Alicia Florrick had itchy fingers. It only happened on rare occasions, and had more to do with suppressed desires than allergic reactions, but at the moment, her fingers were itching like crazy.

The facts were these: three days ago, Cary Agos had been rushing to meet Alicia for a late drink, and had brutally beaten in a parking lot during an autumnal thunderstorm. Cary had been many things to Alicia over the years- professional rival, courtroom opponent, precocious snotball, and a royally arrogant pain in the ass- but had recently become something beyond an office mate and closer to a friend. They talked on occasion, though rarely about anything important and seldom without alcohol as a conversation lubricant. After their trip to DC to deal with the flashing comedienne scandal and Cary's disastrous interactions with his dad, they'd started meeting once a week for a Shot of Conversation (one hour, no more than 3 drinks or 2 serious topics, always leave before dinner). It had been on following a hellacious trial, a last minute addendum to a Thursday night, a random but necessary meet... then Cary had been attacked.

He'd texted he was on his way before dashing out into the downpour. She'd waited in the King's Crown for 20 minutes before the first call, knowing traffic would be treacherous, and trying to suppress her maternal worry. 10 minutes after the first, she made a second, leaving a brief "where are you?" in the answering voicemail. At five minute intervals, she'd made followups until the ringtone had caught someone's attention in the row of cars next to Cary's. The Chicago Samaritan had picked up, informed her of Cary's condition and whereabouts, then kept her updated on the line as he dialed 911 with his own cell. She'd been by his side while he'd been "observed", and agreed to drive him when he'd signed himself out AMA, and stayed the night at his place to make sure he didn't succumb to a concussion. She was the only one who knew what had happened.

However, Cary's "basketball" injury had been the source of constant speculation for one day and Alicia decided it was time to do whatever she could to shut people up. Interception at the elevator, subtle but firm guidance to one of the few offices without a glass door, and the slow zzzzt of a zipper being slid open.

"Alicia, what're you... is that... Absolutely not!" A brief scramble for the door is cut off with a sharp "SIT", and she resumes digging through her makeup bag until she locates her pack of sponge applicators and tube of concealer.

"Cary, it literally hurts me to look at you." Her voice is soft, teasing but gentle, and so... mom. A fresh callous grazes his jaw as she cradles his face in one hand, tilting it to better catch the light. Cary swallows his trademark smirk down past the newly formed lump in his throat, and silently submits as she dabs and blends and absentmindedly hums, of all things, a nursery rhyme. He tries to focus on legal precedents, rattling them off like league stats as a memory floods his mind. It is not a memory he possesses naturally, merely a borrowed image from movies and television- a mother tenderly treating a scrape, mending a boo-boo, wiping away tears and blowing gentle breaths to ease disinfectant stings, knowing a lollipop and a kiss are as vital to healing as band-aids and iodine.

He blinks hard to clear the sudden blur invading his field of vision, giving himself a little shake that makes her break contact and freeze a few fractions of an inch from his face. "Are you okay? Did I... does something hurt?" Her eyes are flickering across his face like a rapid scanner, searching for any indication he's in pain. He meets her gaze, weighing in a millisecond the pros and cons of telling her what's wrong, of seeing if she can use that mom-sight to look inside him, if she can put a name to this unlabelled sting the lonely 5 year old self cannot let go of until it is defined and understood. Can she explain how the absence of something can make him so miserable, how instinctively knowing something is missing yet not what it is or how to get it can reinforce a fortress around the heart? Does she somehow know that not knowing what is needed and caring enough to give it anyway can slowly break that wall down again?

His chin sets down again in her palm as his gaze drops back to the floor. The moment is broken, not quite the same now, and perhaps it's for the best; too much too soon and one risks losing all, or so his father always said. A point to the bastard for being partially right. Now is not the time for a reenactment of Jericho, not the time to be cradled in a mother's arms and held and told everything would be fine... however much he might want it to be.

When his eyes flick back to hers, they bear that strange light, that Confident Cary glow that obscures all that lies beneath. Her own gaze dips as that wistful twist pulls her lips and she exhales that little puff of air through her nose. Sigh. "Almost done. How was your holiday, Cary?"

"I called my parents' messaging services, ate greenbean casserole and drank half a bottle of Wild Turkey. Et tu, Alicia?" A wry smile and a saucily arched eyebrow add themselves to her reply. "I had to endure my mother *and* mother in law in the same kitchen, burned two pies and a casserole, and ended up having revenge sex with my husband in the bathroom." Cary takes a minute, opens his mouth, closes it, then re-opens with an invitation: "Drinks after work?"

Alicia smiles, one of those true 990 watt grins, accepts and declares him perfected for the day with a click of her compact. "You're on, Agos. But the first round's on you."