Work Text:
He moves back to Chicago after an ill conceived stint a firm in Baltimore that he'd rather forget about. He's just glad he managed to lateral out when he did. Still, it's weird, being home but being a grownup. He's glad of it though, it makes him feel more grounded, being close to his folks, and it's stupid, but every time he walks into the office and sees Stern's name above the door, it reminds him of how much Alicia liked him. That's-- well, he can't say that it makes him feel grounded, but it makes him feel like maybe he won't forget how to be a good person after all.
The firm's just coming off a big win and they've gone all out on tables at the ACLU's annual fundraising gala. He was a big part of that big win, so even though he's a brand new associate, somehow, he gets invited when one of the partners backs out. He's at a table in the back with a couple of the newly-minted partners and their wives and he's got everyone laughing by the time they serve dessert. He's good at this, talking to people, putting them at ease.
"It sounds like I'm at the wrong table," someone behind him says and, for a second, he swears it's Alicia. That wouldn't be so weird, really, because the Chicago legal community isn't that big and she's always gone for the lefty, liberal causes. Still, there have been a couple of times in the past year or so when he thought he'd heard her and it turned out to be someone else. There was even that one really embarrassing time when he'd had too much to drink and he followed a woman out of the bar. It wasn't her, of course, because it was Baltimore. That didn't stop him from following her for four blocks until she turned around and shoved a canister of pepper spray in his face and demanded to know what the fuck he wanted from her.
Still, he turns towards the voice because it would be rude not to, and when it is Alicia, his jaw nearly hits the floor. She's even more stunning than he remembers, in a deep purple gown that's tight over her breasts and then flows out in a way that makes her look like some kind of Greek goddess. He thinks he used to have a girlfriend who told him the name of that style, but if he did, he wouldn't remember it now because it's actually Alicia.
"Will Gardner," she says, smiling. "Now why am I not surprised?"
"Alicia Cavanaugh," he shoots back, grinning like an idiot. "Long time." Before he can stop himself, he's out of his chair and pulling her into a hug.
"It's Florrick, now," she reminds him, gently, but she's hugging him back and doesn't seem to have any intention of letting go. "You look good," she whispers in his ear, and it sends a shiver down his spine.
"God, you too. Grownup clothes," he teases and she laughs and he thinks-- he thinks a lot of things but one of them is that she's married and he needs to navigate the conversation onto safer ground before he does something really stupid. "You're still at Crosher, Abrahams and-- "
"Abbott," she confirms, and his stomach does a little flip flop over the way she still finishes his sentences. "For now." He arches an eyebrow at that, but he doesn't push it, not yet at least. "And I heard you're with Jonas Stern's new firm. How'd that happen?"
"Blackmail," he deadpans. "Look, if you're thinking of a move, I'll track him down. Stern likes hiring laterals, makes him feel like he's scoring some kind of coup and--"
"Maybe in a few years," she says, cutting him off with a smile as she pulls away from the hug.
He's got that feeling again, the one he used to get in their second and third years, like there's some joke or secret that he's just not in on and, instinctively, he looks around for Peter Florrick. He's an easy enough guy to spot, but Will doesn't see him and that's interesting. "You can't possibly be going stag tonight," he says when his eyes find hers again.
"Peter had to work late," she says, eyes moving to his table. "What about you? If memory serves, stag hasn't been your style since you and Helena were a thing."
He doesn't like the way she says it, like she's taking herself out of the equation. Even though he had a girlfriend back home, everywhere he went that first year, they were a they, together but not together and it meant something. It meant a lot, but the way she says it, it's like it didn't, like it was nothing. "I got dragged in last minute," he says, trying not to let on how weirdly hurt he feels. "And you know, six hours isn't long enough to find someone to laugh at your jokes and eat dry chicken with you when you're on track to bill 2,800 hours for the year."
"Oh is that all?" she teases.
"Yeah, that's all," he teases back, and he's damn proud of that number. He's got a couple of buddies who are still in the office tonight, trying to catch up because they finally figured out that a 50 hour week doesn't matter if not all those hours are billable. He doesn't feel bad for them, not really, because they could have done the math earlier in the year, could have figured out that recognition takes dedication. "And what about you, Mrs. Florrick?" he demands, smirking.
"I'm averaging about 300 a month," she says, and for the second time in three minutes, he has to pick his jaw up from the floor.
"Okay, I'm definitely introducing you to Mr. Stern," he says, grabbing her arm and starting to pull her in that direction.
"Will, no," she says, pulling back, and she sounds a little bit desperate.
This isn't like her. At least, it wasn't when they were in school. And sure, her hair might be a little bit shorter and she might be wearing a wedding band now, but people don't change that much and he was pretty good out figuring out when she was upset by the time they graduated. He studies her, and she looks exhausted, more exhausted than he's ever seen her and yeah, it makes sense if she's looking at billing 3,600 hours this year, but he's seen her go for weeks on three hours of sleep a night, and this is worse than that. This is worse than that week in 3L when she had a 102° fever and still managed to keep up with her clinical caseload and finish her note for law review. When he puts it all together, the exhaustion, the insane billables, the hug, Peter's absence, and her desperation--
"Leesh, what's going on?" he says, softly. "Seriously."
She just looks at him, and for a moment he thinks that maybe too much time has passed, maybe the trust that they used to have is gone. Maybe she's going to insist that she's fine, that nothing's wrong, that she's here alone because she wants to be and she's billing 75 hours a week (which means she's got to be working, what 90, 100?) because she really does love being a lawyer That Much-- but then she nods towards the door.
"You wanna get out of here?" she asks. "Get a cup of coffee or something? There's this 24-hour place a few blocks away. It's not the old diner by school, but it's--"
"I know the place," he says, gently. "They do good things with biscuits and gravy."
She smiles, then, goes back to her table to retrieve her purse and then they're walking arm-in-arm down the street and for a minute, he manages to forget that this isn't two years ago and even though she's got him seriously worried, he feels lighter than he has in a long time. It's like just being near her is enough to make him forget the shit decisions and the interoffice politics and the fact that the real reason he's alone tonight is that he can't remember the last name of the court reporter that he's been fucking this month and didn't want the awkwardness of admitting that when he introduced her to his colleagues. It's not like he's one of those guys who thinks that the best times are behind him, and truth is, he really likes being a lawyer, and he's good at it, but the law isn't fun the way it was at school and most of that's down to her not being there.
They get to the diner and he takes her wrap, like he's some kind of gentleman, and she slides into her side of the booth. They both order coffee and she calls the waitress back and orders biscuits and gravy with two forks. He smiles at that, the way she still assumes that meals are to be shared, the subtle admission that the chicken really was awful, the way she just takes his word for it that the biscuits and gravy are worth ordering.
"Talk to me, Alicia," he says, once they both have coffee.
"I'm five months pregnant."
Whatever he was expecting to hear -- that her firm's in trouble, that her brother's sick, that her father's pulled another disappearing act, that her marriage is falling apart (and he's been secretly hoping that it was that) -- whatever he was expecting to hear, it wasn't that. Of course, now that she says it, it should have been obvious from the way they fit together differently when they hugged, the fullness of her breasts, the way her dress is cut to skim over her belly. He'd just chalked it up to a bit of weight gain, too many nights eating pizza in the office and too few mornings in the gym, but now that she says it, she doesn't look like she's gaining weight, she looks like she's pregnant and just starting to show and he feels like a fucking idiot for not noticing.
"Yeah?" he manages, once he's able to form words. Her eyes won't meet his and she looks nervous, unsure, with her shoulders set back and tight the way she used to get before grades came in, when she was trying to pretend that she wasn't freaking out. "Leesh, are you-- I want to say congratulations, but I want to make sure that you're happy about it."
"I am," she says, without hesitation. "I-- believe me this is-- " she smiles. "I want this baby, I want this baby, I just-- " She takes a sip of her coffee, and he smiles because it's such a careful thing, the way she stops herself from saying anything until she knows that the words will be the right ones. "We agreed to start trying, but it's not like that was any kind of guarantee, and for most couples, it takes a while." She shrugs. "I just thought that it would take a while."
"And Peter--?" he asks, because what kind of a man stands up his pregnant wife, especially when she's working so much that he probably barely sees her anyway?
"Over the moon," she says, grinning now. It's a real grin, one without secrets, and Will's not sure how he feels about that. "It's a boy," she adds. "We found out last week."
"Congratulations, Alicia," he says, and he means it. He really does. "God, you're gonna be such a fantastic mom."
She laughs and takes a sip of coffee. "You think?" she asks, and it's like she's really asking for his opinion, like she still values it.
"I do," he says. "You're gonna be one of those moms that's so great that all the other moms will hate you. Your kid's gonna be like, warm and kind and freakishly smart and-- he'll be one of those kids who likes to do chores and wants to give his allowance to starving kids in Africa and-- God, he's gonna be gorgeous," he says, eyes on hers. "He's gonna look like -- what's the name of that guy from that show that you used to make me watch because you were deluded and thought he was cuter than me? You know, the one in the tights?"
"Dean Cain," she laughs. "And he is cuter than you."
"Okay, sure, by any objective measure, maybe, but you're sitting here drinking coffee at midnight and where is Mr. I-Look-Good-In-Blue-Spandex now, hmm?" And for that matter, where the hell is Peter I-Can't-Possibly-Know-How-Lucky-I-Am Florrick?
"I've missed you," she says, softly, and his heart skips a beat.
"You too," he says and he thinks they might be having some kind of moment when their waitress arrives with biscuits and gravy and ruins it.
She digs in with a flourish, and he's always loved that about her. Some girls -- most girls who look like her -- they live on salads and even then they eat slowly, as if having an appetite is somehow an unattractive quality. That's bullshit, as far as he's concerned, because what's the fun of sharing a meal when only one party is actually enjoying himself? Of course, now she's pregnant and pregnant women are supposed to eat like this, like they're excused from the stupid rules that govern attractive women, and he wonders if marriage has changed her.
"You're incredible," he says after a few minutes, mouth full of some of the best gravy to be found inside the Loop.
"I don't feel incredible," she says, swallowing. "I feel-- overworked and exhausted."
It's weird, the glimpse of honesty, the way she can't just accept the compliment. "So work less," he suggests.
She shakes her head. "I can't," she says. "You know what it's like, there's always more to do."
He nods, watching her, and it hits him, then. "And you want to prove that just because you're pregnant, you're not out of the game," he offers, quietly.
"Maybe," she admits. "Mostly, I'm trying to avoid my mother-in-law." She laughs, but it's strained and polite, and when he doesn't join in, she adds, softly, "She doesn't want me going back to work, after the baby's born."
Will's only met Jackie once, at the wedding, and he can see that. The proper-but-pushy society matron urging her curly-haired daughter-in-law to become the same, like Alicia Cavanaugh's someone who can be tamed with a baby and a name change. It surprised him when he first heard that she was taking Peter's name, and then it pissed him off, because it seemed like she was giving up a part of herself, but now he wonders if it wasn't part of some kind of negotiation. She gave the Florricks her name and in exchange she got, what, the right to work crazy hours without being questioned? A bargaining chip for the working mom fight?
"You'd be lost without work," he says when he realizes that she's looking for some kind of response from him, some kind of... validation, maybe? "I know you, Leesh, if your mind's not busy, you start to unravel a little."
"Oh, that is-- " He watches her try to refute it, and he laughs, because they both know he's right. She laughs too, and it's comfortable, familiar. It's like he's not trying to run away from his mistakes and she's not married or pregnant or Florrick, like they're just two best friends who know each other so well that they can finish each other's sentences and eat biscuits and gravy out of the same bowl, like the future's wide open and--
"I should get home," she says, abruptly. And just like that, the mood is broken. As he watches her smile fade, he wonders if maybe she meant it to have that effect, if maybe she was feeling it too. "I have to be up in five hours and I haven't seen Peter all day."
She reaches into her purse for her wallet and he waves her hand away. "I got this, Leesh," he says, reaching for his own. When he looks up from the wad of cash, though, she's not holding out a bill, she's holding out a business card.
"We should do this more often," she says, passing the card over the table to him. He slides one over to her as well. "I really have missed you."
And then she's gone and he's left holding a little piece of cardstock.