Chapter 10

Harvey flops on his side, blinking, and smiling softly as he wakes to Donna's hair spread across the pillow. Being back in his own bed and next to his wife is all he's wanted for weeks, but when he snakes his arm out to hold her, his chest twinges as she pulls away in her sleep. He's been home three days, and each night she grips onto him for dear life beneath the covers, but every morning starts with an invisible wall between them. She doesn't laze around when her eyes flutter open anymore. Instead, she gets up, drinks too much coffee, dresses, and is out the door before he can fit in two words. Then it's like someone's flicked a switch—she enters the apartment exhausted, downs a wine and presses herself into his arms needing him again. He's worried that she's pushing herself too hard, but when he suggested she take a few days off, the idea was met with a heavy, awkward silence, and he let the subject drop.

He was gone for two months, put her through something unimaginable, so whatever she needs to do in order to readjust, he'll give it to her. But he wishes she'd talk to him, and a sigh lifts him up out of the bed, sending him stumbling towards the shower.

After stripping off, he lets the hot spray soak into his muscles, stealing away his tiredness. Mike had given him the week, but with Donna going straight back to work, he doesn't see the sense in sitting around the apartment dwelling on his choices. Some normality might even be a good thing—keep his thoughts occupied until Donna's ready to start opening up.

He stays under the stream of water, lathering and rinsing himself with her fragrance, inhaling the vanilla essence and breathing it out again. He'll need to buy his own body wash at some point, but he doesn't mind having the scent of Donna lingering on his skin. It helps him feel closer to her when she barrels out the door, but this morning he wants to get ahead of whatever she's running from, and he finishes up, turning off the shower and quickly drying himself. He slips into a pair of slacks and a t-shirt, re-entering the bedroom where she's still sound asleep.

Relieved she's getting some proper rest, he leaves her be, but her lack of appetite plays on his mind. She's lost weight, more than is healthy, and he wasn't surprised to find the cupboards bare his first evening back. He's restocked them, but she still seems disinterested in meals, picking at whatever he plates up—filling herself with wine instead. In the past, opening a bottle and having a few glasses over a meal wasn't unusual, but she's running on empty, and using alcohol as a crutch isn't helping.

He finds what he's searching for in the kitchen, looking to whip up something hearty like he used to do on a lazy Sunday morning when they were still in New York. His mouth curves as he thinks back to the time—when breakfast would wind up abandoned, and the condiments would serve other purposes, becoming a sticky mess of fruit and whipped cream.

Seattle was supposed to be the start of something new for them, no more mistakes, and it isn't fair to blame the city for failing to meet expectations. They barely had five minutes to settle before chaos descended, knocking their lives into a different direction, and he hangs over the stove top with a sigh, throwing some bacon into a pan, and cracking two eggs. He's never been the sort of man who looks back at the past, wondering if he would change things. He can't, so there isn't any point. But as he glances from the food he's making to their bedroom, concern fuels a strong wave of regret. Maybe he would do things differently, but all he can do now is try and move them forward, so he dishes up the breakfast he's going to serve, stacking it on a tray with cutlery, napkins, and a glass of juice, carrying the assortment in to where his wife is tucked under the blankets.

He sets the meal down on the bedside table, and perches on the edge of the mattresses, giving Donna's shoulder a soft squeeze.

She rolls toward him, still half-asleep as she murmurs into the pillow. "I smell bacon."

"That's because I made you breakfast." He draws back, hoping she'll be happy with the gesture, but she's slow to push herself up, and seems less than enthusiastic, her face dropping at the display of food.

"You didn't have to—"

"I know." He shrugs, not wanting to turn the effort into a big deal and make her uncomfortable. That's the last thing he wants. "Don't worry, it's not exactly five star."

She forces a small smile even though her stomach rolls with queasiness, demanding a strong black coffee, instead. He's trying. The least she can do is appear grateful. "It looks good." Her hands fall limply over her lap, and she tenses when he reaches out, the weight of his wedding band closing over her naked fingers. His composure falters too, just for a moment, his thumb skimming over where his grandmother's ring used to sit, and she swallows an awkward sigh. "It's around here somewhere."

He snaps his gaze up, not having meant to get caught out, and he gives her hand a reassuring squeeze. "It's okay." The jewellery isn't important. Even though he has faith in every word of his vowels, signing a bit of paper was just a formality. Being here together is what counts. "We'll find it later."

Unease mixes with her nausea as she pulls free, raking her hair over her shoulder. Patience has never been a quality Harvey's possessed, but his time away in witness protection seems to have challenged his perseverance, and she isn't sure what to make of him walking on eggshells. But if he's not going to push, she's not opening up a can of worms either, and she reaches for her phone, using the display as a distraction. "I should get ready for work."

Disappointment hooks inside his chest, but he reacts just as quickly, placing his palm over the covers to keep her still. "Eat something first." He's willing to leave if it will help, and offers a compromise. "I'll go clear up the kitchen."

His weight lifts off the mattress and she nods, pushing away to the urge to call him back. Instead, she pulls her knees up and rests her head against them with a ragged breath. For all the sleep she's getting, she still feels exhausted, and finding the energy to face what they're going through isn't something she can muster today.

Harvey finishes cleaning up, and Donna leaves with a chaste kiss to his lips, the brief contact lingering as he slips into the bedroom, but it fades beneath worry when he discovers her plate untouched. He can accept she needs time, but she can't keep relying on the ways she adopted to cope while he was gone; habits he wishes someone had picked up on in his absence, but she wouldn't have let anyone see what she didn't want them to. He hoped she would lean on her stubbornness, not use it to shut out their friends and family, leaving her to deal with everything alone. He's spoken to Marcus, Jessica and Louis, and a hand-full of people who all expressed their frustration and then elation his death was staged, but none of them mentioned Donna's decline, seemingly unaware of her struggle. If they knew, they would have rallied around, but Donna hadn't let them, and he's growing conscious of the fact theatre and acting are more than just a hobby for his wife—a realization which is starting to scare him. But he knows Donna better than anyone. Not always in a way he can understand what she's thinking, but his instincts are in tune with her actions. When she curls into his body at night, he can tell she wants to let him in again, but that something is stopping her—unspoken words that she doesn't have yet or is too afraid to say.

He doesn't have them either.

Expressing himself has never come easily, and he's used to her taking the lead, but they're reaching the point where a role reversal is becoming imminent. He has to find a way to access what he's scared to face as well. Which is why, after he clears away her breakfast, he digs out the box with his running gear, splicing through the packing tape with his keys.

He dresses quickly and hits the pavement hard, months of being under surveillance leading him through the backstreets instead of the main roads. He was allowed out once a day in Arlington to exercise and keep his sanity in check, but kept to himself, jogging around the slow suburban neighbourhood. At first the quiet had unsettled him. Seattle isn't as loud as New York, but it's still a major city, lights always dusting the horizon at night. Arlington was a ghost town after nine, no cars, alarms or sirens—nothing to quash the fear of being completely isolated. Some nights his mind had wandered to a different time, when those sounds were just a cover, anyway. Evening's spent in his condo, longing for one person in particular to keep him company, because an empty apartment without Donna had never truly felt like a home. Days rolled into weeks, and after a while, he started picturing her there with him. What their life would look like in a small suburban town. Their kids throwing a baseball on the lawn, a dog tearing down the hallway, their retirement—just the two of them—enjoying every single moment together. He doesn't know if a two-story house and children is something he actually wants or if the dream is a manifestation he created, but he's willing to put it on the table—or would be—if those kinds of talks didn't feel so far out of reach right now.

He pushes his legs harder, craving the burn of oxygen-starved lungs, desperate for something to replace the pain buried in his chest. While he was holding onto a picture of forever, Donna was giving up all hope, wasting away and resigning herself to an existence without him. He let her down, not by leaving, but by misjudging the ramifications of his actions. He knew she would grieve, but he didn't expect her to break. Shutting down has always been his domain. Donna was supposed to do things differently, and maybe she did, because he's sure nobody would have missed his spiral like they failed to see hers.

He stops, air vacuuming out of his lungs as stars dance in front of his eyes and sweaty palms land hard over his knees, catching his weight. Punishing himself physically was meant to clear his mind, but it isn't helping, just fuelling the guilt he feels. Donna's never going to open up to him if he can't take the lead in moving them forward. She's used all her strength to get where she is, and now it's his turn to pick up the slack, to stop walking on eggshells because he's afraid of making things worse.

Determination turns him around at a less gruelling pace, and he makes his way back to the apartment, showering and washing the sweat from his body, before drying off and stepping out to where the boxes he left are strewn across the bedroom floor. He's been scared to unpack too much at once, feeling like he's forcing himself into a space that's changed shape without him, but the first step to making it feel like home again, is proving he belongs, earning back Donna's faith in him by showing her he's not going anywhere. It's time he started living his life, not playing the role of a spectre, and he sifts through the clothing and pictures, unpacking the memories Donna had tried to hide, telling himself that loving each other carried them for over a decade and those emotions won't let them down now.

He puts the frames of them back where they belong, the happiness sealed in glossy, bright colours giving him a sense of hope, and his lips curve around a smile as he pulls out a photo of them dancing on their wedding day. The candid shot used to sit on her bedside table, and he carries it over, moving her book to make room for it again. It fits perfectly under the light, and he opens the drawer to stash her novel away, when he catches sight of a velvet box in the otherwise empty space.

His heart hammers as he exchanges the objects, opening the square case to reveal the ring she'd given him the impression was lost, and the hope he's been holding onto shatters. He told her it didn't matter that she was without the band, convincing himself that the symbolism wasn't as important as being together, but the blow sends him reeling back onto the mattress, the feel of his own ring burning a hole around his finger.

He might have put Stampler's conviction behind him, but it suddenly hits him that Donna doesn't see them as being united, or at least not in the sense that she's ready to still be married, and he doesn't know what to do with the information, except face the fact that if their relationship needs to take a back-seat to her health, he doesn't have any choice but to accept that's what has to happen.

...

...

The hours roll by in a blur for Donna. Harvey's return is splashed across every paper, shedding a spot-light on her personal life instead of the production she's trying to get in the headlines. The press is coveting attention from the play, swamping her with questions about the Mayor and his wife. Did she know her husband was in witness protection? Had she helped find evidence to aid the prosecution? Was the show merely a ruse, and was she really involved in some kind of espionage? The accusations range from expected to absurd, and she isn't prepared for the barrage of insensitivity or the praise she's been getting from her producers for the coverage.

She's wearing the face of someone who can handle the pressure, but the truth is, she's flailing, barely holding it together while fighting to protect Harvey from the swarms of reporters asking questions because of her job. He's always sought recognition, but through his reputation, not stories in the paper or frenzies of journalists waiting outside courthouses. He's a private person who declines comment, and if he gets wind of what she's dealing with, he'll be more insistent she takes time off—another reason she isn't able to admit defeat.

She's not ready to lean on him, yet.

She can forgive the choice he made, accept that he was trying to keep her and his family safe. She's even proud—the credit he's being showered with by the press, more than deserved. He brought down a flawed political system which will have ramifications on how people vote for years to come. He did the right thing… but also crushed her heart in the process. She doesn't have the answers the press are hounding her for because she was kept in the dark, led to believe—like almost everybody else—her husband was gone. And the final straw comes when she nearly gives in, Mike's personal number riding her lips—close to telling the woman on the line if she has no interest in the production, she should goddamn call Mike Ross, but she hangs up first, burying her head in trembling hands.

"Donna?"

"What!?" she snaps at the doorway, instantly regretting the anger when she meets Ethan's concerned gaze. Their next live show isn't for another two days, and she knew he was going to stop by after rehearsals, but she doesn't have the energy to backtrack and offers an apology instead. "I'm sorry."

She forces a smile which he doesn't buy for a second, his own mouth curving apologetically as he steps inside the office. He's had to deal with the fallout, too; with journalists who know they're close friends. Yet the only thing he's worried about is the extra pressure she's under. "That bad?"

"Worse," she admits, wincing at the tight strain pulling between her temples.

He flops in the chair opposite her desk, lifting his ankle over his knee, and watching as her phone lights up with an unknown number. He quickly swipes it from her reach, clearing his throat as he answers. "Mrs. Paulsen's office…" He glances at Donna. "No, she isn't… Categorically untrue. Yes, I'm sure... Really? Then go fuck yourself."

"Ethan!" She blanches as he hangs up, but he just hands over the device with a smirk.

"Come on, you know you've been wanting to do that all day." He raises an eyebrow, daring her to argue and pleased with himself when the corners of her mouth twitch.

"That's not the point."

"No," he says a little more seriously. "The point is, you shouldn't be dealing with any of this stuff right now." He waves his hand, treading a careful line, knowing how stubborn she is and that she hates being coddled. But the truth is, he's been gearing up to say something to her for a couple of weeks, before Harvey's miraculous return. He let a lot slide during their nights out, realizing she needed the escape and grateful she let him in—talking instead of hiding herself away—but he's seen actresses covering up their weight loss, disguising their exhaustion, and he can see she's at a breaking point. His hope was that she'd take a few days, but he isn't surprised she's pushing herself harder. She's been to hell and back. He knows because he was there, and she has a right to whatever she's feeling. He's never been Harvey's biggest fan, but he always respected the man's love for his wife. Or did, until the lawyer proved himself capable of hurting her so badly. If she needs time, he gets it, but she shouldn't be here fending off the press and working herself further into the ground. She needs to start taking care of herself, and he'll do whatever he can to help. "Look, you need a break and I'm wrapped for the day. Why don't we go for a drink?"

She stiffens at the suggestion—the thought of not going straight home sitting uncomfortably. Harvey will be waiting for her, and she doesn't know if part of her unease is because she actually wants to accept Ethan's offer, put off dealing with her feelings for one night and give herself a chance to stop and catch her breath. "I can't."

"Why?" he asks, hiking up an eyebrow.

She sighs at the familiar persuasion tactic, but this time she can think of at least fifty reasons why going out would be a bad idea—all of them involving Harvey. "You know why."

He nods, getting why she's hesitant, but he also knows her well enough to see she's conflicted. "What if I swear on tomorrow's coffee, no tequila?"

She snorts, lifting her hand to ease the pressure throbbing behind her eyes. "Please, you're a gateway drug to shots and Beyonce."

"Okay, hey," he says more seriously, dropping his ankle to the floor and leaning over. "If you really don't want to, I'll stop pushing… But I'm just saying, one drink, help you relax. What harm could it do?"

Her phone lights up again with another unknown number, and the thought of answering it increases the incessant ache at the front of her skull. Maybe he's right. She'd be going home to a glass of wine, anyway. The difference is there she has to endure Harvey's worry, the guilt wound in his expression while she unwinds before letting herself sink into his arms. She knows he's worried, and she's scared too, that the wrong word will shatter their way back to how they were. But they have to face what happened sooner or later.

Just not right now.

"One drink," she agrees, picking up her cell and turning it off, rolling her eyes when he grins.

What harm could it do?

...

...

Ethan's words play in her head over and over again as she tries to bring her swimming reflection into focus, not sure how she wound up drunk in the bathroom of some dingy club.

Her palms are sweaty, her heart racing like a jack-hammer in her chest, and on some level she knows it's her body demanding she stop. But she doesn't. She lifts the flask she stole from Ethan, downing the rest of the tequila, and letting the metal clatter in the sink with no idea what she's doing or why.

It was supposed to be one drink and after number three, Ethan had warned her to slow down. She hadn't listened, the fear of leaving lunging up in her throat, leading her to push it down with more alcohol, and now she can't go home—can't face the man who'd crushed her heart, bludgeoned it into a soulless organ, that's only beating out of sheer stubbornness.

Flashes of Harvey's blood on her hands bring about a wave of nauseating guilt, and anger riles up inside her trembling body. She's livid at him, at herself, at the whole goddamn world for taking a piece of her, then trying to shove it back in where it doesn't fit. She's supposed to be happy, not hunched against some filthy sink, her head spinning and shaking uncontrollably, devastated that her husband chose to leave. She made a mistake, and spent two months paying for it, being punished while he and Mike went on like his death was business as usual.

She heaves against her wrist, swallowing the taste of bile in her throat, flinching when a hand belonging to a young brunette presses over her shoulder.

"Excuse me, are you Donna?"

She nods, confused and not sure why the woman is talking to her.

"There's a guy outside looking for you." The brunette explains, realizing the guy outside was being genuine, not just trying to pick her up with some dodgy line about needing to get into the ladies' room. "Are you… is everything, okay?"

A humourless laugh catches in Donna's throat. She couldn't be further from okay, but she brushes off the woman's worry, stumbling and using the wall to guide her out to where Ethan is glowering, and—shit.

She trips over her heels, expecting to meet the floor, but is hoisted up by Ethan's firm grasp.

"Okay… easy," he warns, frustrated she ran off but more pissed at himself for losing her in the sea of people. He should never have agreed to take her to a club, but when she threatened to catch a cab on her own, it was this or leave her alone. He was supposed to be meeting friends nearby later, anyway. Which is why he'd been carrying the flask she snaked from his pocket before pulling her disappearing act. But he can't see the canister anymore and flinches, guessing she finished off his supply of alcohol for the night. "Come on, we need to get you out of here."

She slurs against his chest, fuelling his worry. He's never seen like this before, not even when they'd stumbled into an Uber at five in the morning, and he knows he can't drop her home given the state she's in. Harvey will kill him for thinking this is what she needed. Clearly he made a lapse in judgment and the thought jabs through him as he tries to keep her steady. Maybe, selfishly, he was looking to prove something—that just because her husband is back, it doesn't mean their relationship has to change. He doesn't want to lose what's been developing between them, even if those feelings are platonic. Because if things were different, he might have dared to hope for more one day. Which is why when her gaze shoots up, her eye's glassy and her make-up smeared, he doesn't think—isn't even sure who moves first, but suddenly they're kissing, and he doesn't know if it's the fact she tastes like a brewery or that she's back with her husband, but nothing about the moment feels right, and he chokes when she pushes him with a surprisingly hard shove. Her face flushes with horror, and then she bolts, driving him to his senses.

"Donna, wait!"

He chases after her, pushing through the crowd of people, and cursing himself for being such a goddamn moron. He should never have pressured her into going for a drink, but he sure as hell isn't leaving her alone, not when she's this blind drunk and upset. God only knows what might happen, and he barrels outside, terrified when he spots her doubled over and clutching her chest.

"Donna!"

She hears him shout her name but panic cripples her ability to reply, air refusing to enter her lungs despite desperate gasps. Harvey's never going to forgive her. He's going to leave her, again, and suddenly the weight of her body is too much to hold up, darkness swarming over her biggest fear becoming a reality.

AN: I threw a wild card chapter in, but we're post s9 so anything goes, right ;) A massive thanks to Southsidesister (darvey_love) for being amazing! And to Beth (NAhavenbb) whose ideas keep inspiring me. I can't wait for #darveyhalloween :D