i. take me back to the start (if it has been us)

She didn't mean to fall in love with him. That's the first thing she tells Owen when he calls her out on it.

"You know what you should do," he says. "You should go up to this guy and ram your tongue down his throat."

"I can't do that!" She thinks that she's never been so embarrassed in her life, can feel the heat in her cheeks and she looks away to hide her blush.

Owen laughs. "Okay, but at least admit that you want to," he says. "You really, really want to."

She rolls her eyes and changes the subject. Later that night, though, once the lights are out and she's lying alone in her bed, she closes her eyes and imagines it, imagines leaning in close and pressing her lips against his, imagines breathing him in, tasting and touching and– She shakes her head, tries not to think about all of the things that she could do, if she were a different person. Tries not to admit to herself that Owen's right, tries not to think about how much she wants him.

When they both get back to school after the break, well. She didn't mean to do that, either.

"Oh, come on, you have to make room," he says.

She is stretched out on the sofa, head on a pillow with her feet propped up on one of the arms. The remote is resting on her stomach and he has a bowl of popcorn in one hand, a fresh bottle of wine in the other. "I left you room!" she says, teasing, tilting her head back as if to indicate the small strip of space behind her. She sits up, though, waits for him to get settled then lies back again, head resting against his leg.

It is unlike her, and she sees the way his eyes widen, the way his adam's apple bobs a bit when he swallows. It's unlike her and it's not appropriate, but she tells herself that if he pushes her away, she can blame the bottle of wine they've already finished, tells herself that she has an excuse.

"Comfortable?" he asks instead, and she grins up at him.

"Mostly," she confirms. His leg doesn't make a great pillow, but she can feel the heat of him against the back of her neck and, well, she'll take it.

He picks up the remote, fingers grazing her belly though her shirt. She tries not to shiver, tries not to think about how thin the fabric separating them really is. He hits play and the MGM lion roars and she shifts a bit, turns her head to see the screen. She thinks that she hears his breath catch and tells herself that she's imagining it. "Remind me why we're watching this again?" she asks when Susan Sarandon begins to speak in voice over.

"Because it's Bull Durham and you've never seen it," he says, as if that's an answer to anything at all.

"Oh, of course," she teases. "That's your ideal woman, isn't it?" she asks after a few minutes. "Nuts about baseball, easy to get in the sack?"

Will coughs. "No," he says, quietly. "Be quiet and watch the movie."

"'Kay," she agrees, and she does. After a few minutes, he reaches a hand down into her hair, fingers combing through her curls. She closes her eyes for a moment, lets herself enjoy it. The thing is, she's probably enjoying it a bit too much, and she remembers Owen's suggestion, can't stop remembering Owen's suggestion. "Um, Will?"

Will's hand stills, immediately, and he pulls it away. "Sorry," he says, quickly. "You've just got great hair, and it was there and– "

"No, it's okay," she says, quickly. "It felt good," she adds, after a moment. "I– "

"You?" he's looking down at her with such intensity and she wishes she could read the look in his eyes, wishes she knew what he was thinking.

"I liked it," she whispers, forcing herself to look back at the screen.

"Then... okay," he says, fingers returning to her hair.

"Watch the movie," he urges when she closes her eyes again, and she shakes her head.

"I like this," she says, not opening her eyes.

"But you don't like the movie," he says. "We can turn it off if you– "

"No!" she opens her eyes, looks up at him. "I do, I just... " She shakes her head again, tries to think of something she can say other than how she has no idea what's happening on the screen because he's so close and his hands are in her hair and she wants– "It's just nice, being able to relax," is what she does say.

He pauses the movie and moves his hands from her hair to her scalp, touch gentle but firm as he massages her head. It manages to feel both strange and familiar in the same moment, and she smiles, peering up at him. "Hey," she murmurs, eyes adjusting to the light. He's watching her intently, eyes deep and sad, full of longing and something she can't quite identify. "I really like this," she says, and she wishes that she was the kind of person who was prone to introspection, wishes she had more words for the way his touch makes her heart beat just that much faster, the way she can't stop thinking about how easy it would be to prop herself up on her elbows and press her lips against his.

"I'm glad," he murmurs, and he slides his fingers from her scalp to her temples, to her cheek bones, to her jaw– Her breath catches, then, and he chuckles, one hand moving up to her ear, the other down to her collar bone.

"Will," she whispers, and it occurs to her that there's no way he doesn't know what he's doing to her, no way he hasn't seen that her nipples are tight and hard, no way he hasn't noticed the shortness of her breath. "Are we–?" she asks, but he doesn't answer, doesn't really need words to answer as his fingers move down to the neckline of her shirt, then under it to trace the lace at the top of her bra.

"Please," she breathes, and then she does prop herself up. She tilts her head up and he leans down and the angle is all wrong but he tastes like salt and chianti and it's nothing like she imagined it but the fantasy pales in comparison.

They make love, there on his sofa, then again, later, in his bed.

"I love you– " he gasps as he spills inside of her and it's enough to set her off as well.

"Did you mean it?" she asks, afterwards.

"Did I…?" he hesitates, sheepish. "Yeah," he says, finally. "I meant it."

She nods, watching him. "I– me too," she says. "You too. God, I'm ruining this, I– "

When he kisses her, she can feel it in her bones.

Three weeks later, she grips his hand as they watch a plus-sign appear on a home pregnancy test.

"Shit," she whispers, closing her eyes.

"Yeah." He wraps his arms around her and they are quiet for a long time. "I– I'm gonna say something, and you're not going to like it," he says, finally.

"Will..." Not now, she wants to tell him. Whatever it is, don't say it now, not yet, not until I have time to process–

"I love you," he says. "And whatever you want to– "

"I need a minute," she says, cutting him off as she pulls away. It's too much, with him standing there, with his cologne filling her nostrils and hands gripping her back and she doesn't, actually, want to know what he wants or thinks. Not before she's figured it out for herself, anyway. "Can you just– I– I'm gonna take a walk around the block. I just– "

"Okay," he says, and she knows that she's hurt him. "Whatever you need," he adds. "Leesh– "

"I'll be back in a few minutes," she says, grabbing her coat from the hook and slipping out of the apartment. Outside, the air is freezing and she curses under her breath, shoves her hands into her pockets and starts to walk. Abortion is the rational, reasonable option, and she knows it. She's in her first year of law school, she's living on loans and scholarships and savings and won't have a job that actually pays money for a few more years. She's heard the horror stories about firms declining to hire women who sported wedding bands in their interviews, as if married women could be reduced to their reproductive systems. Unmarried and pregnant, that's worse, she thinks. That has to be worse.

The thing is, for all that it's the wrong time, for all that abortion really is the rational choice, for all of the reasons not to do it, there is still a part of her that fell in love with the little mass of cells in her belly the moment it occurred to her that it was a possibility. It is the opposite of rational, and Alicia is a rational person, and yet– She turns the corner back onto his block and takes a deep breath. I want it, she thinks, allows herself to think. It's stupid, but I want it.

Back inside his apartment, she holds up a hand to stop him from speaking. "I want to keep it," she says, softly. "I know it's not smart, but I– I don't want to talk about what we should do, I don't want to debate the pros and cons, I just– I'm not getting an abortion. I just decided. I want to keep it."

Will takes a deep breath. "Okay then," he says. "Then that's what we'll do."

"Okay," she whispers. "Wow. Um." She takes a deep breath. "If you're going to bail, please do it now because I– "

"I'm not going to bail," he says, reaching for her. "I love you, Alicia. I'm not going anywhere."

"Okay," she whispers. "I, um. I love you too."

"Can I tell you what I was gonna say earlier," he whispers, lips brushing against her ear. "I was gonna say that I love you, and I'll support whatever decision you make, but that even though I don't know if I'm ready for this, I can't think of anyone else I'd rather have kids with."

She smiles against his skin. "So let's have a kid together," she says. "And dinner," she adds. "Let's get dinner."

The thing is, they really weren't ready for it.

By the time they graduate, the stress and pressure and dirty diapers and constant squabbling has gotten to be too much. They part the way they came together: without a plan, but out of mutual desire.

"I never wanted to be my mother," she whispers three weeks later as he's dropping Evan at her new apartment one Sunday night.

"I know," he murmurs. "I–"

"Stay," she says. "I take it back. Everything I said. I take it back."

He's quiet for a long time before he sighs, nods. "Okay," he says, and he does.

They don't make love that night, but they fall asleep on her sofa after hours of talking and trying to figure out if maybe– maybe.

"The thing is," he says in the morning. "I'm still in love with you."

"Then we work it out," she says.

"For us?" He asks. "Or for him?"

She's quiet for a long time, and, really, it's all the answer he needs. "It's not enough, is it?" He asks.

There are tears rolling down her cheeks as she shakes her head.

ii. i'll miss you till i meet you (it was a pool party, wasn't it?)

"You don't remember me, do you?" Peter's lawyer asks.

Alicia sighs, weary. "You've been asking me invasive questions all week," she says. "I remember you."

"No," the lawyer insists. "I mean from law school."

She sits up a bit straighter and blinks, surprised. Lately, she's started forgetting that there was anything before the cameras and the indictment and– She does, a little, maybe. Or maybe she just thinks she does. The truth is, she doesn't put much stock in memory, these days. "No," she says. "I don't think that I do."

The lawyer shrugs. "We had Secured Transactions together in 3L," he says. "You sat in front and knew everything. I sat a few rows behind you and stared at the back of your head and thought you were brilliant. Your hair was different then. Bigger." He makes some ridiculous gesture with his hands and Alicia can't help but smile. She can't remember the last time she smiled.

"It was a long time ago," she says, softly. "And I don't– I don't really think about law school all that much."

"You haven't practiced in a while, right?" The lawyer glances down at his notes, shuffles through papers. "I think I remember your husband saying– "

"I stopped, when my daughter was born," she confirms. "Does this– Is it relevant, to Peter's defense?" It's not, and she knows it, because she might not think about the past much but there are still some things that come to her intuitively, like the way the pieces of a case can fit together. Her background, her education, her life isn't relevant to this case.

"Not really," the lawyer admits. "Unless I can convince your husband to testify, then we might need to call you to provide– "

"No." She keeps her back straight, her voice even, and she meets his eyes as she says it. "You won't, and he won't, so I won't, and it's not."

The lawyer smiles, and Alicia thinks it's the most inappropriate response she's ever seen.

"Sorry, did I say something funny?" she asks, and her voice is cold like steel.

"No," the lawyer says. "No, it's just– I think that's the first time all week that you've sounded as sure of anything as you did back in school and that's– It's just interesting, is all."

Alicia shakes her head and tries– tries– to remember what it felt like to feel sure of anything. "If you put him on the stand, they'll ask him about– " She swallows. "And he won't answer those questions. So yes, Mr. Gardner, I'm sure."

"Will," the lawyer says, gently. "Call me Will." There's something in his eyes that she can't place. At first, she thinks it's pity, but she's seen enough pity these past few months to know that it's not. It's refreshing, whatever it is, and she's still thinking about it three hours later as she's peeling carrots for dinner.

"I met with your lawyer today," she tells Peter after the kids have gone to bed. "Again. We went to law school together. I'd forgotten."

"Hunh." Peter looks at her like she's made of glass, nowadays, and she hates it. He doesn't know what to say to her anymore than she knows what to say to him, and so they watch each other in silence for a moment before she shakes her head.

"It's trash night," she reminds him. "Zach was supposed to take it out, but he has a paper due. Can you– "

"Of course," he says. "I'll do it now."

She wonders how long they can go on like this, how long he can acquiesce to her every request but refuse to answer any of the questions she refuses to ask. In bed, alone, she wraps her arms around her pillow and misses him until she closes her eyes and sees–

Kindness, she realizes as she's falling asleep. That's what she saw in Will's eyes. It stays with her all week.

"We meet again," she says at their next meeting. She shoots him a tiny smile as she sinks into the chair in his office. "Again, again," she adds, and it's supposed to be a joke about how he knew her in law school but it falls flat. He smiles back anyway.

"You're in a good mood," Will says.

"You're about to charge me eight hundred dollars an hour to tell you, as specifically as possible, more about my husband's lies," she says. "But your secretary offered me a croissant, so I think it all evens out." The response comes unbidden, and she regrets it almost immediately because he's doing his job and she sees kindness in his eyes, and he's not the one who betrayed her. She's about to apologize, but he doesn't give her the chance.

"Did you say yes to the croissant?" he asks. "They're really good." He grins and she laughs and it doesn't occur to her just how sad it is that her own laughter sounds foreign to her ears.

"I already ate," she says.

"Your loss." He shrugs, then hesitates. "I don't enjoy this," he says, after a moment. "Prying into your marriage. I wouldn't do it if I didn't have to."

"I know." She is quiet, gentle. "Will, I know. But thank you for– I mean, really. Thank you."

"Anyway." Will looks down at his desk for a moment, opens his notebook. "I've got some questions about the timeline, back in January. Around the time Peter took that trip to Houston?"

She nods, but she can feel herself retreating back into herself, feel the smile slipping from her eyes and she answers as best she can, tries to remember who came for dinner when, why Peter took that trip to Houston, what excuses he gave for all of the late nights at the office–

An hour into the meeting she cuts herself off as she explains, yet again, that no, she didn't ask for details when Peter said he was working late, no, she didn't ask with whom or on what case or– "I need a break," she says. "I– " She feels like such a fool.

"Want a croissant?" he says, not missing a beat.

She doesn't quite manage a smile, but she tries, for his sake. "No. Just– fresh air. A walk around the block."

Will nods, watching her, and the kindness is back in his eyes but there's more to it than that. It's kind and sad and if she didn't know better, she'd swear that there was a hint of regret, lurking behind it all.

"I'm fine," she says. "Just need some air."

"Your friend's coming by to go over a few things," Peter tells her a few nights later.

"My friend?" She blinks, confused, tries to think of which friend he could possibly mean. Tries to think of the last time any of her friends dropped by at all.

"Will Gardner," he supplies. "My lawyer. He's the one you knew in law school, right?"

"No. I mean, yes. I mean– We were never friends, really. He sat a few rows behind me in a class during 3L, that's all." Thinking about it, though, she's not sure why they weren't friends, why it never occurred to either of them to say hello or Professor Bernstein's a bore or even where are you working after graduation. She thinks they might have liked each other, if they had ever bothered to say anything at all. "I'll make coffee."

"So who was the second plane ticket for, then?" Will is asking as she steps into the den with a tray of coffee and chocolate chip cookies. "Peter, I'm your lawyer, you know I need to– "

"Thanks, Babe," Peter cuts Will off with a forced smile. His voice is too loud, too quick.

Alicia watches Will look from Peter to her, and it's like she can see him thinking, can see the moment when the pieces fall into place and he looks away. She puts the same pieces together and she can hear the dishes clattering against the tray of coffee and cookies, realizes that her hands are shaking.

"Can you give us a moment?" she asks Will, not meeting his eyes as she sets the tray down before she drops it. "You took her with you," she says once she and Peter are alone. "To Houston. You took your– "

"Alicia." Peter's voice is patient and condescending, and he reaches for her hand but she pulls away before he can make contact. "You don't really think that I'd– "

"And you can't even deny it," she says, incredulous. "You can't– "

"Would you believe me if I did?" he shoots back. "If I said 'no, Alicia, of course I didn't,' wouldn't that make a difference?"

She doesn't answer, doesn't look at him. She puts all of the energy and effort she has into keeping her back straight as she walks out of the den. "Sorry," she tells Will as she pushes past him in the hallway on her way to the kitchen to open a bottle of wine. She doesn't notice that he's followed her until she turns around to reach for a glass. "Sorry," she says again. "Did you need– ?"

Will shakes his head. "Are you okay?" he asks her, and the sheer ridiculousness of the question makes her want to laugh.

"Fine," she says. She doesn't laugh. "You?"

Will shrugs. "I think I pushed my shoulder too hard on the court, yesterday," he says, casual and matter-of-fact, as if are you okay? is ever a real question, is ever more than a pleasantry. "Old injury. Flares up sometimes."

Alicia nods, considering. "I think my husband took his – his prostitute on a week-long trip to Texas," she offers. "Not that he's saying, either way."

"Probably."

They're both quiet for a long time, watching each other. "Do you want a drink?" she asks, reaching for a second glass. "It might help your shoulder."

"I shouldn't," he says, but he takes the glass anyway.

They drink in silence until Will looks up and says, "Why do you stay?"

"Where else would I go?" she asks, and the answer comes unbidden, unfiltered.

That look is back in his eyes and for a moment she thinks he might reach out to comfort her, but he doesn't. She's not sure if she's grateful or relieved. Not really.

"Make him take the stand," she says. "Make him get up there and answer a goddamn question."

The problem with Peter answering questions, of course, is hearing the answers. Will asks as little as he can, as quickly as he can, and it makes her sick. He's establishing an alibi, though, and she knows it's better to ask the hard questions upfront, better for Will to ask before Glen Childs does. Still, she can feel the jury's eyes boring into her as Peter answers and she can't help but wonder what they must think of her, sitting there as her husband admits to dates and dollars, wonders if they've done the same math she has. She wonders if they hear the same thing she does, if they look at her and see ninety thousand dollars of inadequacy.

"We'll pick up tomorrow," the judge says after Will finishes.

One of the jurors, a petite redhead, glances back at her as the jury leaves the room, catches her eye. She thinks that there might have been a time when she could guess as to what it meant, but not today. Not–

"Don't," she says as Peter turns to face her. "Don't."

He doesn't.

She stays in the courtroom as Will ushers Peter out, ushers him past the reporters she knows are waiting on the courtroom steps. She stays until the room is empty, until the deputy tells her that he's locking up.

"Mrs. Florrick?"

She blinks at the woman standing outside the courtroom. Short. Young. Wearing leather. "No comment," Alicia mutters, refusing to break her stride.

"No, I'm not– I work at Stern Lockhart. I just– I wanted to say– "

Alicia slows, just barely, lets the woman catch up.

"I'm sorry," the woman says. "That's all."

Alicia shakes her head. "It's nothing," she says. "It's fine."

"Okay." The woman seems to hesitate. "Will said you used to like tequila," she adds, after a moment.

"He said–?" She blinks and tries to think of when she might have told him that.

"In law school," the woman clarifies. "He said you used to like tequila in law school."

"Okay…." She doesn't know what to say to this woman, doesn't know what she's supposed to say. She doesn't know how or why Will knows it, but she thinks about the kindness in his eyes and the way he talked about her hair and she thinks that maybe she does remember him, a little. She remembers puking in the unisex bathroom at some bar, remembers a guy who saw and knelt beside her, who held her hair, stayed with her in the cab home, and helped her up the stairs to her apartment. She remembers that his tshirt stretched tight against his chest, remembers that he stayed in her doorway, hovering.

"I have a boyfriend," she had told him.

"I figured," he had said. "The good ones always do."

"There's a place nearby with a couple of good bottles," the woman says. "Unless you want to go home."

She doesn't, and after four shots she still doesn't.

"Why are you doing this?" Alicia asks as the woman – Kalinda – taps at her phone.

"I like Will," Kalinda says. "And I used to work for your husband."

Alicia is quiet for a long time. "You knew," she says. "You—?" She doesn't ask and Kalinda doesn't volunteer and she orders another shot so that she doesn't have to think about it.

"Will's probably still at the office," is what she says instead. "Or you could go home."

"I should go home," Alicia says, but she lets Kalinda lead her back to Stern Lockhart.

"Can I just sit?" she asks when Will looks up, looks kind and concerned. "Just for a little while?"

Will nods, watches her as she sinks into the chair across from his desk. "How's your shoulder?" she asks him. "I keep meaning to ask, but I only think to do it when you're not around."

"It's fine," he says. "Good." He hesitates for a moment. "You think about me?"

The kindness is back in his eyes, but there's something more there, something playful hiding behind his smile.

"I do," she says, simply. She doesn't say other than my kids, you're probably the person I talk to most, nowadays. She doesn't tell him that she can't not think about him.

"Hunh." Will smiles. "I kinda like knowing that," he says.

"I kinda like doing it," she says before she can stop herself.

"I kinda like you," he says, and it's as if he's deliberately pushing her, provoking her, as if he's–

"I kinda like you too," she says, and now she's flirting, smiling, leaning towards him just a little bit. "I do remember you," she adds. "From Georgetown."

"Oh yeah?" Will's smile is broad and warm and his eyes are dancing and for just a moment, Alicia thinks she could get lost in them. Then she remembers the five shots of tequila in quick succession, remembers that she's drunk and ridiculous and her husband blew ninety grand on a pretty blonde who sucked his toes.

"You took me home one night," she says. "I mean– "

"You had a boyfriend," he says, looking down.

"And now he's my husband," she replies.

"You can always come here," he murmurs. "When you decide that you need somewhere else to go."

iii. an empty space to fill in (ever give a eulogy?)

She tells Jackie that she's moving because she can't keep living surrounded by his ghost and it's true, but only partially. The truth – the real truth – is that DC feels like going home, like she's going back to the last place she can remember feeling happy, feeling free. She doesn't take the time to think about why, doesn't really have the time to think about why. All that she knows – all that she knows – is that Peter haunts the house, haunts the courtroom, even haunts her office, which he never got the chance to see, and she wants nothing more than to break free from the shadows of grief and what ifs. She needs to escape the dark and he never was never a part of her life in DC, not really. His life - their life - the life they built was in Chicago, was always going to be in Chicago.

She sat at his desk one night to work, as if his she could channel him, his mind, his voice, his wisdom– she sat and cried as she went through a stack of documents. Her tears stained the old wood, passed down from grandfather to father to son, and she wondered if it would ever mean a thing to Zach, if he would even remember. She looked up to see the screen he never got the chance to fix, the wall color he chose, the heavy brocade sofa that he loved so much and she never had the heart to tell him she hated. She sat and cried and decided, in that moment, that it was time to make a change.

She called a realtor, put the house on the market, and when she tried to answer the question of where she wanted to go when the house sold, the answer spilled out before she knew that she'd made that decision, too. "I'm moving back to DC," she said. Once the words were spoken, she couldn't take them back, couldn't talk herself into staying in a city of ghosts.

"You'll feel different, when the baby's born," Jackie insists. "You'll want to be close to your family."

Alicia doesn't have it in her to say that her family is in Oregon and Florida and Saint Louis, doesn't point out that Jackie never wanted to call Alicia family to begin with. "Maybe," is what she does say, and she knows that it's a lie but she tells herself it's a kindness.

And so she sends out résumés and goes on interviews and, in May, she moves back to DC, a toddler in tow and the child Peter will never meet kicking a quick staccato against her ribs as the movers unload the truck. It is only after they've gone and she's tucked Zach in for the night and curled up under the quilt that Peter's great aunt gave them as a wedding gift, only after she realizes just how alone she truly is, that she lets herself wonder if maybe Jackie was right.

"I miss you," she whispers into the dark of the room that is hers, not theirs. "But I want you gone." The room doesn't answer, and she feels like a fool.

She's been in Washington for three days when she thinks to call her law school roommate, to invite her out for lunch or coffee or a walk. Something to get her out of the apartment. Anything to get her out of the apartment.

They agree to meet at an Italian place they used to like in law school, the the kind of place with paper on the tables and crayons to scribble with. She can still remember drawing flowcharts on the table one night, explaining estates and future interests to Will as they waited for their dinner. "You're a freak," he had said, but when they left, he took the paper with him. The next time they studied at his place, she spotted it pinned to the wall, a mess of purple crayon and marinara stains.

She smiles at the memory, and when she sits down, she finds herself doodling on the table, trying to remember the difference between a contingent remainder and a remainder subject to open. Things were so much simpler then, life and death reduced to a few arrows and terms of art. She thinks about her own will, and Peter's, and to my wife, unless she precedes me in death, then to my children. By the time Janice arrives, ten minutes late, she is blinking back tears.

She puts on a smile, though, lets Janice pull her into a hug.

"I heard about Peter," Janice says after they've shared the obligatory you look greats and Zach is scribbling away on the white paper tablecloth.

"I know, I got your card," Alicia says, glancing at Zach who seems blissfully unaware. "If I didn't send a thank you, it was just– I don't really want to talk about– "

"Okay." Janice smiles across the table from her and it makes Alicia wonder when they all grew up because she still kind of thinks of Janice as the girl who never took I don't want to talk about it for an answer. Still, she's grateful, relieved that she doesn't have to explain or rehash or talk about her feelings until there are tears on her cheeks and Zach is saying Mama what's wrong.

"How's Will?" Janice asks between bites of pasta. "He must be thrilled that you're– "

"I don't know, actually," Alicia admits. "I– We lost touch, after graduation."

Janice blinks, and Alicia remembers how much she always admired Janice's ability to be an open book, sometimes. "That must have been one hell of a fight," she murmurs.

"No." Alicia shakes her head. "Just... life." She doesn't tell Janice that she always felt a bit like Will was judging her, after she got engaged, like he saw her choice to marry a man he didn't like as some kind of betrayal of their friendship. I'm pregnant, she blurted out when he pressed her on it, asked if she was sure. She hadn't meant to, but the words hung between them for a good thirty seconds before Will's stunned silence turned into a grin, into a hug, into congratulations.

"He's still in Baltimore," Janice says. "Osterman Lee Canfield. Just an hour up 95. You should– "

"You never change, do you?" Alicia asks, smiling in spite of herself. "I might. After the baby's born, maybe."

The thing is, once the idea's on the table, once the possibility has been given voice, Alicia can't stop thinking about it, about him. She came back to DC because it felt like home but it doesn't yet. For all that she thinks the problem is that she won't start at her new firm until September, won't feel really settled until the baby's born– for all of that, she thinks that maybe DC felt like home because of Will in the same way that Chicago was home because Peter was there with her.

In the end, it's her father who convinces her to screw up her courage and make the call. "Whatever happened, I remember when you couldn't talk on the phone without telling me some story about what he said or did. You were good friends. And you could use some friends right now."

"Nothing happened, Dad," she says. "We just drifted apart."

"Peter must have hated him," her father says and she blinks, confused. "Jealousy," he adds. "He thought you were out of his league," he says. "He never told you that?"

"No," she says, softly, shaking her head. "He never– Damn hormones," she mutters, blinking back tears.

Her dad chuckles. "Call your friend," he says. "Get dinner, catch up. Have a glass of wine– Don't look at me like that, one glass of wine isn't going to hurt the baby."

Alicia laughs through her tears. "I will," she says. "Thanks."

She starts to dial and stops four times before she punches in the last digit, and when his secretary answers she's not sure if she's relieved or disappointed. A quick message later, and she feels like she's accomplished something, like she's done something real. Her water breaks three hours later, though, and the thirty seconds on the phone with his secretary get forgotten as her father drives her to the hospital.

A day later, she wakes up from a nap to see Will sitting in the chair next to her bed, her daughter tucked in his arms. "Hey," he says, softly. "Your dad said you'd want to see her when you woke up, so... "

Alicia nods, still groggy from sleep. "You met my dad?" she asks, reaching for the baby.

"And your son," he says. He waits until the baby's settled against her chest to whisper, "I'm sorry about Peter."

She looks away before she can see his pity. "Please don't," she says. "I mean– I know. I just– I don't want to spent the rest of my life feeling like Peter's widow. I want– " She turns to face him again, remembers the way he used to be able to read her, back in school, and wills him to be able to read her now.

"Okay," he says, shooting her a cautious smile. "Then I take it back. I'm not sorry." His expression turns horrified, and she laughs, loud and almost hysterical, and it's enough to wake the baby who interrupts the conversation to scream her objections.

"Oh, well, excuse me," she mutters, trying to calm her daughter. "Um," she says, as the baby mouths at her breast. "I think she– Do you mind, um, just for a second–?"

Will blinks, and she can see the moment realization dawns because of the way his cheeks go pink. "Oh, yeah, of course." He turns away. "I can leave, if that would– "

"No, it's fine," she says, once the baby's suckling away and she's adjusted the blanket enough to protect her sense of modesty. "You can turn around, now, if you– "

"Sorry," he mumbles. "I don't really know what the etiquette is, and, um..." he is stammering, embarrassed, and she laughs.

"I don't either," she admits. "Zach was a formula baby, and I never really planned for it to be different with her, I just, um." She looks down at her daughter. "It's the strangest feeling," she admits.

"Yeah?" Will smiles, curious. "I bet you're a great mom," he says. "Your son was pretty pissed that you weren't awake to say hello, earlier."

"Where are they?" she asks. "Him and my dad?"

"Cafeteria," Will says. "Your dad said something about getting ice cream and letting you– "

"Great," Alicia mutters, unable to stop herself. "He's going to end up so spoiled, by the time Dad goes home."

"A little ice cream never hurt anyone," Will objects. "I think you were the one who told me that."

"That was in law school," she shoots back. "There's a difference between ice cream as motivation to finish outlining and ice cream as a means of bribing a two-year-old into letting his mom sleep."

"And his baby sister," Will points out. "Two for the price of one, there." He smiles. "She's beautiful, Leesh."

She has Peter's eyes, she wants to say, but she doesn't. "Um. How did you– ?"

"Your dad," Will says. "You called, I called back, he answered– " He shrugs. "Is it okay, me being here? He said it– "

"Yeah." Alicia smiles at him, really looks at him. "Yes. God, it's good to see you." The thing is, it really, really is, as if no time has gone by, as if they're still kids curled up in his tiny studio apartment trying to cram as much knowledge as they could inside of their heads. "I mean, it's– I missed you."

"I missed you too," he admits, softly. "You could have called."

"You could have called," she shoots back, but she's still smiling.

She keeps expecting Will to leave, but he doesn't.

"You have to name her something," he says as they wait on discharge papers. "You can't just keep calling her 'the baby.'"

"Can't I?" Alicia throws a mock glare his way. "Peter liked Grace," she says, after a moment. "That was– If Zach had been a girl, he would have been Grace."

"Doesn't sound like you like it, much," Will murmurs, and his tone has changed, subtly, almost imperceptibly, but if Alicia's learned anything over the past two days it's that for all that he has changed, he hasn't changed a bit.

"Stop trying to manipulate me," she mutters. "I just– Ruth?" she suggests.

"For Bader Ginsberg?" Will teases. "Sandra?"

"Ruth," Alicia says, softly, smiling. She remembers rushing back to DC after her 2L summer, curling up on Will's futon to watch Justice Ginsberg's swearing in. "Ruth," she says again, more firmly this time.

"Ruth," Will echoes. He hesitates for a moment. "Florrick?" he asks, softly.

"Florrick." Alicia's answer is swift, and she looks away. "Why would– ?"

"Forget I asked," he says, simply. "Ruth Florrick."

"Ruth Grace Florrick," Alicia corrects, ignoring the way Will wrinkles his nose at that. "Now that we've named my daughter, can I ask... " she hesitates for a moment, weighs her options and desires. "Why are you still here?" she says. "That came out– I mean– I like that you're still here, but– "

"But I have a job in Baltimore and I've been sleeping in a chair in your hospital room for two days?" he suggests, grinning. "Your dad asked me to stick around," he says, after a moment, expression turning serious. "He's going back to Saint Louis next week and I think– I think he thought, with Peter– and the hormones– Your mom had really bad postpartum depression."

Alicia's smile disappears. "Oh," she says simply. "I'm fine," she says. "And I'm not my mother. So if you need to– "

"No," he says, quickly. "No, I didn't– I want to be here, I just– It's why I didn't ask your permission."

"So when we leave, you're...?" She blinks, confused and angry. "I'm not– I'm not a child, or an invalid, and I'd like to know what, exactly, you and my father have planned for– "

"Leesh." He sighs. "It's not like– "

"Can you guys just stop acting like I'm about to fall apart?" she snaps.

"Can you acknowledge that you've had a rough year and let the people who love you act like it?" he shoots back.

"Can the people who love me talk to me like I'm an adult?" she shoots back, and it's only then that she realizes that Will's including himself in the category of people who love. It's enough to bring tears to her eyes.

iv. all of your supposed crimes (in constant danger of running off the road)

It's only after she's arrived that it occurs to her that she's not sure why she came at all. She thinks that might be why she told Peter she was traveling for work, why she told Cary she was taking a sick day.

She never knew him. Never met him or spoke to him or even smiled at him as they passed one another in the halls of the courthouse, but she flew to New York to pay her respects and she feels out of place in the funeral home, surrounded by people who did know him.

She watches his family – mother, father, ex-wife, son – she watches as they shake hands with their fellow mourners, their expressions vacant. She doesn't join the line of people offering their condolences. She doesn't know what she would say. Instead, she watches from the outskirts of the room, her arms folded over her chest and she wishes that she could empathize, wishes that she could take the pain that they're carrying and save them the way he saved—

She spots Will as he enters, his suit jacket hanging awkwardly over his sling. He is still pale, and he looks tired, looks as out-of-place as she feels. He sees her and smiles, curious and surprised, and then he is at her side, close enough that she can feel his thigh pressing against her own and it shouldn't get to her, but it does.

"I didn't know you knew— "

"I didn't," she admits. "I just— " She looks up at him and wonders if he will understand, if he'll know, or if they're still too far gone for him to understand anything, anymore. She wonders if he's ever understood anything at all.

"Me too," he says. "I only knew him from the trial, but he was good. I liked him. I— " He starts to shrug, slightly, then curses under his breath.

You owe your life to him, she thinks, but he knows that so she doesn't say it. Whatever burden the family carries, now, she thinks that the one Will is carrying may be heavier, if that's possible. "Can I get you anything?" is what she does say. "Your shoulder, you looked– "

"Nanh." Will shakes his head. "I think it's good that it hurts."

"Part of being alive?" Alicia asks, and she smiles, just a bit.

"Something like that."

They are quiet for a long while, and her gaze returns to the Polmars, settles on Finn's mother. The woman is tall, but she looks small and frail, as if she might collapse at any moment. She doesn't, though. The woman keeps her chin held high, her expression measured and even, Alicia feels, somehow, connected to this woman who has lost far too much, far too soon. The woman sees her watching, then shifts her focus to Will. For a moment, Alicia thinks that she sees her expression waiver, thinks that she might break, but she doesn't. She stays standing, then crosses the room to them.

"You're the one," she says to Will. "You're the one who— ?"

Will looks a bit panicked, for a moment, and Alicia reaches for his hand, instinctively. He nods. "I'm so sorry," he says. "I'm so, so sorry."

The woman's back stiffens, a bit, and she stands a bit straighter as she pulls herself back together. Alicia knows, somehow, exactly what is coming, as if she knows this woman at all. She squeezes Will's hand, as if she can give him the strength to stand tall in the face of undeserved kindness and grace.

"Thank you," Mrs. Polmar says. "Thank you for coming all this way."

"Why did you come?" Will asks her, later, in the back of a taxi. "You didn't even know him."

She still doesn't have an answer.

"It could have been you," she says, later, over drinks in the hotel bar. "That's why I— "

"It could have been me," he confirms. "It should have been me."

"No."

"I tried to stop him," Will says. "I tried— Everyone in that courtroom had someone and I didn't want any of them to get— "

"No," she says again. "Stop it. Will, you— " She thinks about the night his father died, back when they were still in school. She thinks about the way he sat on her couch, stock still, with a bottle of beer dangling between his fingers and glassy, empty eyes. He looked as if he had died himself that night. It's not your fault, she said that night. He didn't answer, then, and she wishes that she'd pushed him that night, wishes that she had made herself stay awake until he believed her. He never did, she knows. Deep down, a part of her has always known that even all these years later, he still kind of thinks that it was.

"Finn had a kid," he says. "Did you see him, there? That kid's going to grow up without a father because I wasn't fast enough and he— "

"Stop it," she says again. "Will— It could have been you. That doesn't mean— "

"Fine," he says. He drains his glass and she reaches for his hand.

"It isn't your fault," she says. "It wasn't— "

"Everyone in that court room," Will says. "Politi's got a wife and daughter. Jeffrey's got his parents. Finn— "

"You've got sisters," Alicia points out. "Your mom. Diane." Me. He looks at her and she nods, covers his hand with her own. "Kalinda said you'd been shot and I— " She takes a deep breath.

"He pushed me down," Will says. "He pushed me down and I got a bullet to the shoulder instead of the head and now his kid won't have a father and I— " His voice breaks, and he looks away.

"It's not your fault," she murmurs, fingers moving over his knuckles. "It's not your fault."

He looks down at her hand and she lets her gaze follow his. The minutes tick past on the face of her watch and her flight is leaving in ninety minutes but she doesn't pull away, doesn't say she needs to get to the airport. "It's not your fault," she says again.

"I missed my flight," she tells Peter after Will's excused himself to use the restroom. "Can you keep the kids— ?"

"I can," he says, and she can hear the suspicion in his voice, tells herself that she's imagining it and lets the uncomfortable silence hang between them for a moment.

"Okay. Thanks," she says, finally. "I'll be in, in the morning, but if you could remind Zach that the check for his cap and gown is in his backpack— "

"Of course," Peter says, but he is too quiet. It makes the hair at the back of her neck stand up, and she feels as if he's circling her, as if he's waiting to attack.

"Thanks," she says again. "Anyway, I should— "

"Cary called," he says, and it feels like a punch to the gut. "He said you weren't picking up at home, but he wanted to let you know that the judge rescheduled your Rule 26 conference tomorrow so if you're still not feeling well, you should take another day."

"Peter, I— " She hesitates, unsure. Condensation is dripping off of Will's glass, leaving wet marks on the coaster. "I shouldn't have lied. Finn Polmar," she says. "The lawyer who was killed. I— his funeral was— "

"Say hi to Will for me," Peter mutters.

"That's not— Will isn't even here, Peter, I—"

The line goes dead and she closes her eyes.

She is sitting on the edge of Will's bed when he asks her again, his fingers rubbing firm circles against the arch of her foot and it feels so good that she doesn't trust her own voice, so she doesn't answer.

"Why did you come?" he insists, dropping her foot.

She looks at her shoes, abandoned by the door, then back at him. He closes his eyes, weary and drunk and beautiful. "I told you," she says.

Will sighs and leans back to sit on his heels. "I think I lied to you, last time we were here," he admits.

Alicia blinks and tries to remember. "For the conference?" she asks. "Or...?" He told her he loved her, two years ago. He whispered it in the dark of a New York City hotel room when he thought she was sleeping.

"For the conference," he says, clarifies. "The thing is, I think you lied to me, too."

She blinks again, frowns, watches him as he waits for her to ask what he means. Expectant. "We could never make it work," she says. She can hear the sadness in her voice. Hear the grief.

Will nods, still watching her. "We never wanted to make it work," he says. "You never wanted it enough."

"That's not— " She doesn't know how the sentence ends. Doesn't know if she wants to say that it's not true, if she wants to say that it's not fair, if she wants to say that it's not what happened. It doesn't matter, though, because he doesn't let her finish. She doesn't really want to finish, anyway.

"Why'd you lie to Peter, earlier?" he asks her. "I heard you, on the phone. Why would you tell Peter that I wasn't here?"

"Are you cross-examining me, now?" she asks him. "Because the last time you tried that— "

"Why are you here, Alicia?" he asks, straightening himself up so that his eyes are level with hers. "Why fly halfway across the country to go to a funeral for someone you've never even met?"

"I told you— " she says, and there's something desperate in her voice, in her.

"Or is that the wrong question?" he says, watching her. "You have a tell, you know, Alicia. You've had the same damn tell since you were twenty-two years old."

She starts to protest, but he waves it away. "When you get scared, you lie, and you keep telling the same lie over and over and the rest of us, we get so distracted by it that we don't think to ask what you're really afraid of."

"I'm not lying," she says, and it takes a second for the irony of it to hit her, to hit them, and then he smiles and it breaks the tension.

"Why did you leave?" he asks. "Is that the right question? Is that the one you're afraid to answer?" His voice is gentle, kind, the way it used to be before she left, and she thinks now I remember why I fell in love with you, thinks it before she can stop it, before she can stop herself from–

She shakes her head. "It's the same question," she says. "I mean— It has the same answer."

Will looks puzzled, confused, and she wants so badly to kiss him.

"It's not your fault, Will," she whispers. "None of it is your fault."

Notes

First, a million thanks to DickWhitmansCat. A million more thanks to PebblySand who wrote Will a backstory that she's gracious enough to let me keep stealing borrowing from.

Title is a line from Crestfallen by the Smashing Pumpkins

i. take me back to the start.

Subtitle's from The Scientist by Coldplay.

ii. i'll miss you till i meet you

Subtitle's from a Dar Williams song of the same name.

iii. an empty space to fill in

Subtitle's from Joni Mitchell's Blue.

Contingent remainders and remainders subject to open are forms of future interests that follow a life estate. If you convey Blackacre "to A" or "to A in fee simple" then A gets to decide what happens to Blackacre after she dies, you don't have any right to it anymore, and she can leave it to her kids (or anyone else) in her will. That's a fee simple estate. On the other hand, if you give Blackacre "to A for life" then A only owns Blackacre for the duration of her life. She doesn't get to decide what happens to it when she dies because you didn't give her that right when you gave her the property. You could also decide who gets it after A. You could say "to A for life, then to B." B doesn't get to have Blackacre now. He has to wait for A to kick the bucket. But he'll get it at some point in the future. What B has is known as a future interest.

A contingent remainder is a type of future interest where there's some uncertainty as to who actually has the future interest. Basically, it's a type of interest that is contingent on an even that hasn't yet happened at the time the interest is created. So. If you say "to A for life, then to A's children" but A has no children, A's children - even if they haven't been born yet - have a contingent remainder, but their interest in the property is contingent upon them being born. Similarly, if you say "to A, then to B if B survives A" you're creating a contingent remainder in B, insofar as we don't know at the time that A gets the life estate if B will survive her. B's interest is contingent on A dying first.

A remainder subject to open (technically, a vested remainder subject to open, aka a vested remainder subject to partial divestment) is another kind of future interest. Here, we know the identity of at least one of the people who will get the property after the end of the life estate, but it's possible that others could join the class of interest holders. For example, if I give Blackacre "to A for life, then to her children" and, at the time I convey the property, A has one child, B, then A has a life estate and B has a vested remainder subject to open. We know B gets something, and if A doesn't have more children, then B gets everything. But if A has another child, then B would have to share his interest with the other kid.

There are a ton of other kinds of present estates and future interests, and the system's really complex and archaic and it's a lot of vocabulary. If anyone's really, really interested in the American estate system (which is based on the British system and goes back centuries), feel free to ask and I'll try to explain a bit more but I imagine most people stopped reading already. (If you're really, really curious, shoot me a PM and I'll share the flow chart that I made during 1L.)

Also, Ruth Bader-Ginsberg is basically the single most awesome justice on the U.S. Supreme Court right now. She was nominated to her seat on the Court, and confirmed by the Senate, during the time which canon tells us Alicia and Will were in law school. I kinda couldn't resist that.

iv. all of your supposed crimes

Subtitle's from As You Are by Garfunkel & Oates.