it's always buzzing, and he desperately wants just a glimpse inside. When they arrive at his place, they scrape their salt-stained boots on the mat before his door before entering.

He glances around his messy living room, pizza and take-out boxes strewn across the room along with various beer bottles and so very many papers, and he offers a half-smile. "Sorry about the mess," he mumbles, but she dismisses his words with the wave of her hand.

"Don't apologize. Quite frankly, my place is no better. Besides," she adds, flashing a smile that warms him from the top of his snowy head to the tips of his numb toes as she removes her winter wear, "it's familiar to me."

His breath catches in his throat, and, in that moment, with her standing in the middle of his filthy living room as she tosses her coat on the loveseat, hair dripping with melting flurries onto her hoodie, she looks so perfect—like she was meant to be there, meant to stay here, with him, forever. He can see the hollow look of her features, the fatigue written on her face, even from there, yet he's never found her more beautiful. His eyebrows furrow; he's never felt this way about anyone before, never felt such strong feelings, and it honestly terrifies him.

As she moves to plop down on his couch, dragging her belongings with her, he snaps out of his trance and calls to her while shuffling into the kitchen. "Do you want some hot chocolate?"

"Yes, please," he hears her voice return, and he can hear the zipper of her bag.

He places a kettle on the hot plate before returning to her side, settling down beside her and dropping his study materials on the coffee table in front of them. They decide not to immediately return to quizzing each other, each studying their own notes in silence for a few minutes before Will speaks up again. "How's Peter?" he inquires casually, and he sees her close her eyes with a sigh.

"Will…" she trails off, a warning.

His hands rise in a surrendering motion, and he grins at her with a light-hearted chuckle to let her know he's not intending to be too serious. "Hey, I'm not going to kiss you or anything, don't worry."

Her silence fills the room for a moment too long, and Will inwardly curses himself. Fucking imbecile.

"He's fine," she replies finally. "School's going well for him."

"That's great," he tells her, though his voice is quiet, and his genuineness isn't quite all there.

"Yeah," she murmurs before she shakes her head, glancing at him. Her eyes are full of guilt, and he despises himself for doing this to her—for making her feel guilty. "Do you mind if we not talk about him?"

"Not at all. I'm sorry I pushed."

"You're fine," she hurriedly assures him, but he's not so sure either of them believes it.

Before things can become more awkward, the kettle screams, shattering the silence. He excuses himself from the room and returns a few minutes later, two mugs in hand and placing one on the table before her (he's long lost care about using coasters).

"Here," he tells her, gesturing to the drink—an apology, "with three jumbo marshmallows, just the way you like it." ("Three is a stable number," she once told him. "For instance, a stool is most ideal with three pegs. Take one away, and it all crumbles. I like stability.")

"Thank you," she tells him with a small but sincere smile, and she returns her attention to her Contracts text book as he settles himself down in the chair across from her.

He wonders if Peter knows how Alicia likes her hot chocolate.

His eyes move to the transcript of some case a century or two ago that heavily revolves around malicious prosecution, but he's not much focusing on the words, watching his partner out of his peripheral vision instead. He muses over what Peter is like—how well he treats her, if he loves her little quirks the way he does, what he does and says to make her laugh as though there isn't a wrong in the world. No, it's not any of his business, but he just wants her to be taken care of well, to receive all the happiness she deserves. And while it's not guaranteed that he could deliver such ambitions, he would still give it a damn noble try.

Eventually, he returns to his work, scribbling down a few additional notes in the margins of his other notes. When he hears a soft intake of breath, he glances over to find her stretching with a significant yawn, sweater rising just slightly so he can see a hint of her midriff from above the hemline of her Georgetown sweatpants. His mind goes a little hazy, and he wants to brush the tips of his fingers across that smooth, pallid skin, feel her body shudder beneath his touch as he presses her into the couch and paints her skin with his mouth.

He snaps out of it before she can catch him, however. "Tired?" he asks quietly, voice nothing more than a low rumble like the sound of passing thunder.

She blinks sleepily and sags back into the cushions with a languid sigh, shifting about. "Yeah," she confirms, smiling crookedly. "But insomnia is a bitch."

This elicits a hearty burst of laughter, which in turn sets her off—it's fun, how laughter is contagious, how it spurts forward so much more easily when you're plagued with the lack of sleep. When they settle down, he returns to his work for a little while until her voice breaks him away. "I'm so tired," she breathes, but he doesn't look up, doesn't want her to stop talking if he breaks the spell. "I am so beyond exhausted, and every single part of my body screams at me to go get some rest before I break down, but my mind won't shut up." She runs her hands over her face before dragging them through her hair. "All I want is just six hours of undistracted, blissful sleep, but it's like my brain won't just be quiet. I just wanna bury it in the snow." If possible, her voice drops even lower. "I can't do it all."

At the silence that follows after, he finally glances up to see her staring at her book with an absent expression, clearly not focused on the words. He sinks onto the couch beside her, so close their knees touch. "No one expects you to every moment of every day. And you shouldn't have to feel as though you have to for anyone—not your mother, or your brother, or me, or your professors, or your classmates. No one."

"But I do," she contends weakly, looking him up with a morose expression and voice cracking just slightly, eyes glossy. "I expect myself to, not for anyone else, but for myself. I have to prove to myself that I'm stronger than the hot mess I was in high school."

He wants to argue, to tell her how she's done so well and without a doubt has improved from whatever she was like back then—it's been years—but he knows how stubborn she is, how she wouldn't listen, especially since he didn't know her back then. And, she would've been right: it's not his place to say. Instead, he reaches forward and gently slips her pencil away, curling their fingers together in a link instead before giving her a reassuring squeeze. "Alright, 'Leesh, you're going to sleep now, no arguments."

Her startled eyes dart to his, and her mouth opens to protest. "No, Will, I can't—"

"It wasn't a suggestion," he informs her, rising and gently pulling her with him. "Even if you don't fall asleep, the resting of your eyes and body is going to do wonders. You can take my bed, and I'll crash on the couch."

"Oh, no, I couldn't ask you to do that—" she further attempts to object, but he's not having any of it.

"You're not asking; I'm insisting. End of discussion."

Watching him as he opens the door his bedroom and steps inside, Alicia's lips curl upwards in a smile. "Thank you, Will."

He shakes his head in response, dismissing her words. "No need. Believe me, you're more doing me a favor; I can't have my partner flubbing due to sleep deprivation," he teases, and that signature eye roll is directed towards him in response.

She glances around his room, takes in the trophy shelf, his F. Scott Fitzgerald collection, and the various sports memorabilia scattered, and he wishes he would've cleaned up before she came over. He's just about to go shove some of his papers into his closet when she speaks. "Will, I…" Her voice trails off, and he glances at her in silent questioning, watching her shake her head. "Nevermind. It's silly."

"C'mon," he prods gently, placing his hand on her shoulder. "You know I've said a hell of a lot of silly things to you before."

That makes her smile, and she looks timid, which makes him a little bit concerned—Alicia Florrick may be a lot of things, but timid is not one of them. "I was just wondering if you'd… if you'd maybe want to sleep with me?" His heart stops in his chest before she rushes onward. "I mean, not like… y'know," the awkward gesture she makes with her hands makes him beam with amusement, "but there's no need for you to be on that comfy but eventually rickety couch all night."

"Are you… sure?" he clarifies, an unspoken question about Peter brooding heavily in the air between them. "I mean, I don't want you to be uncomfortable."

She scoffs then. "I'm sure. Besides, I've fallen asleep on your arm before in class."

He'd point out how those are definitely differing circumstances, but he holds back, not wanting her to revoke the offer. Shrugging to make it seem as though it's not a big deal, he agrees, and the two slip beneath the covers. She bids him goodnight, and he returns it, though he's worried about not getting sleep for whole other reasons. While they're facing opposite directions, he can feel the heat radiate from her back, and his eyes begin sagging to his surprise. Before he knows it, the steady pace of her breath has lulled him to sleep.

It's the best sleep he's had in years, and, the next morning, he finds that he doesn't mind that his sheets smell faintly of her.

Will stares out the window at the clouds rolling by, silent and thinking. He's on the flight back to Washington D.C., spring break now over, and he's more than ready to return to school. Not only to see Alicia again (God, he's missed her), but he's actually eager to return to the hectic, sleepless nights that he's semi-grown accustomed to. Back home, with his sisters incessantly prattling on and prying about "this Georgetown friend you keep gushing about," and too much time on his hands, he hated to admit it—but he was bored. Without twenty things to be juggling all at the same time, every moment of every day, his body was free to relax, but his mind was in a whirl.

"You need a relationship," Sara declared on their parent's couch after Easter dinner, and Aubrey whole-heartedly agreed with an enthusiastic nod.

"You really do," she piped in, and Will frowned, wondering what exactly about him screamed the need for another in his life.

"I do not," he protested. "I have tons of relationships."

"Okay, yeah, those little flings at law school do not count," Sara dismissed with the theatric roll of her eyes (he's struck with the memory of how Alicia always does the same to him). "And, as great as this mystery Georgetown girl seems to be, and as moony as you are over—"

"I'm not—"

She cut him off with the rise of her hand. "—And as moony as you are over this Georgetown girl, you can't just mope around like you have been. You're—and don't let this go to your head—attractive; it runs in the genes. You need to wrap your head around the fact that she's taken and get yourself out there, get a girlfriend."

I don't want to get myself out there, he wanted to tell her. You don't get it… she's the only one I'd be willing to get out there for. "I don't have time to worry about a girlfriend," he settled for instead, "especially not one here. I barely made it out to come here; you know that. It wouldn't be fair to whomever I'd be in a relationship with."

"See, but here's the thing," Aubrey jumped in, hands poised before her and ready to negotiate. "We kinda already found someone for you, and before you freak out—" she'd caught Will leaning forward in his chair to argue, "—she already knows you're not ready for a full-fledged, serious thing yet. She's crazy busy at acting school," she flashed him a warning look here (don't roll your eyes, Will), "just like you are with law school. She's not looking for a fling exactly, just not something serious either."

Sara broke off her sister's train of thought. "She told us that she wanted someone to date and have fun with but not have to freak out about where things are going."

Will sat there in silence for a few long moments, hands in his lap and unmoving. On one hand, he acknowledged that his sisters were right; just because Alicia was taken didn't mean he had to wait out forever. But, on the other hand, what if this girl his sisters were talking about grew to want something more, something he couldn't give her? It wouldn't be fair to either of them.

"At least promise us you'll meet her?" Aubrey inquired, giving her brother her puppy eyes, and Will finally caved with a long sigh.

"Sure."

And that's how he met Helena Linnata. She was twenty-one and was energetic and flirty and, quite frankly, jaw-dropping with her beach-blonde and earth-brown streaked hair and striking jade eyes. Her voice was lower than he'd first expected, and her laugh was more of a twinkle—so completely opposite to Alicia's hearty, uproarious noise. She enjoyed his company (and his body, he'd soon learn) and was admittedly fun to be around, not taking many things very seriously. She was also a great, and he hated to sound crude, lay. Her body was full of life and smooth without a single freckle or dip or blemish, nothing peach skin and lithe curves. She was what every guy dreamed of (what he dreamed of before he met Alicia) and was into him. So he let himself fall into this kinda-sorta relationship and just planned to let it go wherever it took them.

"Attention, passengers: we are now heading for landing; please fasten your seatbelt and flip your trays back up," the pilot's voice interrupts him from his inner thoughts, and he does as instructed.

Once boarded off, he heads over to the baggage claim and waits for his belongings. When he hears the all-too-familiar sound of Alicia's laughter, he glances around to discover his best friend and her—ugh—boyfriend, it seems, a few yards down and waiting for her own. He doesn't want to intrude, but his curiosity is piqued, and so he awkwardly inches his way down towards the two.

"—you know you really didn't have to fly down here with me; I'm fine and capable of managing a flight on my own," she's saying as he approaches.

"I know, but I just wanted to see you safe. You just mean all that much to me," he coos with a nauseating grin, kissing her cheek, and Will pulls a face.

The Alicia he knows doesn't seem as though she'd be into PDA, and he can't help but cheer internally when she laughs but squirms. "Peter, not here."

"Oh, I'm sorry," the tall, broad-chested man with a commanding presence and dark hair similar to her own mock apologizes. "Did you mean here?" he croons, swooping down to place a kiss on her lips (the same lips Will can't stop thinking about, hasn't stopped ever since he witnesses all that wit and knowledge spurt forth from them over a year ago), and Alicia, much to Will's dismay, lets him.

Will decides he's had enough with the mush. As casually as he can without seeming conspicuous, he strolls down a bit towards them, eyes trained on the conveyor belt before him as though searching for his luggage. He hears Alicia call his name questioningly, and he glances upward, grin spreading across his features as he pretends to be caught off guard. "Alicia, hi!"

The beam that spreads across her features absolutely makes his heart race a little faster (or maybe it's just him imagining it; he was never one to believe in the whole heart-stopping thing, until it happened to him), and he opens his arms to welcome Alicia as she jogs towards him. Her arms curl around his shoulders, and she's warm against him; his eyes catch on Peter's subtle-but-still-evident glowering, and he has to restrict a smirk.

Much too soon, she pulls away. "How are you?"

"I'm, shockingly enough, glad to be back to school." He chuckles, ignoring the muttered comment of something along the lines of "I'm sure you are" on Peter's part.

Alicia turns around and gives him a withering glance, and Peter's face reddens both out of anger and embarrassment. She turns back to Will and offers an apologetic smile. "Oddly, I am too."

Will's lips twitch; don't smirk, Will. Don't smirk. (Will: 1, Peter: 0.) He's just about to answer when he feels his thigh vibrate; holding up his index finger, he apologizes and dips his head down a little, angling himself away. "Hello?"

"Hey, you," Helena greets a low purr on the other end of the phone. "How was your flight?"

"The same as any flight: too long and too crowded," he jokes, and she chuckles. "Hey, look, I gotta go, okay? I'll talk to you later."

He can vaguely hear Peter and Alicia whispering to each other as Helena drops her voice to a seductive cadence. "Wait, baby, don't you wanna know what I'm wearing?" (He's never been one for that particular pet name, but he doesn't point that out.) She doesn't wait for an answer before she continues. "I'll give you a hint: you've mapped out every nook and cranny with your to—"

"Helena," he cuts her off, dropping his voice into a hiss and unable to help but notice Alicia's eyebrow rise a little, "I really can't do this right now."

"I wish you could do me ri—"

"I have to go," he doesn't let her finish, shaking his head and cheeks burning. "We'll finish this conversation later tonight." (He is a man, after all.)

Flipping his phone shut, it's his turn to smile apologetically. "Sorry about that."

Alicia shakes her head and shrugs, managing a small quirk of her lips in return. "No problem."

"Gal you're seeing?" Peter inquires, smirk dancing on his lips, and Will really wants nothing more than to sock him right in the nose for making Alicia so uncomfortable.

"Yeah," he confirms, but quietly, eyes darting to Alicia's. "Not a big deal, though."

Alicia smiles, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. When Peter clears his throat, she jumps a little, mouth opening in surprise. "Oh, where are my manners? This is my boyfriend, Peter."

Peter offers his hand with too-happy a smile (Will: 1, Peter: infinity), and Will shakes it heartily; Peter's grip is strong—maybe a little bit too strong—and rough. "Pleasure to meet ya, Will. Alicia talks about you all the time."

There may be a bit of a menacing edge to Peter's voice.

Will forces his smile to not be too enthusiastic. "The pleasure is all mine, Peter. I've heard quite a bit about you as well."

The trio falls silent, and before things get too awkward, Peter grabs a couple of suitcases from the baggage claim. "Ready to take these to the car, Alicia?"

She nods and gives Will one last smile. "Yeah. See you in Criminal Law Monday?"

He tries to focus on only her and ignore Peter's presence hovering right beside her. "See you then."

He decides he's officially allowed to hate Peter now that he's met him.

When everyone returns back to school that following fall, he immediately notices that she's changed. Her fierce spirit and her razor-sharp wit is still there, but she's harder now—less willing to let herself go and dance like an idiot with him at a bar and more aware of other people's views of her.

It's right after midterms in the fall and everyone's back from Thanksgiving break. Will sits in his Advanced Criminal Procedure and Litigation class, waiting patiently for her (thank God he keeps lucking out with getting at least one class with her) and fiddling with the Styrofoam coffee cup between his fingers. A pumpkin spiced latte sits on the sleek wood before his friend's chair, and he glances at his watch—only two minutes until class starts. Looking towards the door, he can't help but wonder where she is; in all two-and-a-quarter years, Alicia has never been later than ten minutes early for each of her classes.

Just when he's about to give her a call, she slips through the doors and jogs her way up the stairs, plopping down with a sigh into the chair beside him. "Thank you," she sighs in a rush, picking up the coffee before her and taking a long sip. Just when he's sure she must have already downed half of the drink, she sets it down and begins fishing out her notes.

He takes a glance at her disheveled hair, the heavy bags under her eyes. She's not wearing any makeup, but he thinks she looks more beautiful there than she does with herself completely put together.

"Hey," he murmurs, reaching out to gently touch her shoulder, and her eyes dart over to his unsteadily; they lack the moral light in them. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," she replies quickly, too quickly, and Will's eyebrows furrow, giving her his best 'Don't bullshit me' look. There's a beat before she sighs. "Okay, not really, but…" The professor begins his lecture, and she gives Will a desperate look. "Can we talk about this later?"

"Sure," he confirms with a nod, and the two turn their attention to the professor, though he finds it difficult to focus very well on what's being taught.

It's not until they're walking across campus towards downtown to get some lunch, effervescent leaves swirling around them (it's hard to believe he kissed her over a year ago already), does Alicia speak for the first time since entering class. "Peter and I broke up," she confides in him, eyebrows knit tightly together, and Will hates how his heart stutters in his chest.

"I'm sorry," he replies automatically, and he really is. He's sorry how hurt she is, but not that she finally separated herself from him.

She shrugs half-heartedly, picking at a loose thread on the cuff of her cardigan. "It's not your fault. There was a big fight at Thanksgiving dinner—Owen and my mom were involved—and he just… couldn't handle it, I guess."

Didn't want to handle it, he wants to say, but he knows it's not his place. He wraps his arm around her shoulder, pulling her close, and they suddenly slow down as she turns to bury herself in his arms, her arms wrapping around his waist. Her body trembles slightly as she cries silently, and he envelopes her to him right there in the middle of the sidewalk for what seems like hours but could only realistically be a few minutes. "I'm sorry," he repeats in a whisper. "I know how much you cared about him."

"I think I love him," she confesses into his chest, and his heart constricts painfully as though a boa constrictor is squeezing it.

He ghosts a kiss on the top of her head, running his hand down her hair. "I know, but he doesn't deserve you, doesn't deserve your pain."

She pulls back, batting furiously at her tears and managing watery hint of a smile, and it's clear that this conversation is over. "Thanks, Will." She links her arm into his and begins to walk again. "Now, c'mon; I forgot to eat breakfast, and I'm starving."

/

A couple more months pass, and the duo is fervently doing research at Alicia's place to prepare for their Evidentiary Procedure mock trial even though it's just the week after winter break ("Whoever said no rest for the weary clearly never went to law school; it's much worse than that," Alicia had remarked to him once). There's nothing but the sound of mouses clicking, keyboards being feverishly typed upon, and the cracking, satisfying hiss of soda cans opening.

On the way back from one trip to collect another Coke, Will's raking over some old case archives he'd checked out from the reference area of the library when he notes the deafeningly silent absence of noise. His eyes move from the tiny, faded print on the fragile papers to his partner to find her staring blankly at the screen before her. "What's up?"

Her head moves up to look at him. "Just thinking," she comments, and he nods, returning to his favorite seat. He's returned his attention to the materials in his hands and has read a few more lines when her voice drags him away once again. "Will, do you mind if we talk for a second? I know this isn't the best time, but—"

"Of course," he dismisses her hesitance, setting down the transcripts and focusing his attention on her. "What's on your mind?"

"I… I'm not really sure how to put this," she begins, her eyes drifting down to her hands, and he begins to get an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, "so I'm just going come right out and say it. I'm—Will—I'm graduating early."

The words don't quite make sense to him, so he blinks slowly at her, trying to wrap his head around what she's just told him. "You're… what?" he asks dumbly, and she returns her eyes to his.

"With all my extra work and advanced courses, by the end of the year I'll have racked up enough experience and credits to finish a year early. Crozier, Abrams & Abbott in Chicago has already offered me a position upon my graduation."

He's unsure how to react. His best friend, his partner, the woman he's probably in love with, is going to leave him a year before he expected. He hadn't been expecting to have to deal with the prospect of them parting for months far into the future, but now he has all but five months left with her. His mouth opens and closes like a fish; sure, he's happy for her—elated, even, that's she's already caught the attention of a firm—but it's just all so sudden. "That's… fantastic," he tells her, but his voice falls flat even to his ears.

"Will, I'm sorry," she urges, shaking her head. "I would've told you earlier, but I just found out over winter break. This isn't personal; with such a great offer, I don't know how I could possibly say no. When I graduate early, I'll save time and money? I mean, in all reality, what's there to lose?"

Me, he wants to say. There's me to lose. "No, it's a really a wonderful offer." He forces a smile to his lips; he wonders if she can see cracks in his eyes from which his despair leaks. "Congratulations."

A beam crosses her features, and she looks so happy that he forgets for just a few seconds about how damn much he'll miss her when she's gone.

/

Another month goes by. The fateful day of the Mock Trial arrives, and after a full two and a half hours of lightning fast proposals and denials, facts and refutes, arguments and counterarguments against their opponents, Alicia fumes as she and Will make their way along the icy pathways back to their cars, her rage exiting her in giant clouds of steam into the grey, bleak sky. "I can't believe we lost that."

"And so badly," Will agrees, shaking his head in disbelief. "God, we worked so hard on this."

"Fuck," she curses, and his eyes widen as they swivel to view her in disbelief. She notices and raises her hands up, tugging her satchel more closely to her. "I know I don't use that word often, but sometimes there's just no other alternative."

In response, his head bobs in a nod, a silent agreement. "Fuck." He thinks he sees her lips twitch in what might be a smile, and he can't help but laugh at how pissed off she is (it kinda turns him on, but he's not sure how much she'd appreciate it if he told her).

"Why are you laughing?" she barks, eyes narrowed as she kicks at some chunks of hardened snow scattered along the brick they dread upon. "We just got our asses kicked."

"I just think this is going to be one of those things we look back on fifteen, twenty years from now and laugh about, is all," he tells her, and he can visibly see her body relax a bit.

"Maybe," she concedes, then achieves to form a Mona Lisa smile. "When we're the name partners of Cavanaugh, Garnder & Associates, right?"

"Right," he confirms, and he doesn't feel so bad that she's leaving when he knows that they'll meet each other down the road someday. "Come on; I'll buy you a drink."

When she actually smiles at him, teeth and everything, he knows they'll recover just fine. "Better be more than one."

Half an hour later and they're downing rum and cokes at the bar table ("God bless the genius drunkard that thought of mixing caffeine and liquor," Alicia'd exclaimed once their drinks had arrived). They're sitting beside each other, half ranting and half joking about the mistakes both they and their opponents had made during the trial—about how they should have won, really—and how smug their rivals had been afterward ("I really can't stand Liz Lawrence," she'd muttered to him right after).

They're only done with their first drink when Alicia's voice suddenly quiets, tone somehow casual and serious at the same time. "How's Helena?"

His eyes flit to the cherry oakwood, glossy surface before him as he thinks about how to answer. He's not even sure what they are anymore. Seeing each other over breaks just wasn't seeming to be enough for her, and she'd made it abundantly clear to him about her opinion. He protested on numerous accounts that they'd agreed just to keep it casual, but she was beginning to question about their future, something Will was far from ready to do. It was the cause of their last fight, one they still weren't finished with yet. "She's fine. Doing well in acting school," he settles on finally.

"That's good," Alicia responds, and it sounds genuine. She pauses for a moment before speaking again. "How are you two?"

"I'm… not even sure," he admits honestly after a few moments of additional thought, glancing over at her. "We're in an awkward place right now. I think we might be on a break."

He can feel her watching him out of the corner of his eye, and his head swivels to face her in surprise when her hand rests on his shoulder. When she leans in, her voice is a murmur, and she's so close he can see the emerald specks in her golden eyes. "Don't overthink what I'm about to do, okay?"

Some idiot part of his body causes him to blabber. "Overthink? When do I ever over—"

But then her lips are on his, and he loses all coherent thought. Her mouth is warm and firm and plaint over his, hand resting on his chest, and she must be able to feel his heart thudding beneath her touch. His hands wind upward, one cradling her cheek and the other slipping to anchor her neck, fingers resting at the base of her hairline. He forgets about Peter, forgets about Helena back home, forgets about everything but the feeling of her so close.

Before he can make a move to deepen the kiss, she's pulling away, cheeks flushed brightly and wiping at the smudge of her lipstick on the corner of his mouth with a sly smile. "We should get out of here," she declares, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her diamond-studded ear and shifting off the bar stool.

His mouth must truly hate him, for it runs off on its own once again. "I thought you wanted more than one drink." (Seriously, Gardner? What the hell?)

She doesn't respond at first, only flashes him this downright wicked smile and leans forward to give him a brief but rough kiss, teeth scraping at his lower lip and hands bracketed firmly on his thighs. This time, when she pulls away, she licks her lips in this sinful manner that really should be considered illegal and moves to whisper into his ear. "I think that can wait." Her hand gives his thigh a gentle squeeze, and Jesus Christ, Alicia. "Unless you disagree?"

He beams stupidly at her, can't help but steal another sloppy kiss as her dark curtain of hair hides them away from reality. "Not a chance," he breathes when they part, and her grin makes the world a little brighter as he tosses a ten dollar bill on the counter and dashes outside with her trailing close behind.

He thanks whatever God there might be that the bar is only a few blocks away from his apartment as the two stumble about through the slosh, nighttime quickly falling over the two. He doesn't try to hold her hand; he doesn't want to ruin things by making it too personal (how funny). They laugh and snatch kisses from each other on their way up the stairs, too impatient to bother with the elevator, but when they enter inside his place, they take their time to hang their light coats up on the rack.

It all becomes so real then, with her standing in the middle of the living room. He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly; he's had a fair amount of girls over here, but she's not like them. He doesn't want to drag her into his room and share a good, short roll between the sheets and have that be it; he wants her to be comfortable. "Can I get you anything?"

She turns to face him, faint smile playing on her lips, before she heads towards his bedroom. "You," she responds simply, and she's never heard one word sound so enticing in his entire life.

Her movements decelerate as she steps across the threshold, and she eventually draws to a stop near his bed. "What?" he inquires, trying not to have worry laced in his voice—is she changing her mind?

"Nothing," she dismisses his concern with the shake of her head. "Just… I've been here countless times before, but it feels like the first time right now." A gentle scoff escapes her. "Stupid, I know."

"Not stupid," he assures her, moving forward to capture her lips in a sure kiss.

She meets him halfway, but her approach is raw, hungry. She's much surer than he ever expected, her body pressed up against him and hands sure as they tug at his shirt. He takes from her blindly, feeding off her energy, and his hands roam over every inch of space they can reach. When his tongue slips past her lips to taunt hers, she lets out this little mewl that's his absolutely undoing, hips rolling forward as if not of his own will.

The hand underneath his argyle sweater (their professor told them to not bother with dressing up; they'd have plenty of time for that in the future) trickles along his warm skin, tickling him, and he's glad he's kept up with his daily runs at two in the morning (insomnia does have its perks, sometimes). When it drifts south and brushes against him, he gasps, breaking off and voice husky. "Wait, Alicia, you keep that up and this will be over way before I want it to be."

His smile is wry, cheeks colored both with heat and embarrassment, and she chuckles softly, gently guiding the two over to the bed. He sits down, with her before him, and suddenly she's reaching to take her cream colored cardigan off. In all his dreams, he's the one who removes the clothes from her—with his teeth, hands, fervently—but he finds that he likes this so much better. Her eyes hold his as the soft fabric pools to the floor, followed by her undershirt and jeans, and then she's right there, everything he's ever dreamed of.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers, unable to hold back and the confession spilling from his lips.

Her cheeks flush pleasantly, her head ducking downward, and she has absolutely no reason to be shy. She's wearing a simple black bra and cotton underwear set (no lace because she's grounded, and that makes her all the more appealing to him), so unlike all the other girls he's been with that try too hard with their silk and satin lingerie.

When he moves to remove his own sweater, she steps closer and places her hand on his chest, effectively bringing him to a stop. "Allow me." The material slips right off, and her chest brushes against his bare skin, almost making him lose all control right there. She pulls back and lets him shuck off his dark jeans, and then she's straddling him, giving him a bruising kiss before moving to nip at the crook of his neck.

His fingers slip off the straps of her bra from her smooth shoulders (there's a freckle on the back of her right one, which he finds himself fascinated with for a few seconds), peppering kisses down her jawline, and when they're finally both completely bare, he wraps one hand around her waist, the other around her shoulders, and flips them over and onto the navy blue sheets, her breathless laugh a melody to his ears.

She's unlike any other girl he's ever been with, and on so many levels, but even more so here; she doesn't try too hard, doesn't do any weird tricks or beat around the bush. She knows exactly what they both want, and, while it's not perfect, it's the best time he's ever been with someone. He steals her gasps and moans from her; she emits his own hitches of breath and groans with the way her nails dig into his shoulders, scrape down his rippled back.

When she finally lets herself go to him, his name on her lips and raven locks splayed out across the pillow with her pale, flushed skin such a stark contrast against the dark hue of his sheets, he realizes just how much she is the most stunning woman he's ever met or will ever meet.

Their foreheads brush, noses bumping together as they steal a few more lazy kisses from each other before managing to untangle themselves. Afterward, when she's fast asleep, his fingers ghost over skin, down her waist and over the curve of her hip, awakening unconscious ghost bumps in his path. And even though she told him not to overthink this, and he knows that this probably won't lead to a relationship or even a date, he allows himself to cling to the memory of how it felt to finally be with her, how it felt to finally hold her and feel herself let go.

I love you, he wants to confess into the silence, wants to acknowledge what he's been too afraid to since the day he met her, as he threads his fingers through her raven, unruly locks. He keeps it to himself, though, as he knows his admittance would only fall upon deaf ears and be swallowed by the darkness.

He falls asleep to her heartbeat like that night over a year ago.

/

He calls Helena the next day, telling her that it's nothing she's done; he just can't do this—can't do them—anymore. When she asks whether there's someone else, if he's fallen in love with some beautiful law school girl she can't compete with, he doesn't respond, and she knows. It's not fair to her, but he can't keep stringing her along, no matter what she insists about the lack of labels regarding their relationship.

Alicia gets back with Peter when he physically shows up on her doorstep the next week, begging for forgiveness and proclaiming his love with Will right there taking notes on the couch. He sees how in love she is with the man he'll never be able to compete with, how she's been in love with him the entire time, and he's both regretful and grateful he didn't tell her how he feels.

He still doesn't call Helena.

Alicia graduates at the top of the class that fall (she leaves him a goodbye present—a winter hat since he's taken so damn long not buying one), and Will has to spend another whole year at Georgetown without his best friend before he can do the same. They exchange emails, occasional phone calls, but they become more sporadic as time goes by. She informs him she's already doing extremely well at Crozier, Abrams, & Abbott, and he jokes that he never would have been doing so well on his own had she not taught him all the tricks of the trade.

They avoid any talk about Peter.

After he graduates, he moves to Madison, Wisconsin to start at a small law firm. There, he meets a fellow associate, Diane Lockhart, and the two quickly form a strong bond via their mentor, Jonah Stern. He and Alicia talk less and less now, but that's alright. Occasionally, on the nightly news, he hears that Peter's starting to run for political positions in Chicago. He'll see a five-second clip of him and Alicia walking down the sidewalks together, holding hands and laughing as they interact at various gatherings.

He tries not to care and wonders if he'll ever get over her.

Just when he's starting to, when he's well into the swing of how things work at the law firm, he gets an letter in the mail on egg-white stationary. "You are cordially invited to the wedding of Peter Florrick and Alicia Cavanaugh." There's a black and white photo of the two of them beaming, with his arms around her waist, and he childishly wants nothing more than to scribble out Peter's face with a black sharpie.

He doesn't RSVP for a week after he gets the invitation. He tries not to think about it, tries to push it to the back of his mind and hide it under the workload at the firm, but it begins to get to him, and everyone else can notice too. When Stern moves him aside one day after he royally screwed up in his second chair spot, he gets reprimanded and told to "get over whatever shit that's messing up his mind or have someone else do it for him."

He books a train ticket to Highland Park the next day.

The house she's living in is large, grand and on a perfectly mowed lawn in the midst of the luxurious city. Appropriately enough, it just happens to be pouring rain, and when he arrives via taxi at the house, she's not there. The driveway is empty, no lights on inside, so he dashes through the rain and waits for her on the front steps.

When she finally arrives around seven in the evening (alone, thankfully), cradling a couple grocery bag in one of her arms, she gasps audibly, stopping a few yards away from him and still in the rain. "Will?" she calls in disbelief, squinting to see him.

He immediately strides forward, slips his hand behind her head, and fuses their mouths together. She gasps like the first time he kissed her, body tensing, and for a few blissful, intense nanoseconds, she actually kisses back, lips wet against his and not due to the rain. When the bag of produce falls from her hands, she's snapped out of her shock, and she jolts away, scrambling to replace the items into the now-soggy paper. He bends down to help her, and she shakes her head. "I got it."

She eventually manages to mush everything together in a crowded mass, and she avoids his eyes as she makes his way toward the front door. "Come in from the rain," she commands in a gentle voice as she stands in the doorway, but he'd really rather stay out here; if there are any tears, he can blame it on the precipitation.

He does as instructed, stepping inside and glancing around the grand house. It's so large, so regal, especially in such an expensive city as this. He thinks to his loft, how shaggy it is, how he's not sure whether Alicia would prefer something cozy if not small compared to this huge building. "Nice place," he finally settles upon saying.

She manages a small smile as she moves past him to head down the hall and into the kitchen where she sets down her belongings. "Thank you." Her voice is quiet, more reformed and so much different than the jovial voice he grew accustomed to in law school.

Part of him thinks he should inquire as to how she's doing, make small talk and be polite and such. But his mouth runs before his brain as always, and he blurts out, "Don't marry him."

Her eyes close, and for a second, the only thing that can be heard is the sound of water dripping from their soaked coats and to the hardwood floor. "Will…" she begins, cautioning him, but he's done being polite.

"Please, 'Leesh," and the sight of her actually flinching at his soothing tone is like a kick to the gut. "You can't marry him."

"I love him," she tells him with a wounded look, "and he loves me. We want this."

He's vaguely aware he's creating a huge puddle on the floor, but he doesn't care. "He's not right for you."

Her eyebrows furrow, and that was the wrong thing to say, for the next words that spurt from her lips are harsh. "Oh, and I suppose you are?"

Yes, he wants to say, but he's not sure if he can. Who's to say that he's any better a match for Alicia than Peter is? It's her life, he realizes, but he can't seem to let her go. When he speaks, his voice is raw. "What about that night… after the Mock Trial…"

"That was years ago," she dismisses him in a pleading tone of her own, forlorn eyes meeting his. "I told you not to overthink it."

It's his turn to be upset. "It wasn't nothing," he snaps, anger seething from his words as he refuses to let her toss the memory away as some cheap, casual fuck.

"No," she concedes, voice quieter and look apologetic, "it wasn't. But we have bad timing." He glances off, shaking his head slowly and knowing moment by moment that he's losing her. "Will, we've moved on with our separate lives. I'm not sure what we even had beyond friendship at Georgetown, but whatever it was, it's over now."

"Don't say that," he pleads, and his voice is gravelly even to his own ears. "Don't just dismiss this as some fling."

A prolonged sigh draws forth from her lips, and she leans over the kitchen counter to run a hand over her face. Her eyes focus on the marble counter before her before she speaks again. "I'm pregnant."

Disbelief seeps into his bloodstream. "What?" he asks dumbly, voice hollow.

"I'm pregnant," she repeats, standing up and unbuttoning her coat, and then he can see it, see the tiny rise of an incoming pregnancy. "That's why we bought this house, so we could raise a family."

It's like the world is crashing down around him, and in that moment, he knows. He knows that she'll never be his, that no matter what happens between her and Peter, any children she has will always come before anything else. With the additional marriage on top of the pregnancy, they'll be tied together forever despite any bumps in the road they'll face, unless it comes to the point that her kid is put in the line of danger.

"Congratulations," he tells her finally. "You'll be a fantastic mother."

And she really will be, he knows. On one hand, he wishes she were pregnant with his child, but, on the other, he's not sure if he'd be ready to commit to such a thing. And whether or not this was intentional (he gets the feeling it wasn't with the sudden wedding), Peter seems serious about doing the whole family thing, so he really has no place to speak.

"I hope so," she admits, and the giddy smile that crosses her features just makes him realize how much he has to let her live her life, let her make her own decisions no matter how much it hurts him. "Thanks."

He came with the intention to tell her that he's in love with her, but now he realizes how selfish that'd be. No matter how much he detests Peter, he can't do that to her, can't make her more distraught than his appearance already has. This was a mistake.

"I have to go," he says finally, already heading past the grand staircase and back towards the front door.

He can hear her shuffle off after him, and it's not until he's out on the front porch does she call after him. "I'm sorry, Will."

He can't help but laugh—more of a scoff, really—and his voice is gloomier than the rumbling clouds hanging over their heads. He doesn't want her apology, and he hopes she knows that's not why he came here; he doesn't want her to be sorry for her happiness, to have made her feel badly. "Don't be. I'm glad you're happy." She doesn't tell him that he'll find happiness too, someday, which he's grateful for. If she had, he would've blabbered about how Alicia is the only person who has truly made him the kind of happy that accommodates love and companionship, and he can't tell her that now (though he's pretty sure she already knows). "Best of luck, Alicia."

"You too," she bids him, and she sounds genuine.

It's embarrassing, because now he has to call for a cab to the airport and wait. At one point, Alicia sticks her head out and offers to let him wait inside, but he politely declines and sits in the rain instead.

It's easier for him to feel sorry for himself this way.

The first thing he notices when the tabloids exploit Alicia Florrick's personal life and Peter's infidelity for the entire world to see is that Alicia's hair is straight and sleek. Now, instead of the wild, ebony curls he'd grown so accustomed to at Georgetown, there's shoulder-length dark chocolate hair that curls in an almost bob-like fashion on the bottom. And her normal, dusty-rose colored lipstick has been replaced with a blood-red crimson shade, so harsh and flooring in its contrast to her pale skin. Her eyes are dull, and her face is lined with stress; she looks more tired than he's ever seen her, far more tired than any case of law school insomnia could inflict upon her.

He absolutely detests that Peter has alienated her, molded her into his perfect image. The ironic thing? Alicia is so very imperfect; it's what he loved (loves) about her. Regardless, he spent all those years working her into "the good wife," only to betray her and destroy his efforts.

He's forty now, and God, when did he get so old? Seven years ago, he, Diane, and Stern broke off and away from the pack and started their own law firm in Chicago. They're already one of the best firms in the city—arguably even in the entire state—and now that he's at the top, he's not really sure what he wants next. But he enjoys his job, so he figures there'll be plenty of time for that later.

He and Alicia haven't spoken since that day he showed up on her doorstep thirteen years ago, so when he gets an email asking if they could meet for coffee, to say he's surprised would be a drastic understatement. To say she hasn't crossed his mind on the occasional drunken moment would be a lie, but he likes to think he's gotten over her by now. Or, at least he's not in love with her anymore, he's pretty sure. Time has gone by, over a decade to be exact, and he's certainly has his fair share of relations. He hasn't fallen for anyone else, probably never will (he's not the type to fall), but that's just fine with him. After all, he knows as well as anyone else that love makes everything complicated.

In retrospect, he realizes it's better she didn't go with him. They were oh so young back in school, even if they didn't feel like it. It's not that they were kids, but they weren't real adults, either. They were a messy blur of foolish, optimistic ideals, youthfully ironic cynicism, and a blind vision of the future. He wouldn't have been fit to get married at such a young age, and even less so to be a father. He's not sure she made the right choice (considering her marriage seems to be falling to pieces, he figures it leans towards no), but now he's grown up enough to accept that it's her life.

Will arrives at a Starbucks a couple blocks away from Stern, Lockhart & Gardner during one of his lunch breaks and settles into a window seat, adjusting his crimson tie and smoothing down the lines in his grey suit as he waits with his latte. When Alicia enters, he's floored by just how worn she looks—faded, like a gem that's lost its initial gleam and sparkle. Manic bile rises up in the back of his throat when he realizes just how deeply Peter's hurt her; he feels his hands clench and unclench, fingers digging into his palms. Despite the way they parted, he still cares about her; this is still his friend he was practically inseparable from.

She catches sight of him waving from his table and returns the gesture with the rippling of her fingers, and he rises to give her a brief but warm hug. He catches whiff of her sandalwood and jade perfume; gone is the spicy, warm scents. He's almost grateful; had she smelled of cinnamon and vanilla, he would've been taken back to Georgetown, and that almost seems too personal.

"Hi," he greets with a polite smile, and she manages one in return.

"Hey," she echoes, settling down into the seat opposite him with a drink in hand; he can read the X's checked in the "black" and "sugar" boxes, which reminds him yet again of just how much she's changed (he almost bought her a coffee like he used to, but, once again, he decided against it—far too personal).

They don't get through much small talk. It's not that he doesn't care about how she's been doing, but he feels as though it'd be insensitive to ask—a bit of rubbing salt into wounds, wounds that he doesn't want to burden further. They stumble over what to speak about to each other, a few fumbling inquiries on Alicia's end about how Will's enjoyed his job, and a couple on Will's about her work at her first firm before she left.

Finally, when their drinks are half gone, Alicia cuts to the chase. "I asked you here to discuss business with you."

"You mean you didn't wanna come here to talk about how overly priced Starbucks coffee is?" he quips, and she actually snorts with a grin. He's reminded of how much he's missed her laugh, and he wonders when the last time she allowed herself to was. "What's up?"

"Will, I know how much I'm asking of you," she begins slowly, as if testing her words, "but I could really use a chance. My children are to the point in which they don't need me to stay home anymore, and with everything going on, I could really use a job." When he doesn't protest right away, just watches her patiently, she continues. "I've heard that your firm is looking for hires, so I was just wondering if, maybe, there would be a position for me?" Before he can decline, she plows on, hands turned upward. "And please know I don't mean to put any pressure on you; you're free to say no."

He thinks a few moments in silence, sipping from his drink, before he shakes his head. "No, hey, I'll talk to Diane." He sees the way her eyes light up, and he raises his index finger to slow her down. "You do realize if  we can get you anything, it'd be as a first-year associate, right? Your work at Crozier, Abrams & Abbott certainly helps, but your hours can't transfer over here. Would you be alright with that?"

Relief floods across her taut features; her body visibly sags before him, and he can almost see the weight being lifted off her shoulders. "Yes, yes, that is absolutely fine. I can't thank you enough, Will, really. This means the world to me."

"Hold on now," he warns, but he can't help but grin at her liberation, "I can't promise anything. But between you and me, I think things will work out. After all, we'd be foolish not to accept someone who graduated top of her class."

She thanks him again, profusely, before her phone chirps and she glances down. "Oh, I've got to go pick up Grace and Zach from school." He nods understandingly; he has to get back to work himself, and he rises to give her another hug before she turns to leave Before she goes, though, she swivels back to face him. "Oh, and Will?"

"Yes?" he asks, eyes searching her expression gently.

"Thank you, for not asking how I'm doing. You're the only one who's granted me that gift."

He quirks a half smile and shakes his head, waving her off. "Don't mention it."

That afternoon, he makes his case for Alicia. It takes some prodding on his end, but Diane and Stern eventually agree. She starts the next week, they all consent.

He thinks that maybe, just maybe, she'll help him discover what he wants out of life.

~FIN