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He hates leaving her alone and moves with purpose flinching at the state of his office. He was right, she didn't need to see this. It's a reminder of a night they'd both rather forget and he grabs the phone off the cradle, eyeing the untouched bottle of Scotch as a clean cut voice picks up the line. He has half a mind to fire the head of security on the spot and launches in with a colourful display of language that would make his own mother blush. Damn right they'll do a sweep of the building. They'll also pull the security footage, have it fully analysed by morning and handle the police investigation. He'll go into the station to answer questions tomorrow. Tonight his first and foremost priority is making sure Donna's okay and he slams down the receiver grabbing the bottle of scotch on his way out.
He detours through the kitchen, stopping to rummage through the cupboards looking for the first aid kit.
He's seen Louis with it enough times and eventually finds the box shoved towards the back near the cleaning products. He drags it out opening it up to make sure it isn't empty and silently thanks Donna for her meticulous house-keeping skills. The irony that she's the one who needs it tastes metallic in his mouth but he swallows the bitterness. He doesn't want to think about it and flips down the clasp with a drawn out sigh. There'll be time to lament on 'what ifs' later. No doubt when he's staring at the ceiling in a few hours time, the darkness amplifying everything that could have happened.
The thought taunts him and he pushes up grabbing the scotch off the counter and retracing his steps back to her office.
When he arrives her eyes are fixed on the door, her face a few shades paler than when he left but she visibly relaxes as he crosses the threshold leading with the bottle in his hand. He spies the two glasses she has waiting -because she's Donna and being proactive is ingrained in her nature- and he obliges pouring them both a drink.
They don't cheers, not tonight, and he welcomes the burn of alcohol as it stings his throat. Christ it feels good but it's not there to be abused, just to take the edge off and he deposits the tumbler scuffing his hands over the first aid box.
"I don't need-"
"Don't argue," he orders, unclipping the latch and flipping the lid. The fuss is probably unnecessary but his actions are being driven by concern and he takes out a packet of antibacterial wipes tearing it between his fingers as he moves towards her. She doesn't release her glass and he manoeuvres around it discarding the wrapper as he glides his free hand up through her hair. "Hold still..." he exhales slowly, lingering a moment before finally revealing the angry mark along her neck. The dried blood turns his stomach but he doesn't shy away from it, drawing his brows together in an attempt to focus on the cut and not the faint aroma of lilac invading his senses.
She flinches as he dabs the raw skin, taking a sip of scotch to mask her unease at their close proximity. His only acknowledgement is a reminder to keep steady and she sighs bringing the drink back to her lips in spite of the request. She isn't used to seeing this side of him, the vulnerability that only ever offers itself fleetingly, and struggles not to lean into the tenderness. It's the same trap she keeps falling into, assuming his kindness means something more, and she winces wishing the reaction was due to the pain.
An apology lodges in his throat but her arm gets in the way again and the words don't shift any further. Instead he works around the immobile limb brushing his thumb against her jaw to steady his hand. The touch triggers a rush of goosebumps across her skin and he knows he should stop, that he shouldn't be standing so close and caring so goddamn much, but the hint of scotch on her breath is intoxicating. It's only when her shoulders tense that he realises it's too much and his control snaps back into place driving him away from her.
With a rigid throw he tosses the wipe in the bin and against his better judgement finds her gaze instead of a quip to ease the tension. Her face has more colour thanks to a heated flush painting her cheeks and he parts his lips looking for a diversion but his mouth stumbles over what he can't and won't say. "I... you should call someone-" he finishes lamely, swallowing the regret without an apology. They're both too exposed and all he can do is try to keep them from acting rashly in a volatile situation.
It takes a moment for the words to register, that he intends to leave, and her chest clenches tightly in response. It shouldn't hurt as much as it does. This side of him she is used to but the fact he would choose now to walk away is another blow to her resolve. She could have died tonight. The least he could do is put aside his own insecurities to offer some comfort. "I have someone Harvey, you." She waits for him to deny it, come up some bullshit reason why he can't be that person, but the silence stonewalls her and she breaks it with a bitter exhale, "you know what? Fine. Go, leave... see if I care."
This time she doesn't wait for anything in return and reaches for the bottle of scotch with a wayward stretch, abandoning any intention of using a glass. She'll deal with tonight in her own way without his pity and most definitely without his judgement. "Don't let the door hit your arse on the way out."
He watches her neck the equivalent of two shots and winces at the disgusted contour of her face. She's hitting him where she knows it hurts, drawing out his guilt, because they both know he's not about to let her wind up with alcohol poisoning and if she doesn't realise that, she's damn well about to find out.
"Hey, that's expensive scotch-" he jerks the bottle, swinging it out of reach and if looks could kill he'd be a dead man. Obviously it isn't about the money but her glare makes him second guess whether she knows that, and he opens his mouth to explain but is cut off by a sudden flurry of movement.
"Go to hell." She shoulders her handbag, heels clicking as she storms across the office floor. She's done with his bullshit, about half a step from the door when his fingers encircle her wrist spinning her back around. She turns sharply, raising her hand to slap him but he preempts the move pulling her flush against his chest and a wave of embarrassment erupts across her face, "let go of me! You smug, arrogant, son of a-"
His mouth closes fiercely over her lips silencing the protest and god help him if his ego doesn't explode the second she kisses him back. It's not about winning. The last time he let her go without a fight she walked right out of his life and he isn't about to let that happen again. He isn't going to lose her just because he doesn't know how to keep her and if it's a mistake his oxygen starved lungs say otherwise. She tastes like scotch with a hint of orange and the sensation stirs a dormant memory that he never wants to be without again. The only reason he stops kissing her is when the need for air finally drives them apart, landing them in a mix of heavy breathing and shell-shocked silence.
His first instinct is to brush it off, blame adrenaline or alcohol but it's a cheap shot and a flimsy excuse. Not only that but he doesn't do apologies. That would mean admitting he did something wrong and he might be impulsive, reckless and arguably stupid but this time he ins't sorry.
Just scared shitless.
She isn't saying anything, her eyes wide with disbelief, and his voice cracks as it strains over the silence, "when you asked me 'how' I love you, you were right... I am capable of looking at you like that cause I do but I hide it every goddamn day." He shakes his head, as if it will clear the weight of the admission but nothing can. The truth is he's out on a ledge and the only way off is to jump and pray there'll be something to break his fall. "I haven't been scared to risk anything-" he defends, bracing himself for the impact, "I've been afraid to lose everything but if I can't tell you that, then what are we doing?"
Her mouth parts slightly, the words taking her back to hard truths and implications that are rarely ever perceptible. This is different. This is his heart out on the line but the Harvey Specter she knows doesn't gamble with emotions, not unless he's certain of the outcome. "I warned you-" her head tilts indirectly, the trace of humor at odds with her recoiling shock. Just because he's one up doesn't mean she has to surrender her hand and she's quick to remind him of that, "I said you'd fall for me."
There's a slight waver to her voice and it's the only indication other than the distant reference that she's toying with him. It causes a sharp exhale but doesn't stop him from calling her bluff, "and I'm saying it wasn't just me that fell." It's a bold assumption but he stands by it raising an eyebrow, "am I wrong?"
She wants nothing more than to wipe the smug look off his face but even at his most self-assured she's always been able to read the fine lines of doubt creasing his eyes. Right now he's a barking dog but she knows him better than that. "No, you're not..." she eventually admits, not just to put him out of his misery but to steal some of the victory for herself because now he has the information it's up to him to act on it. "Should I get the can opener?"
It's presented almost as a dare, like she's expecting him to balk at the suggestion, and the corners of his mouth twist in a frown. He wants this but it's not surprising she has doubts. He hasn't exactly been forthcoming with his emotions in the past and he edges towards her relying on the intent behind his words rather than their romance. "I was thinking something new."
She surprised when his fingers slip into her hand, the contact familiar but far removed from what she was expecting. It's a sign he's serious and her stomach flutters as the ghost of a smile quirks his lips. They should talk about it, establish some ground rules or in the very least attempt something other than the flippancy that falls from her mouth, "a pineapple and?"
"Gloves." He quickly decides, conveying an air of gratitude at the light hearted banter. He wants to give her more, he will, but tonight he just needs them to be themselves; unguarded, unconditional and infatuated with each other.
"Just one?" She queries it, his dark gaze spreading a warmth across her cheeks. Twelve years ago she wouldn't have battered an eyelid at the suggestion but back then she didn't love him, and the smile that cracks his expression makes her go weak at the knees.
"Exactly." It doesn't need any further explanation and suddenly he's a million miles away from the intruder in his office and the reality of facing it all tomorrow. He's only concern is where the hell they're going to get a pineapple, and how they're going to manage without a can opener.
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AN: Originally this was only going to be two chapters but I've decided to write a little more. Why not, right? :P I'm sorry for any typos, it's really late!
