A/N: This was inspired by a tweet by bvlba: "Marido se ha hecho un leve corte en el pulgar y ahora vivo con un veterano de la guerra de Vietnam que ha perdido una extremidad." Hope you like it :)
"Harvey, for God's sake, you're 44 years old!" Donna scoffs exasperatedly.
"Doesn't mean I can't feel pain!" Harvey squeals back, squirming in his seat.
"It does mean you should be able to handle that pain better than a toddler, though," she huffs, tightening her grip on his wrist and readjusting it under the light hanging over his kitchen island.
"You're just saying that because it wasn't you," he grumbles back, hissing as she sprays some antiseptic on his skin.
It all happened really fast. He was dicing up some onions for dinner and suddenly the knife slipped and cut pretty deep into his thumb. He hadn't even fully processed it yet when blood started gushing out, a lot more than expected, and the bitter sting of the injury sliced through his focus, making him cry out. It hurt to leave it be and it hurt to clutch it tight, and putting it under water hurt even more. Like an idiot, he just stood there, alternating between hissing and groaning at every new wave of pain, holding his limp hand uselessly until Donna came hurrying from the bedroom, still lathering some cream onto her face.
The thing is, it hurts like a motherfucker, even though it's not such a big cut, but it's not just the pain. Harvey just hates injuring himself in any way. He's used to having an able, capable body that allows him to do everything he wants to do with efficiency, and whenever something compromises that, be it an injury or an illness or even just a headache or hangover, it puts him in a terrible, terrible mood. And the one advantage of being alone before was that he was free to sulk in peace, which is no longer an option and that just makes it all worse.
"Ow," he cries out as he feels a sharp tug on his thumb, indicating Donna is done with the bandaging she was working on.
"There, you're finally free from my horrible torture," she rolls her eyes, packing up his first-aid kit and setting it back into the kitchen cabinet.
He inspects her work - meticulous and efficient as always - and mumbles a thank you through a pout.
"Do you want me to finish chopping the onions while you start boiling the water?" she asks from behind him, and he's glad he's still sitting with his back to her because he's sure she'd make fun of his horrified face.
"You want me to keep cooking?!"
"Well, yes, we need to eat something," she cocks her hip, hands on her waist.
"Donna, I just practically chopped my finger off!" he turns in his stool to face her just as she rolls her eyes again.
"I'm pretty sure your very grave injury doesn't keep you from stirring pasta," she replies skeptically, having none of his shit.
"First of all, I need to keep my finger up or it won't stop bleeding, so yeah, it kinda does," he replies petulantly, waving his bandaged hand in front of her.
"Okay, fine, then I'll cook dinner myself."
He grimaces. "That's a bad idea. Remember what happened last time?"
"Jesus Christ, Harvey!" she flaps her arms at her sides, frustrated, "Fine, I'll order us some pizza then! Happy?" She reaches for her phone on the counter, shaking her head.
He realizes he's being difficult, he's just not used to having to deal with someone else when stuff like this happens or when he has a bad day or wakes up in a bad mood. Even though they've had millions of such interactions at work over the years, in the end it was always him alone in his condo, nursing his body, mind or spirit back to health on his own, and the drama used to help with that because it allowed him to shake off the worst of his frustration. But now he's not alone anymore, and that means that if he's catty or explosive like he always used to be, Donna's gonna bear the brunt of that, even more so than she used to before when it was just at work. And he doesn't want to do that to her.
When he looks back up at her, guilt starting to coil in his belly, Donna is still shaking her head as she peruses the delivery app. "God, you're such a baby," she mutters, aggravated.
"I know," he admits sheepishly, "I'm sorry." That draws her attention and she puts the phone down. "I just really hate getting hurt," he adds by way of explanation, pursing his lips and trying to give her his best contrite-slash-lost-puppy look.
"I know," she sighs, and he can see her resolve starting to crumble.
"Besides, this really did sting," he scowls a little at his injury
"Yeah, I know," she presses her lips together sympathetically, taking a step towards him, "It was a pretty deep cut."
"Yeah..."
"It'll get better soon," she coos encouragingly, closing the distance between them and coming to stand between his legs.
"It'll leave a nasty scar behind, that's what," he counters, already picturing his mangled finger.
"We'll moisturize it often," she offers, humor painting her knowing smirk.
"Can you kiss it better too? That would definitely help," he smirks as well, his uninjured hand finding her hip.
"Uhm, no, that's gross," she points to his bandages. "But I can kiss you," she adds sweetly, looking down into his eyes. And with that she cups his jaw and leans in for a tender, unhurried kiss. He sighs and relaxes into the kiss, enjoying her presence all around him. It calms him down, even soothes the persistent sting in his thumb, and it makes him realize that, even though her reaction added some extra tension at first, having her here with him beats being alone by a mile, and he wouldn't trade that for anything.
When they part, he gazes up at her, hoping to convey all the earnestness he feels. "Thanks for always taking care of me." He means with this injury, of course, but also with everything else too, because the truth is that Donna has been taking care of him since the very night they met and he's always known that. The difference is that they used to have to confine themselves to the lines they'd drawn around their own feelings, always stopping short of what they really wanted. And now she doesn't have to stop at pep talks, reassuring words or silent gestures. She can take care of him with her kisses, with her caresses, with her mere company and that secret grin she keeps just for him. And that means the world to him, even if he's probably still going to be a baby about his future injuries.
Donna smiles at his words, taking them in. "I'm just returning the favor," she tells him softly, then leans to capture his lips again. He's just about to deepen the kiss when she pulls back, cutting him off.
"Nuh-uh, come on, let's order dinner," she pats his chest and disentangles herself from him.
"No, come on, stay," he whines, trying to hold her close.
"Harvey, I'm starving," she argues, successfully putting some distance between them, "Let's eat and then I'll do a little something to make you feel better, okay?"
He knows she knows exactly what she's doing but he still lets himself fall for it, imagining what something she might be referring to while she effectively recovers her phone to complete their order.
"Can you do it in a sexy nurse costume?" he asks saucily, waggling his brows cheekily at her.
"That can be arranged," she smirks sultrily at him, causing him to immediately drop his act as a good portion of the blood pulsating in his thumb runs south.
"Wait, are you serious?"
Her sultry expression instantly evolves into her signature Donna smile. "Never in a million years. Now come on, pepperoni or buffalo margherita?" she snaps her fingers at him and, well, he supposes he walked right into that one, but he can't find it in himself to care.