Hey guys, it's been a while since I've posted anything so here's a little drabble about our two favourite idiots. There might be more to it, but we'll have to see :)
He thinks about her a lot these days.
Not just in the abstract sense that he used to (the only way he ever allowed himself to),but in a way that is slowly, but surely, driving him mad.
Images of her accost him frequently and catch him unaware; a splattering of freckles on pale skin, the slope of her breasts, her narrow hips, her endless legs, those eyes that pierce right through him.
He thinks of diners and can openers and rituals and all the other inane things that he associates exclusively with her.
He thinks about possibilities; of late nights spent in the confines of his office, soft jazz playing, two forgotten tumblers of scotch, and just how sweet she would taste between her thighs.
He's also smart enough to know that he's treading into dangerous territory.
Perhaps it's a symptom of spending so many hours together with so few feet between them. But they've always operated in close quarters, and she's never quite consumed him like this before.
All previous thoughts of Donna were implicitly tied to their work, wrapped up in her unwavering loyalty to him and his unshakable trust in her.
He's her boss, yes, but more often than not, she has been a friend first. She drew the lines between them, ones he'd made sure to obey. They've toed these lines precariously, but never crossed them. Not a second time.
The number of years she has been by his side continues to grow, and by now she knows him unequivocally – though she'd argue she always has. But their relationship has always existed within certain parameters.
They have the kind of emotional intimacy of lovers, but he can't even remember the last time he touched her.
He thinks about the parts they play in each other's lives. Not for one moment does he regret the decision he made to make her a permanent fixture in his life. 'What if?' isn't a game he likes to play, but sometimes in the quietest of moments he allows himself to wonder how things might have been different.
He glances up from his paperwork, his eyes inevitably falling on her through the glass barrier that separates them.
The afternoon sun catches her hair, setting it aflame. She arches her back, her dark, form-fitting dress stretching across her breasts in a way that he's certain he'll think about later.
The phone from her desk is cradled between her ear and shoulder. Her lips contort into a trademark smirk as she listens intently to whomever is on the line. Her slim fingers fly over her keyboard at a rapid pace, while her gaze remains focused on the file splayed across her desk.
Ever the multi-tasker.
She stops suddenly, swiveling in her chair so that she's facing him. She quirks an eyebrow at him and his cheeks burn at the embarrassment of having been caught staring.
He reluctantly drags his focus from her and back to the work in front of him. She's an unfair temptation, and thoroughly ignorant to the effect she has on him. It's just about the only thing she doesn't know.
Several seconds pass. And he can't help himself. His eyes flick back up toward her, their gazes locking for a moment that is so painfully fleeting he's sure he must have imagined it.
It hits him like a swift kick in the gut that the last time she kissed him was over a decade ago. The memory of it has blurred and frayed over the years, leaving him with only pieces that he has since struggled to replay in his head. He hates to think that in another ten or twenty years he might forget completely.
She returns her attention to her phone call and resumes typing. Harvey lingers on her a moment longer and his chest swells with pride as her eyes wander back in his direction and a smile graces her lips, bright and involuntary as if she might think about him too.