DA's Office - Pt II

Donna shakily pours herself a water, her hand unsteady as she turns off the faucet and swallows down the drink. She doesn't get unnerved easily, prides herself on keeping calm in difficult situations, but Cynthia (blonde bitch from hell, with a mouth the size of Ohio) just couldn't leave well enough alone, inferring an 'Actress' had no place working for the all mighty Harvey Specter.

Of course she gave as good as she got, calling out the petty and obnoxious woman, but she's still reeling from the encounter, adrenaline hammering through her.

"Donna! Where the hell have you been, I need the—"

She jumps, the glass slipping from her hand, and shattering across the tiles, abruptly cutting Harvey off. It takes her a full second to process the mess, her eyes glazing at the broken shards, but she quickly swipes away the moisture, crouching down to pick up the pieces. "What do you need?"

Her voice wavers, causing him to hesitate and realize—shit—she's upset. He has no clue what to do with the observation. One of the reasons he likes having Donna as his secretary is because she's level-headed and doesn't fluster. He isn't good with emotions, having little patience and no time to comfort people—a notion that keeps him fixed firmly in place.

"Ow, dammit."

She hisses the curse, clutching her finger, and without warning his reservations fly out the window, concern driving him forward. His shoes crunch the smaller fragments as he bends to help her up, his large hands fitting around her delicate ones to inspect the oozing cut.

The gentle touch sends a tingle through her body, and her neck flushes with embarrassment as she shrugs free, not wanting to smear blood all over his suit. "I'm fine…" She takes a breath, composing herself, guessing the reason he came barreling in here. "If you're looking for the Devon files, they're—"

"Forget about that." He shakes his head, turning her towards the sink, and running the tap to wash away the rivulet of blood trickling down her hand. "Keep it under the water."

She winces as she follows the instruction, feeling the need to apologize when he crouches down and opens the cupboard door. "I'm sorry… You startled me, that's all."

He finds what he's rummaging for—a first-aid kit and dustpan, and he pulls them out, standing back up. "I startled you?" he questions skeptically, placing the items next to her on the counter. "Donna, I interrupt you at least fifty times a day. You're going to have to do better than that."

He shrugs his sleeves, and she bites the inside of her cheek, feeling guilty as he clutches the small plastic shovel. "You don't have too… I can clean it up."

He quirks an eyebrow at her apprehension. Contrary to his bachelor lifestyle, he actually likes things to be clean and orderly, and kneels down with a smirk. "Worried I don't know how to use a broom?"

The quip helps settle her nerves, and she turns off the faucet, meeting his gaze with a small smile. "I was trying to protect your reputation."

"Just so happens, being domestic is a major turn on for women."

His grin widens, and she rolls her eyes at the smug comment, pinching open the white metal box in search of a band-aid.

"How's the cut?" he asks more seriously, sweeping up the last of the shards.

She pulls out a strip to cover the abrasion, checking the damage. "It's stopped bleeding," she answers, surprised when he bins the glass, and takes the paper out of her hand, tearing it open.

"So…" He enquires curiously. "Are you going to tell me what happened?"

She sighs, holding out her finger. "It's stupid... Cynthia said you should have someone more qualified working for you." She shrugs, wincing as he tightens the band-aid. "That woman just gets under my skin."

He stiffens, no clue who Cynthia is, but the thought of anyone telling Donna she isn't good enough riles his anger. She's the best damn secretary he's ever had, and he doesn't need a piece of paper to know she's worth twenty of her counterparts. "Who is she?"

His voice is laced with determination and she feels a swell of appreciation at the protective tone, but as much as she wants to rid the office of the annoying blonde, it isn't Harvey's job to fight her battles. "I can handle it."

He drops her hand, leaving him standing closer than necessary without a reason, but he steals the opportunity to make sure she's okay. There's no more hesitation in her gaze, her eyes full of familiar confidence, and he lets go of the breath he's holding. "I know you can." He isn't questioning her, but seeing her upset tugged at something he wasn't prepared for. "If she shoots off her mouth again, you tell me, okay? I'll take care of it." She tips her head quizzically, and it suddenly occurs to him that maybe he's showing a little too much concern, stepping onto the tracks to defend her when she's perfectly capable.

He doesn't do the comfort thing—though it dawns on him that's exactly what he's been doing, and he moves back, quickly covering the slip. "I don't have time to clean up whenever the two of you have a run in."

He smirks, and she tries to pretend she isn't disheartened by the return of distance, not letting her disappointment show. "I'll keep that in mind, Mr. Domestic."

"Good," he answers, motioning his shoulder towards the door. "Then what do you say we go do some actual work." He extends his arm, and she breezes past, leading them out of the kitchen and into the foyer where he drops his voice next to her ear. "For the record, mud-wrestling is a much better way to solve your problems."

"Seriously, what is wrong with you?" she laughs the question despite her reprimand, shaking her head.

And what's wrong with him, is that he's fast becoming addicted to seeing her smile, and losing himself around her in a way that feels too natural. He doesn't just want her working for him, he's getting attached—a problem that he's happy to gloss over, because she's different.

She's Donna.