A/N: I love Suits, but I really need them to stop pretending Darvey isn't endgame already.
Donna thinks everything's fine until Tuesday afternoon.
Fine, of course, being a relative order. Fine meaning that the firm doesn't sound or look or feel like the firm used to be, fine meaning that she gets to be COO, and get the recognition she's always wanted, and has to stop her fingers tapping every time a phone rings.
She is fine even though Harvey has a blow-out with Louis every other day, fine even though she feels like she's outgrown a lot of memories.
Outgrown. At her age. She might find time to laugh at it, if she weren't so competent, so busy, so damn excellent at her job. New job, old job. Donna's fine.
And then Tuesday afternoon comes, and she's standing outside Harvey's office, and he's on the phone, and she hears him say Paula.
.
If it isn't professional to eavesdrop, then Donna might as well show herself out, because she's had a phoneline into Harvey's office for far, far too long to pretend that she is anything other than a world-class know-it-all.
Donna's hands feel useless without any files to hold. Donna hears Paula, hears that relaxed, effortless, undeniably sexy laugh of Harvey's, and Donna goes through the entire catalogue of women in her brain that she keeps track of without ever admitting why—
And damn it all to hell. Paula's the therapist.
.
This is a new world order.
She hates that there are some ghosts she can't seem to leave behind.
.
Donna wouldn't be Donna if she didn't waste half an hour searching the APA and their ethical guidelines. And for what? Harvey's a grown man. Harvey's the best closer the city's ever seen, and Harvey's ethical grays have always been hers, whether she likes it or not.
.
I want more, she'd said, and she hadn't been talking about Harvey, for once in her life she hadn't been talking about Harvey, but she hadn't missed the look in his eyes.
It's past, now.
.
"So, you and Dr. Agard have really had some in-depth sessions, I hear," she drawls smoothly, when it seems like the right moment. She says it around a cup of coffee.
Harvey rolls his eyes like clockwork. "Nice detective work, Donna. You're not my secretary anymore. You don't have to go stealth-mode on my personal life."
"You mean, protect the women of the world from you? Of course I do." Donna says, and they exchange a knowing glance, though what she knows, she has no idea.
.
The work is her work, without the constant rattle of secretarial duties. It's about time, and she's glad to have it.
She has a two-hundred dollar manicure, and she's picking at her nails.
The first time Harvey even met Dr. Agard, it was because Donna left him. She'd like to think that the change in their relationship prompted this again—that Harvey's love-life is somehow reactionary, somehow related to Donna, but she's never been very good at lying to herself.
Just at pushing everything down.
.
"What's the guest-list for the wedding, Rachel?"
Rachel's brow furrows. "Why, do you need a plus-one? We were just planning on…well, my parents. Jessica, Louis. That's pretty much it."
I just wanted to know if Harvey was bringing anyone. But it's a stupid question, and Donna can't bring herself to ask it. "I am my own plus-one," she purrs. "You know that, Rachel."
.
She asked for this. She did that thing where she pushed past the B.S. she kept getting handed, and she said, I want more, and she meant it. A business venture with Benjamin wasn't enough. Stitching the firm together with her sheer strength of will wasn't enough. And she might not have partner, but she finally has what she deserves.
It feels damn good.
It's been a week, two weeks, since Tuesday afternoon.
This ship is sailing onwards—the waters are theirs for the charting.
But Donna wants more.