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When My Heart won't Break
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Harvey slows his feet, eventually coming to a complete stop near a bench alongside the path he'd been running on.
Hunching forward, he grips the backrest until his knuckles turn white, trying frantically to catch his breath while his heart races like it's gunning for a goddamn gold medal at the Olympics. He shouldn't be this out of shape. Sure, he's been working out less and less since recent developments in his life have kept him preoccupied. Losing his mom, getting married, leaving the firm, moving across the country—it's enough change to make a tsunami seem like a minor swell. But he's always been athletic, and his body's current state is an unwelcome addition to the list of latest changes.
Lately though, the breathlessness has been occurring more frequently, and he can no longer write it off as old age or a poor physical condition.
The first time he noticed his breathing became labored during a workout, he even assumed the heaving and excessive sweating implied a rising panic attack. Yet, as he waited for the anxiety to surge, he found himself free of any crippling, soul-crushing sensations, indicating that at least his mind was still solid. However, the alternative is no less reassuring. With two parents dying unexpectedly and well before their time because of cardiac issues, he has to accept he's a walking statistic—something his ego has trouble reconciling with being unbeatable. So, instead of taking action, he prefers to keep his head in the sand, for now.
Out of nowhere, a sharp pain stabs his chest, and he collapses his shoulders inward, involuntarily releasing a groan.
"Hey man, you okay?" a voice says.
He throws up an arm. "Yeah, yeah. I'm fine," he stammers, waving the stranger off. Although Harvey senses hesitation radiating from the passer-by, fortunately the concerned man wanders off, and he breathes a sigh of relief, taking a seat on the bench.
Like with any other situation, his first instinct is to call Donna, but as quickly as her name enters his mind, a ripple of guilt laced with a hint of shame washes over him. He doesn't want to worry her. She has enough on her plate as it is; the move, missing New York, finding her footing at the new firm. It's a lot, even for his superwoman wife. Besides, he's fine. His breathing is already returning to normal. The pain was temporary. One more minute, and he can walk the rest home.
Perhaps, if he can find the time, he'll make an appointment with his GP next week.
That night, he thinks he should look up his symptoms, but the first results immediately incite enough tension for his heart to start racing again, and he closes the tab nervously. It's alright, he tells himself. There's nothing to worry about.
"Come on, Robin! We have some corporate asses to kick!" Mike cheers as he gets out of the car in front of the courthouse, ready to face opposing counsel on the latest case he and Harvey have been working on.
"Wait. You're saying you're Batman?" Harvey says as he shuts the door and buttons his suit jacket.
"Of course. It's my name on the wall now, old man." Mike shoots him a smile and waits on the sidewalk for him to catch up, visibly excited to finally have his day in court with the assholes from HCA Healthcare for questionable billing practices and overcharging patients for treatments.
For Harvey, something about Mike's comment lands uneasily, and he has half a mind to use the quip about his age as an opener to tell him about the incident at the park last week. But he hasn't had any real issues since—if you don't count the discomfort behind his ribcage he woke up with—so there's no need to open up that can of worms. Instead, he squares his shoulders and mumbles how it is only a matter of time before his own name is back on the wall and things will return to the way they were.
As much as he wishes to manifest that particular flow of events by speaking his hopes out loud, the unease nipping at the nape of his neck doesn't dissipate. Something might be wrong, and he should get himself checked out. Then again, his agitated state could just be trial-jitters. He'll give his doctor a call soon. But after this case, he tells himself.
Unfortunately, the physical distress he's been battling all day comes to a climax when he goes toe to toe with the lawyer from the other side. For no other reason than to push his buttons, the douchebag for HCA brings up Harvey's arrest and his history with nearly getting disbarred multiple times in New York and the many issues the old firm underwent. It's a calculated personal attack he never saw coming, and as venomous words fly back and forth, his breathing constricts as if he's inhaling through a tiny straw, small beads of sweat forming on his forehead. But worse than that, Harvey feels his chest begin to contract, his heartbeat becoming irregular, and then, like a lightning strike, the sharp pain he'd first felt in the park returns like it's angry at him for having been ignored before.
He curses loudly.
With frantic fingers, he tries to loosen his tie to breathe, but another stab has him clutching his chest, unable to alleviate the unrelenting, searing sting, and he leans forward on his knees, waiting for the wave of agony to subside.
Mike is by his side in a flash. "Harvey!" He doesn't ask questions, merely yells at Douchebag to leave them the fuck alone before instructing someone to call 911.
Harvey wants to protest, but he's too lightheaded and there's no oxygen getting into his lungs, so his knees give out, and he drops to the floor with an objection stuck on his tongue. This is it, he thinks. He's too late. It's over. Then the world goes dark, but not before his consciousness reminds him he is a first-class asshole for making Donna a widow when he kept from telling her there was something wrong in the first place.
He eventually comes to in the ambulance, just before the vehicle stops and the back doors open and he is hauled inside on a gurney. Paramedics are shouting statistics about his condition, but none of the words register. He blinks, trying to bring his hazy brain into focus. But his body won't budge and he's so goddamn tired. He wants to move, lift his arm, and say he's okay, but his muscles refuse to obey, and after three attempts, he surrenders, exhaustion holding him hostage. Sleep is all he yearns for—for a year or two, at least. And when he wakes up, everything will be fine again. So, he closes his eyes and lets his consciousness drift away.
When his body eventually demands he return to the land of the living, he carefully blinks his heavy eyelids open, with all sense of time having left him when he passed out. Slowly, he scans his surroundings. Hospital; he's in bed; nodes attached to his chest; a beeping sounds to his right; Mike's by his side looking like he saw a ghost. He's alive, but Donna's not there, and he instantly feels a void in the room and in his heart.
Hesitant to let the gravity of the situation dictate his anxiety, he ignores the voice in his head telling him shit just got real. But the heaviness he suffered the past few months appears to be gone. His lungs easily fill with air and the rubber band around his chest has disappeared. He is here, living and breathing, so how bad can it be? Right?
His throat is extremely dry, so he swallows twice. "How long was I out?"
"Not long," Mike says as relief washes over the man's face. "Jesus Christ, Harvey. You scared me," he adds.
As much as he appreciates not being alone, Mike isn't exactly the person he wishes to see right now. Especially since the wires sticking to his chest are like shackles, keeping him immobile, and he feels exposed and completely vulnerable. "Donna?"
"I called her, she's on her way."
Harvey nods, relieved he didn't die on her, yet already dreading the inevitable confrontation because he probably almost did. Thankfully, a doctor enters his room and explains he only suffered a minor cardiac event and they will keep him overnight. With some medication and regular check-ups, he should be fine. The cardiologist then excuses himself and tells him he'll be back to check on him later.
Harvey listens to Mike explain what happened and that the case was postponed for a week. But their conversation mutes when Donna's voice carries through the hallway.
"Specter, what room is he in?"
Her fierce demand has him chuckling to himself, the picture of her ready to take down whoever stands in her way a welcome distraction from the doom and gloom in the air.
A moment later, her footsteps halt in the doorway as her searching eyes land on his sorry ass. Her expression is mixed with dread and fury, crushing the earlier reprieve her image had offered.
The anxious energy wafting into the room has Mike rising to his feet.
"I'll leave you two alone," his friend mutters before getting up and giving Donna's arm a squeeze while whispering something he can't make out.
Feeling the need to brace himself, Harvey forces himself to sit upright.
Donna drops her purse on one of the chairs next to the bed. "Goddammit. What the hell happened?"
She is justifiably pissed, and her eyes brim with tears as she sits down, Kissing his knuckles, she clutches his underarm tightly with both hands like he's about to slip away again and there's no goddamn way she'll let him.
He explains the recent incidents without great detail.
"I'm sorry, I should have told you," he says, watching worry spread across her face, realizing that his own fear of finding out there might be something wrong not only landed him in the hospital but caused him to lie to Donna in the process—a fact she has every right to hold against him. And dammit, she deserves so much better than that—than him.
"You're damn right you should have told me! Harvey, both your parents died because of a heart attack." She throws up her arms, then pauses, reining in her anger. "Why didn't you tell me?"
To explain his reasoning, he needs her touch to fuel his valor; her presence and undying faith in him the boost of courage he seeks, so he wraps his fingers around her trembling hand. "Because…" He considers his motives and finds that not wanting to disappoint the one person who means the world to him still graces the top of the list. What would he have said? 'Hey Donna, you know how it took me fifteen years to get my head out of my ass? Guess what, it's over.' He could never do that to her. And yet, judging by her quivering lip and the tears she tries to fight, he still managed to fail her. It's all so much, and words escape him—his throat constricted with regret, shame and sorrow and the reminder of his mortality—so he mumbles a half-lie. "I didn't want to worry you."
"Yeah, well. I'm worried all right. What did the doctor say?"
As he relays the information, Donna lets her tears flow freely. He hates to see her cry, to know he's the cause, and the scene only crushes his already frail heart.
He gently reaches up to wipe her tears away.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you, Donna. I promise I'll take better care of myself from now on."
"You bet your ass you will. I'm hiring a chef. No more pizza for you, mister." She smiles through the trickling tears—a blossom of hope there's still time to be had together.
He relishes her take-charge attitude, lets it evaporate the threat of death, because he sure as hell isn't dying today. And he is willing to subject himself to whatever care she wishes to provide. He has never wasted a second chance before, and he's not about to start now.
"I love you, Donna," he says, voice breaking as the reality slowly starts to settle around them as the beeping of the heart monitor fills the silence.
Expelling a captive breath, she stares into his eyes and raises her finger to point at him. "Don't you ever do that to me again."
She adds a gentle smile to soften the demand, but he knows she's dead serious, and he'll move heaven and earth to make sure he will never again let her down.
"I promise."
"Good," she says resolutely. "Because we didn't come this far to have it end like this, okay? I'm not ready to lose you."
Her lower lip trembles, and he reaches forward on instinct, drawing her body close in a cautious but powerful embrace. As her tears coat his skin, he inhales her scent, nose buried in her hair. He already feels better than he has in months, and the newfound energy invigorates him to make the next part of their journey the best part. "I'm not going anywhere," he whispers. "I just want to go home."
She pulls back and nods, blinking through wet lashes, and he wonders how he ever dared to jeopardize his life. So, he presses his mouth to hers, tasting the salt on his lips. "I love you, Donna."
"I love you, Harvey."
A/N: Happy Valentine's Day! Please let me know what you think. :)
