DA's Office - Pt III

Donna pushes into the conference room, her gaze falling on the sole occupant, and worry tingles along her spine as she takes in Harvey's sweaty and pale, hunched over form

"Bertha said you're sick." She lets the door swing closed, her heels crossing the short distance between them. He's discarded his jacket, but still looks like he's suffocating in his shirt and tie, and she raises her hand to check his temperature

"I don't get sick," he utters, trying not to lean into the cool, calm relief of her palm against his forehead.

She winces at the heat emanating from his skin, annoyed she hadn't trusted her earlier instincts. He was looking off-ish all morning, but denied anything was wrong, and even now, he offers a feeble protest, finding the strength to push her fingers away as he forces himself up from the chair. He stumbles, and she slides her hand over his chest, trying to take his weight as both of his palms hit the table in an effort to steady himself.

"I'm fine." Her touch burns like fire through the thin fabric, and his mouth feels dry and parched as he attempts to keep the room from spinning. "Little woozy..." he reluctantly admits, fighting tiny spots dancing in front of his vision.

She guides him back down, wincing when he drops hard, her brow furrowing with more concern. She's never seen like this before. He's always strong and commanding, not meek and vulnerable, and she fetches him a bottle of water from the corner, uncapping the lid and handing it over. "Drink this."

He takes a sip—the liquid gurgling in his throat when she presses between his legs, her long, slender fingers wrapping around the knot of his tie. "What are you doing?" he chokes out the question, dazed and confused by her sudden proximity.

She loosens the constriction, pulling it free and fiddling with the top two buttons of his shirt. "Cooling you down." She pops the plastic circles, fanning out his collar that's drenched with sweat.

His pulse ricochets rapidly, her touch sparking even more heat beneath his clothes. "That's not helping, Donna."

She glances at him, not sure what he means, until she catches the smirk on his lips—which she pointedly ignores. "I'm calling you a cab, and you're going home."

"You coming?" he asks, squeezing his thighs ever so slightly around her legs.

"Unbelievable," she scoffs, pressing her palm back against his forehead. "Temperature of one-hundred-and-four, and you're still trying to hit on me."

He leans back, fluttering his eyes closed. "I'm committed."

"You're delirious."

"Mmm…" He half agrees, his vision still encased by darkness as he skims his fingers lightly over the curve of her hip. "Great fantasy, though." He blinks in her flushed cheeks, and even though he feels like shit, he can't help but grin.

She pushes his wrist down, keenly aware of how close they are, and that he may in fact actually be delirious. "Okay, Casanova. Save it for when you can stand up without falling over." He pouts like a child, and she sighs, placing a light hand over his shoulder. "You ready?"

He shakes his head slightly; the amusement slipping from his features. "Give me a minute."

The ask furthers her worry, but she knows how stubborn he is. He won't go to a doctor. The best she can do is get him home safely in one piece, and she moves to step back, but is stilled by his clammy grasp.

"Stay a second."

He has his eyes closed again, and she wants to point out she wasn't leaving, just giving him space, but instead she leans against the table, keeping just inside his reach. He sits quietly while she waits for him to gather his strength, deciding that—all flirtatious jokes aside—she's going home with him.

When he does push up, he holds himself together well, makes it through the office without anyone else the wiser. But the moment they enter his condo, he finds refuge by seeking out his mattress and face planting—a rugged snore assuring her he'll be fine to sleep off the worst of whatever bug he's managed to pick up

She leaves him sleeping, orders some food for later, and then isn't sure what to do with herself while she waits for the delivery to arrive.

The apartment isn't overly welcoming, void of sentimental objects, but she gravitates towards his bookshelf and the few antiques scattered around—painting a broader picture of her boss. The space is humble and private, not a reflection of the lawyer who boasts arrogance inside a courtroom. He keeps this side of himself guarded—maybe even from himself—and she muses over the fact until the take-out arrives.

Once the door is closed again, she makes her way back into the kitchen, placing the meal down on the counter and scribbling a note on the pad placed neatly by Harvey's fridge.

Drink plenty of water and text me later - Donna

P.s. buy a plant!

She sticks the adhesive strip on the bag of food, picks up her purse, and leaves the quiet emptiness—the soft click of the lock louder than it should be as she struts away.

...

Two glasses into a bottle of wine, Donna's phone vibrates with a message, and she shakes her head at Harvey's deduction—that he feels like shit, and is probably sick.

She texts back the details of the doctor's appointment she made for tomorrow, hoping he'll actually go, but she isn't surprised when doesn't respond, tucking her legs up on the couch with a sigh. Back in the boardroom he asked her to stay with him, something he probably won't even remember when he's feeling better, but in that moment, hearing him admit the need out loud had made her realize their relationship is changing.

Ever so slowly, and day by day, they're becoming more—learning about each other, and even starting to rely on each other when they're unsure of themselves.

But wherever they're headed, she's in no rush to get there. Building a foundation takes time, and her only hope is that they're working towards something that will last.