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Summary: The strain of fixing everyone else's problems is starting to grate on Donna. S8 E5: Good Mudding Tag.
AN: I've been set a challenge by Southsidesister (darvey_love) to write 100 Darvey fics. I'm currently at 92 so I'm going through some of my drafts to make the distance! These won't be beta'd (potentially not even re-read XD) so apologies in advance for any mistakes. Love and cookies to anyone having a read :) XxxXx
Donna throws her head back in frustration, a drink in hand as the cool leather of Harvey's couch and the silence of his office surrounds her. She's irritated and pissed off, because she didn't want to be alone tonight, but the will or motivation to make plans has been dwindling of late. Outside of the firm, her life has become bland. Her friends are all settling down, Rachel is living miles away, and she wishes she could get excited, like Louis fantasizing over tomatoes. Instead, she's jaded by the fading memory of strawberries and whipped cream that's long overstayed its welcome.
She would never begrudge her friends their happiness. She's grateful to be part of Louis' journey to fatherhood. And she's glad Harvey made peace with his brother in Boston, that Rachel and Mike's firm is thriving. Yet, sometimes, like tonight — when her only company is the disappearing contents of Harvey's whiskey decanter — she feels resentful that her efforts to help others whittled down to solemn and lonely evenings for herself.
Normally, when she develops a taste for self-pity, she goes home. But Harvey caught the red-eye this morning, choosing to work from his condo, and leaving his office and alcohol fair game. And part of her is relieved he isn't here, telling her all of his trials and tribulations, laughing and flirting over one too many drinks. He would insist on giving her a ride, breeding a hollow platonic echo that would hit hard upon stepping into her cold and dark apartment.
She scrubs a hand through her hair, sick and tired of her heart being devoid of intimacy. Angry at herself for blaming Harvey when his blind spot is the focal point right in front of his goddamn eyes.
Case in point, when — in what has to be the biggest 'fuck you' from the universe — Harvey's office door swings open and the man himself strides in, oblivious to her presence, looking like he just left a Ralph Lauren shoot in his casual cream sweater and neatly pressed navy trousers.
She crosses her legs, horny, cranky, and unable to hide her disdain at his timing as she leans over, splashing more whiskey into her glass. "You know this place can survive more than five minutes without you?"
Harvey tenses then instantly relaxes when he sees Donna's feet curled up on his sofa, his lips curving into a smirk. "You saying you'd jump in my grave this quick?"
"Who says I wouldn't put you in it?"
Her droll tone makes him chuckle as he sifts through the papers Alex left on his desk. He was actually hoping she'd still be here. But as much of a relief as it is to lay eyes on her, there's something off about her stoic silence. He would've thought she'd be teasing him about getting old and needing to work from home or swamping him with a barrage of questions about his trip. Instead, her lonely silhouette in the dim light is troublesome. "Everything okay? You seem…"
"I seem, what?" She raises an eyebrow, daring him to say out loud she's acting cranky and hostile.
He swallows thickly. It's rare for her to snap without cause, and normally he'd assume he'd said or done something insensitive to provoke the response. But they've barely exchanged three sentences, and he hasn't been around to piss her off. "Nothing...You're here late is all."
Not surprised by his avoidance of her mood, she scoffs into her glass. "Since when has that ever been a problem?"
The sip of alcohol she takes is numbing, but not a complete safeguard as he pulls out a section of papers, and then pauses hesitantly, likely weighing up if he should step into a field of landmines or simply let her be. She'd feel worse about making him uncomfortable, except she's been putting up with his sour outbursts for years. And like him, she doesn't need rescuing or a shoulder to cry on. She just wants to be left alone to drink her whiskey in peace. "Go home, Harvey."
After a moment, somehow he misconstrues her very clear need as an invitation, shuffling himself over, and she places her drink down, intent on being the first one to leave if necessary. Except coordination and gravity don't work in her favor. Her knee collides with his coffee table so hard that she sees stars, a string of unholy curses sending her sprawling back across the couch as she grips the pounding joint. But just as quickly as she registers the pain, Harvey's weight is pressing down beside her on the leather. The smell of his cologne, and the deep concern she knows she'll find if she looks at him, more intoxicating than the whiskey she's had.
His brows furrow at the musty haze of liquor that hits him, and his eyes dart to the half-drained bottle sitting across from them. He's not one to judge seeking solace in a glass or two, especially lately, but that's his style — not Donna's. And he knows that her somber moods are accompanied by wine and chunky-something ice-cream, not top shelf liquor with the sole purpose of getting drunk.
"Hey… Did something happen?" He stammers awkwardly. "I'm here. You know… if you want to talk."
His gentle bumble is like liquid honey draping over nails on a blackboard. If she told him what was really on her mind, how she desperately wants him to wake up and see that the reason he cares so much stretches beyond a line in sand that time has ebbed away. But he doesn't want to step on landmines, and she has no desire to dress his wounds.
"My sister called," she lies, looking for an easy escape.
He nods, having learned over the years that her sister is a taboo topic like Lily used to be. Part of him wants to remind her of the victory he just achieved, but he lost a piece of himself during the process, and he's far too ill-equipped to be dolling advice out about estranged family members. "What can I do?"
The pain in her knee now just a dull ache, she caves in to her impulses, her blurry gaze finding his caring and dead-set determination from beneath her watery lashes. He really would do anything for her. Open his mouth and respond to a bold kiss, and not just because he's goddam human.
But his armor is bruised and battered from his trip to Boston, and any move she made would just be a temporary fix to take the weight of both of their shoulders. She wants to stay mad at him, as desperately he wants to make sure they're okay, but life is complicated. What's easy-ish by comparison is letting out a breath as she pushes up, slipping into her heels with a shaky calmness.
"You can message Alex and tell him you found what you came here for." She breathes out all of her anger and frustration, pushing up and slipping into her heels with a shaky calmness. Because ridding Harvey of his battered armor while he's brushed underneath is a feat she's failed at too many times before.
"Can I at least drop you home?"
Slinging her purse over her shoulder, she shakes her head. "Not tonight, Harvey."
She doesn't want to be swayed by his charisma. She doesn't want to cry on his shoulder or openly laugh when he makes her feel safe and then fills her with hollow emptiness.
In the coming hours, she'll make peace with herself, or at the very least have the freedom to make her own destructive choices, and then let the chips fall where they may.
She's earned the right to leave Harvey without feeling guilty.
Even if only for one night.