Donna and Harvey made a commitment to try to avoid discussing work on their personal time together and for the most part, they've been managing it. The occasional comment or remark gets made, or one of them might want to pick the other's brain about something, but it's usually brief and liberating and they soon go back to less arid topics.
But they're devoted to their jobs and they're stubborn people and they clash eventually, and even though Donna promised him three days in that she wouldn't leave him, let alone for something that happens at work, it still doesn't stop them from having a fight one night.
And boy, is it a big one.
Faye's been running Donna into the ground to the point where she spends half of her time exhausted, and the other half pissed off. Harvey is caught in an overwhelming mix of feeling angry for Donna, angry for himself, worried about the firm's other problems, and trying to respect Donna's boundaries and her ability to take care of herself.
Their bad instincts, the ones that kept them from communicating and being open and honest all these years, kick in like muscle memory and soon they're having a screaming match in her living room, the takeout he got on the way cooling as it lies forgotten on her dinner table.
They never fought like this; it was always terse words and barely-contained anger simmering beneath the surface because they were usually at the office and they had appearances to maintain, mostly to themselves.
Now they are unleashed, and for all the intimacy their openness brought, it also makes it that much easier to say exactly what they want to say, especially when they're not surrounded by glass walls.
It doesn't take much for them to explode, just a few misplaced feelings of betrayal and subjugation and it's done.
Donna offers scathing closing remarks and storms off to her bedroom, slamming the door behind her like a teenager.
Harvey seethes and pants at the empty room, waiting for his body to calm down.
He grabs himself a glass of water and downs it with a shaky hand, then refills it.
He's pissed, at Faye and himself and Donna. Most of all, he's terrified.
She promised. And he trusts her. So he finds it unlikely that this will be the end of them.
Yet, they'd never had a fight as loud as this. And he's said worse to her, but they hadn't been together then and he doesn't know if their newfound relationship makes her more or less susceptible to taking his shit.
So he's worried that the words will be too much, that they'll make her realize she doesn't really want this, doesn't want someone who's impatient and self-absorbed and with residual abandonment issues.
He's worried that she'll continue believing he doesn't trust her to stand her own ground, because he does, he's told her that before.
He's worried that she'll continue to doubt his judgment, in a way she did twice before and that almost ruined them.
He's worried that this thing they've been building for the past few weeks - on top of the previous fifteen years - is not as solid as he thought it was and will crumble like a sandcastle. He doesn't think that - he sees it as a fortress, as something made of impenetrable stone - but maybe she doesn't, or maybe them both seeing it as something solid doesn't mean it actually is.
It's weird. He's still angry at her, but at the same time he kind of wishes he could go back in time and avoid that fight, pull her into him and tell her everything will be okay and have their dinner and an early night.
The adrenaline finally leaves his body and he shivers a bit, realizing he's been sitting on her couch by himself for almost half an hour now. Even through the ringing in his ears he hasn't heard a single sound coming from her bedroom.
He considers knocking, seeing if she's asleep, but he honestly doesn't know what he would say if she actually answered. He regrets it, the whole thing, but he's also confident he's right and he doesn't think he can just let this slide as if nothing had happened.
So he sighs, deciding he'll go home and call her in the morning or see her at the firm or something. He finishes the rest of his water and gets up, reaching for his jacket sitting on a chair and folding it over his arm.
He's about to turn off the lights and make his way out when he hears her door opening and Donna padding her way to the living room. She stops and crosses her arms defensively as she reaches him.
"What are you doing?" she frowns, and there's a slight accusation in her voice.
"I'm going home," he flaps his arms helplessly, because he doesn't see what other option there is.
"Why?" her frown deepens and he wonders for a second if he's missed some cue or sign that explains her behavior because he can't figure it out.
"What do you mean, why? We just had a huge fight, you yelled at me then locked yourself in your room and didn't come out for half an hour," he replies, exhasperated by her question and her stance and everything about this conversation.
She pauses for a second, biting the inside of her bottom lip.
"I don't want you to go," she says quietly, almost a childish whine.
Harvey pauses too. "I don't want to go either."
Still, neither move.
"I'm still pissed at you, though," she purses her lips, arms still crossed.
"Yeah, well, I'm still pissed at you too."
Another moment goes by and Harvey thinks he can see Donna shift minimally.
"Do you think you can let it go for tonight? We'll pick this back up in the morning," she suggests quietly, and while her expression is still guarded, he recognizes the gesture.
"I can if you can," he offers, because he doesn't want to be the one to fold but he also doesn't want to be the one responsible for them spending a night apart. So like the wimp he is, he slides the decision over to her.
"Then come to bed," she says tiredly, somewhat softly, as she walks up to him and tugs on his jacket.
He expels a heavy breath, trying to leave behind the frustration and the anger so he can at least sleep.
They don't talk anymore, both quietly getting ready for bed. They ended up skipping dinner but both are too exhausted to do anything but collapse in bed.
Harvey continues to follow her cues, waiting to see if she'll reach out for him in bed or if they'll sleep on opposite sides.
It takes them a while, but eventually he feels her tentative hand reach out over his chest. He covers her palm with his own and that's all the incentive she needs to slide closer to him, curling herself up against his side. His hand glides up her arm and he turns his head to lay a kiss on her forehead and they fall asleep like that, half connected, half pissed, but at least peaceful in the knowledge that they didn't let this drive them to sleep alone tonight.
.
.
.
The morning after starts with quiet looks, coffee and a difficult conversation. But by the time they're walking into work, their hands are linked.