The silence blanketing the room meant all Harvey could hear was his breathing, which had finally levelled out, along with the soft ticking of his watch that lay next to his face. The sound of the second hand taunted him as it raced toward twelve; each tick reminding Harvey he was another moment closer to his next attack. Or death, he joked to himself, only vaguely alarmed by his subconscious's newfound obsession with dark humour.

He didn't know how much time had passed, but he found himself unable to confront what had just happened. The aftershocks of fatigue were making his eyelids heavy, and his body felt like it'd just been hit by a freight train. He hadn't had an attack that severe in a while; he was scared it was never going to end.

Slowly coming back to reality, he realised he still had his head on Donna, and felt her fingers still mindlessly stroking the hair at the nape of his neck. It was euphoric after what he'd just experienced; the comfort of her. She always had been his north star, he thought, as he let the warmth of her light ease the ache in his bones. She was infinitely more comforting than the burn he'd feel tonight when he used straight spirits to wash down his meds. More comforting than the subsequent numbness that would follow as it envelops him in ignorant bliss. He knew he should move — knew he shouldn't be enjoying her touch — but he let himself revel in her presence for a few moments more. As though he was the serpent in the Garden of Eden, enjoying the sweet sanctity of heaven before he was cast out forever.

Because it all had to end somehow, he thought to himself. Better in her arms. Better by her hand. Because as soon as he lifted his head, she would never look at him the same way and proceed to high tail it out of his office, no doubt. He'd assaulted Louis and now she'd witnessed one of his cataclysmic breakdowns. Their argument before his attack echoed in his ears. She'd left him once already and now there was no reason for her to look back. She was never coming back.

He let go of the hope he'd been holding on to, before she could shatter it herself.

It hurt less that way.

And he wouldn't — and realised he no longer did — blame her for running as far away from him as possible. He would have to learn to live without. He only wished he could run with her; that together they could abandon his twisted mess of a mind. But he couldn't run away from himself, as much as he'd been trying to. Had been his whole life he'd realised, after Paula had enlightened him to this fact during a particularly brutal session.

You limit the closeness of your relationships and feel uncomfortable relying on other people, Paula had said, as a child and teenager you learnt that suppressing your desire for comfort and avoiding outwardly expressing distress or pain gained the approval of your parents—

The shame took hold immediately and he was disgusted in himself for not moving sooner.

He took a deep breath now that his lungs had resumed functioning to steel himself for the inevitable, and started to lift his head.

•

It wasn't until Harvey began to stir that Donna was broken out of her thoughts. She'd been staring at the man lying in her lap, racking her brain for answers as to how he got here, and what she'd missed since she'd left. His hair felt soft under her fingers, and she savoured the simple, innocent touches. At the same time however, she was suffocating from the guilt that was bitter in her throat. Or maybe that was the coffee that the nausea was threatening to bring back up. She'd never been that scared in her life, and the fact that it was a panic attack was unfortunately no consolation, as awful as that may be. It only left her with more questions; more pain. A heart attack was tangible, treatable, traceable — traumatic and potentially fatal, yes — but there was a method to cure it. There was a method to manage it.

A panic attack was, well… she didn't know. She felt like she'd watched as an unknown entity had come and feasted on him, ripping the oxygen from his lungs and leaving him lifeless and limp while she stood by helplessly. And if there's one emotion Donna Paulsen didn't cope with well, it was helplessness. She admittedly didn't know much about panic attacks, but she resolved at that moment to change that.

Feeling him shift, she once again pushed her feelings into the background and his head rose. Her hand stayed on his skin as he did so, and when he sat up she cupped his cheek, unable to part just yet. Touching him was the validation she needed, letting her pounding heart know that could stop trying to escape her chest now. His big browns looked back at her, and she welcomed the relief when she saw they no longer held terror.

"Hi, you," she said meekly through dried tears, her mouth forming a small but genuine smile. "How are you feeling?"

She brushed his cheek with her thumb as she spoke, and his eyes unintentionally drifted shut in response. Within an instant, however, he was pulling her hand away from his face. She had expected him to do as much — they'd touched more in the past half hour than in the entirety of their friendship (excluding the other time, of course.) She internally scolded herself for not maintaining the boundaries she'd been working so hard to create. But to her surprise, Harvey lightly stroked the front of her hand with his thumb before letting go, as though he'd heard her internal warfare. She then found herself not caring. She was where she needed to be, for whatever reason.

"How are you feeling?" she repeated softly, seeking out his eyes.

He opened his mouth as if to speak and stuttered before closing it again. He looked to be choosing his next words carefully.

"I'm fine," he finally said, his voice void of emotion. She could see his walls falling into place as he ran his hand through his hair to self-soothe, obviously disoriented. She'd hoped he would have stayed with her a while longer before retreating back into the depths of himself and becoming out of reach.

"You don't have to do that, Harvey," she said sadly.

"Do what?" Harvey stared back with a confused expression, his mind clearly trying to catch up.

"That — run away, hide, push me out, withdraw." Donna had the gentlest of smiles as she gently reassured him. She by no means wanted an encore to the worst show she'd ever been an audience to, for his sake, but she also didn't want him to shut down again. Her words fell on deaf ears though, as she watched him become hyper-aware of the fact they were somewhat absurdly sitting face to face on the floor of his office.

Harvey cleared his throat and stood up. Buttoning and smoothing his dress shirt down, he then adjusted his cufflinks before extending an arm towards Donna. She slipped her slender hand into his big, warm one, and rose effortlessly with his help. Before she'd even finished standing, he'd let go of her hand and moved towards his desk. He pulled some tissues out of the box, before crouching to begin picking up the shards of glass covering the floor, his expression distant and aloof.

Donna watched on, not at all surprised that he was already now methodically restoring things back to the way they were. This time would obviously be no different to the rest. She knew his process when it came to coping with 'personal issues' and 'matters of the heart.' It looked a little something like this:

Pick up the shattered pieces and remnants of what was. Put everything — or everyone — firmly back in the designated place. Replace what was damaged should it make too much noise; quietly broken is acceptable if it remains functional. Discard anything that could or had threatened order in his life. Do so while ignoring the leaks in the roof; the splinters in the door someone made after slamming it on their way out; the broken glass table in the dining room andthe ever-growing holes in the floorboards. And, under no circumstance, appear emotionally vulnerable in any way, shape or form but instead maintain an arrogant amount of confidence.

She'd helped him clean up more of these messes in the past than she could count. And she'd mostly stayed silent throughout, unless his lack of emotional intelligence was too much to bear — cough Scottie cough. Other times though, like in the most recent turn of events, she'd been the squeaky door hinge he'd immediately tried to silence. She'd left the splinters in the door after slamming it on what they'd shared. Having been on both sides, she was intimately familiar with his process. More than she'd like to be.

In fact, as she watched what was starting to play out, she was reminded of why she'd been unable to endure it any longer. That this was one of the many reasons she'd left. His capacity for denial was as impressive as it was convincing, so much so that it had taken her years to see the destructiveness of his tendencies. But once directed toward her, and she found them being used against her and her heart, it was— no, it didn't matter anymore. Observing him now though, she found herself casting her bitterness towards his defenses aside in place of overwhelming care and concern. She knew that putting one foot in front of the other was a near impossible feat for him at that moment. She knew he wasn't okay, at all. That much was clear.

And she couldn't ignore the feeling that she might have played a part in that.

"Harvey?" she murmured, as he moved around her and threw the glass in the bin. "You know we need to talk about this." She'd be damned if she let him carry out the final steps of the process: lock the door, throw away the key and lose himself in work until he'd repressed every last remnant of whatever hurt.

"I know," he replied, voice still void of any life. She was shocked that he didn't fight it, and his response allowed her to settle slightly. She approached his desk and took the pile of documents scattered across its surface to begin re-filing them in silence. They'd acknowledged and agreed without using words that, yes, they'd talk eventually. But that right now, he just needed structure and she just wanted to help create that. Donna set aside the files she intuitively knew he'd need and Harvey cleaned the remainder of his office — their natural affinity with one another allowing them to do so silently. The mundanity and familiarity of it was unexpectedly soothing for both of them.

It only took twenty minutes to finish up, and Donna saw Harvey move to sit down on the couch. She told him to sit tight for a few minutes, and popped out to grab them both coffee. Gauging from the lines of his face, he was just as exhausted as she was — if not more, and she could use the comfort of a shot of vanilla right now.

"Here's your coffee," she said upon returning while handing him the cup. He'd been staring out the window, lost in what looked like a daydream or dissociative haze. She sat down on the opposite end of the couch, once again discarding her heels and curling her feet under her. She was desperate to know what was going on, but was already bracing herself for the chance that her fears would be confirmed.

"Thank you," he said in reply. He looked down at the cup, and toyed with the coffee sleeve around it. He was trying to process the simple fact that Donna was still here. She'd done the opposite of everything he'd anticipated and prepared for, and he didn't have a contingency plan for this turn of events. The best option, he reasoned, would be the truth.

Five seconds of courage.

Donna was waiting patiently for him to initiate the conversation, but realised that waiting for him might mean waiting forever. Nothing new, she thought to herself. She then heard the double meaning hidden in that statement, which only served as another blow to her already bruised heart. But for the second time now, he did the unexpected. His voice was monotone and unfeeling, probably in an attempt to distance himself from this moment, as he continued staring at his cup.

"I've been having panic attacks, fairly severe ones, for a while now. I'm seeing a therapist twice a week, for the attacks and other issues. I'm medicated on an 'as needed' basis and I'm getting myself under control," he rattled off the facts like he was in a deposition.

Donna sat with that for a moment, letting it sink in. She made a mental note about the vague nature of 'other issues,' and the way he spoke about himself as though he were a rabid dog who needed a muzzle. But she was incredibly relieved to hear he was seeing a professional, and wasn't completely alone in this. She couldn't continue the conversation without asking though, and she felt her stomach preemptively drop. Her instincts told her that she already knew the answer.

"How long, Harvey?" she asked softly, her tone low.

"What do you mean?" he replied, looking up for the first time and meeting her eyes.

"How long have you been having panic attacks? When did they start?" she clarified, her voice hardening as she tried to stay impassive.

He sighed and shook his head. "A month or so, it really doesn't matter how long. Time doesn't make them easier to—"

"How long exactly, Harvey?" She cut him off, her voice firm but the way it cracked around his name betrayed her fears.

"The first was exactly fifty days ago tod—" He froze, eyes wide, as he made the connection and understood her persistence, the trembling voice and glassy eyes.

"Did they start when I left?" She whispered. "Please tell me the truth." She felt ill, knowing now that for the past month she'd been completely and blissfully unaware that Harvey had been in unfathomable amounts of pain, battling his demons. Alone. Not only that, but that it may very well be her fault. Her psyche was split. On one hand she knew she'd done the right thing, for herself. But this made her genuinely question her decision for the first time since walking out of this very office. To add to that, she felt his pain as though it were her own and the threat of tears stung the backs of her eyes. But she refused to cry again, this wasn't about her. His face was pained and he looked hesitant to answer, but he didn't need to. She knew.

"Yes, they did."

"For fuck's sake, Har—"

"No, listen to me, Donna," he said, cutting her off by holding his hands up toward her. "Yes, they started after you left, but as far as my therapist and I have been able to determine, it has nothing to do with you leaving." He knew it was only a half-truth, and that he'd actually come to that conclusion alone. But it didn't make it any less true. He refused to believe otherwise. He may not know the cause of his collapse yet, but it wasn't — couldn't be because of her. Every time he'd attempted to actually feel his feelings about what had transpired between them, some sort of mental block made it impossible. He just ended up feeling restless and irritated.

"And just because I'm in a…" he searched for a gentle descriptor, "less than ideal place," he continued, but not before the memory of drinking himself to blackout the night prior flashed by. "It doesn't change anything. Your decision to leave was completely justified and it was the right thing to do."

That statement halted Donna's spiralling thoughts, amazed that he would ever make such an admission considering the last time they'd spoken of it, he'd been very clear he thought of her actions as nothing more than vindictive punishment.

Little did either of them know, Donna's reasons behind leaving were not even remotely close to the justification Harvey had created to cope. A justification fuelled by his self-hatred and moulded by the still-bleeding wounds he'd carried since childhood.

They fell into silence, both of them busy navigating the heavy emotions clouding the room. Donna felt a single tear make its way down her cheek, not able to hold it in any longer. She was having trouble processing the past few hours and talking had done nothing to alleviate her guilt. It was thick in the air, and she was struggling to breath through it. More than that, she hated that despite her attempts to extricate Harvey from her heart, it was still beating for him. That even after all his maddening and bullheaded behaviour over the past month, it hadn't changed how much he meant to her. Hell, even the fact he'd near-enough broken her in two with his confusing declarations of love, felt inconsequential to her in the face of what she now knew. She wanted to have been there for him, by his side, like she'd always been.

She ignored the part of her that was throwing up red flags left and right — warning her that letting herself feel such things was as good for her as walking into oncoming traffic.

"Why didn't you tell me, Harvey? Why didn't you come to me when it started? Why did you hide it? I— I could have helped, I—," she stopped, determined not to drown in this.

Harvey looked back down at his cup, and laughed humorlessly. The sound that escaped was empty. There was nothing funny about whatever it was that was happening to him. Frankly, he was scared to open his eyes every single morning, and equally terrified of closing them every night. But whoever determined the fate of mortals like himself, clearly had a sick sense of humour to have orchestrated it so that Donna, out of all people, would be privy to what was undoubtedly the lowest point in his life. He didn't want to be the reason she shed another tear. She'd wasted too many on him already.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he heard her repeat distantly, but her voice was now competing against the British one that had started reverberating around the inside of his skull again.

As an adult your grandiose sense of self is just a defence that protects a fragile self who is highly vulnerable to rejection and abandonment—

"I couldn't, Donna. I didn't—"

—it exists as a compensation for low self-esteem and feelings of intense self-hatred—

"I didn't want to, especially after our argument when you'd first left. You were right and I didn't want to burden you with one little thing after another—"

—there is such low self esteem that at your core you don't feel your true self is worthy of love and attention—

He scrubbed his hand over his face to try and focus, not understanding why these thoughts were so goddamn loud and intrusive. He wanted a fucking cigarette.

"I need to heal and this is something I have to do on my own. I want to deal with it on my own—"

—your first instinct when someone gets really close to you is to run away, isn't it, Harvey?

"You don't have to do it on your own, Harvey," she said, cutting through the screaming match in his head and silencing the noise.

He looked up at the amber eyes that were already gazing back at him. They were misty with unshed tears, but held an unwavering intensity that mirrored the resolute tone of her words.

"I want to be here. I am here. And I want to help, in any way that I can," she said softly, her hand reaching out and laying flat against the couch half way between them. Everything inside of him told him to run and never stop running, but he couldn't bring himself to move.

"But you… what about us, Donna? Everything that's happened…" he trailed off, knowing she would understand his implication.

She knew the next words to come out of her mouth would be ones she didn't truly believe herself. She wanted to believe them, desperately. But the story of 'Harvey and Donna' was never simple, and at times, had been brutally tragic. She couldn't walk away now though. All they could do was take it one step at a time. It was all either of them were capable of anyway, it seemed.

"Well, while you're in the process of repairing you, which sounds like a full-time gig by the way. I'm sure we can repair us," she replied in the teasing tone that was hers, and only hers, all wrapped up in a subtle smirk. It was after she'd said this, that Harvey let himself admit in the privacy of his own mind that he'd missed her teasing more than he'd thought possible.

For the first time since she'd left, he let himself accept that he had missed her more than he could have ever fathomed.

Instead of speaking, his hand met hers halfway and the two entwined themselves.

And for the first time that month,

he didn't feel like he was falling.