So, consider this a special tid-bit. I'm going to go from Cleveland's point of view this time, because Harvey's boring and dead now XD Just for this chapter, though, maybe one more, because the things happening from him are more interesting than the ones on her end. Without further ado, with great thanks to my reviewers (in particular ACleverName, who was cool enough to draw me a Harvey/Cleveland which I will shamelessly peddle once I have it XD), on with the tale!

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It's a good three days before I realize the dire error in judgment I've made.

I wanted to push her, I wanted to see her limit, I wanted to know what she can take. How is this possible? How did I calculate wrong?

Just a little shove.

I wanted to put a dent in her view of reality, not shatter it completely.

Is she really this weak?

I feel halfway disgusted with her.

"Why so glum, bucko?"

But when I open the door to glance in, she doesn't move. In the complete dark, total dark, she just sits against the wall, Indian-style. Her hands are crammed between her thighs, and her glasses sit tiredly at the tip of her nose. Casually, grinning, I remark, "You look like shit."

She's been doing this for three days.

"Go away, Cleave." She doesn't make eye contact with me at all, just stares into the stupid wall ahead of her, my wall, if you ask me, and plays with her fingers a little. There are little cuts, delightful scrapes all from her temple down to her cheek. For someone with her tolerance, they should burn like hell, but I haven't heard her make a sound.

She's been cryin', though, I accompany that with the little lurch of merriment in my stomach. The basics, crying, puking and, of course, shutting oneself off from the outside world.

Really, I'm just checking in to be sure her sanity's still a little there.

"What's eatin' at the back of your head, sweetheart?"

I'd hate her if I didn't find her so complicatedly endearing. I think I've taken my personal lab-rat a little too far.

"I watched someone die," The vivacity is gone to her tone. It just sits around in the air, like the dull drone of a truck in third gear, "I felt it, and I saw it and he told me if I didn't he'd do…something to me."

She shudders at the word something. I'm a little disappointed at that. I mean, yeah, I'm always up for intimidation but I'm not gonna do the something I know is in her head. Wrong impressions, girly.

"How's about I go get some ice cream and we watch a whole ton of America's Next Top Model? C'mon, you can throw things at the pretty girls. –Hey, looksie, don't move, I'll be right back."

I do just that, not even waiting for her answer. I know it'll sound like 'go away, Cleveland', which disappoints me because I do enjoy the 'fuck off, Cleveland', a little bit more. I've de-barked the Chihuahua, I've de-clawed the kitten.

There was a potential I saw in her that everyone else lacked. There was a fire, the blatant, bright ability to be bad without reserve or care. I've snuffed out the flame.

Well, that, and this girl's really hard to lure out of whatever shell she lives in.

I thought I was difficult? Brother is she a pain in the rear.

And when I return to the door to her apartment, armful of frozen dairy product in hand, I realize something—

The door is locked.

Three. Two. One.

Panic.