I
Donna wakes to the sensation of something cold and wet nudging her bare shoulder. She blinks, the golden retriever's eager face coming into focus above her.
"What the..."
"Rise and shine," Jonathan says from the doorway, disgustingly alert. "Let's go."
Donna groans, rolling away from the dog's enthusiastic kisses. "What time is it?"
"Just after six."
"In the morning?" Donna squints at the windows where weak light is just beginning to creep in around the edges of the curtains.
"No, in the evening," he deadpans. "Yes, in the morning. Come on, up." He claps his hands sharply.
The retriever lets out an excited bark, tail thumping against the bed frame. Traitor.
Donna burrows deeper into the covers. "Are you insane? I'm sleeping."
She feels the mattress dip near her feet. Then Jonathan's fist closes around the blankets and rips them off in one smooth motion. Donna gasps as the cool air hits her naked body.
"What the hell!"
"You can't hide in this bed forever," he says calmly, ignoring her glare. "Bad for the psyche. Now move your ass, Paulsen."
He tosses a pile of athletic clothes at her and retreats from the room, the retriever bounding happily after him.
"Jackass," Donna grumbles. But she drags herself upright, skin prickling.
The sight of herself in the vanity mirror gives her pause. She's shed at least ten pounds in the past couple weeks, collarbone and ribs more pronounced beneath pale flesh. Shadowed eyes stare back, bruised looking and sunken. She drops her gaze quickly.
Dressing takes effort, each limb leaden with exhaustion despite the fitful night's sleep. She rifles through her makeup bag by touch, applying tinted moisturizer and mascara on autopilot. Just enough to take the edge off her haggard appearance. A swipe of balm on her chapped lips. The replica of put-togetherness.
Downstairs she finds Jonathan waiting with two travel mugs of coffee, wearing loose shorts and a Marine corps shirt. Molly dances around his feet, tail stirring the air.
Donna accepts the coffee with a grumble. "I hate you."
"Drink up. You'll feel better once we get moving."
They head out into the gleaming morning. A news van sits across the street, but the area is otherwise clear of gawkers and press. Jonathan sets a punishing pace, his longer strides forcing Donna into a near run to keep up. They jog the paved trails along the river's edge, Molly bounding happily alongside them.
Despite her irritation, Donna feels her lungs expand with the crisp air, muscles awakening from stagnancy. She focuses on the rhythmic slap of shoes on wet pavement, early commuters drifting past in a blur. For the first time in weeks, her mind quiets of its own volition. No circling regrets or worries, just clean fatigue settling into her body, the day's sunlight spilling across her face.
When Jonathan finally slows his pace, dropping back to run alongside her, she realizes she no longer resents his abrasiveness quite so fiercely.
"She almost smiles like it's working," he observes. "How do you feel?"
Donna wipes sweat from her brow, the damp shirt clinging between her shoulders. "I don't hate this as much as I should."
"Told you. Nothing better for clearing out the mental cobwebs."
They continue on at an easier pace. Molly pauses to lap noisily from a drinking fountain.
"So what's the plan here?" Donna asks. "You just gonna work me like a drill sergeant?"
"That's the idea. Idle hands do the devil's work. Gotta stay sharp."
"I appreciate this attempt at distraction, misguided as it is. But there are larger issues that morning jogs and kale smoothies won't solve."
Jonathan's expression remains impassive, but she senses him turn thoughtful. They run quietly for several more minutes before he speaks.
"I've been in talks with an offshore account manager. Paper trail leads back to one of the shell companies that funded our war chest." He pauses, glancing at her profile. "If I apply enough pressure, he may be willing to expose the money trail."
Donna mulls this over as she evades a crowd of meandering tourists. "He'd be admitting to fraud and tax evasion. What could you possibly leverage that trumps prison time?"
"Everyone has secrets. Find their greatest shame and the rest is just negotiation."
A chill creeps up Donna's spine that has nothing to do with sweat drying on her skin. She forgot this side of him, the sheer relentlessness when something threatened what he cared for. First their daughter, now her. Always that undercurrent of violence beneath the control. She isn't sure whether to feel comforted or deeply unsettled.
Sensing her unease, Jonathan adds more gently, "I'm not asking you to condone it. But put a little faith in me. I protect my own."
The vow settles between them, layered with history's heartache. She wants to believe him despite experience whispering caution. That trying to salvage the wreckage of the past will only destroy them both.
"I know you'll do what's necessary, " she says at last. "Just be careful."
"I can handle myself, Dee."
They continue on in pensive silence until Donna feels her stamina wearing. "How did it go with your new lawyer?" she asks, trying to distract herself from the ache beneath her rib.
"Well enough. She's competent. Driven." He pauses, then adds wryly, "Easy on the eyes, too."
Donna shoots him a dubious look. "Careful, Johnny. We have enough scandal in our lives, can't have you sleeping with your representation."
He huffs out a startled laugh. "Christ, could you imagine?"
They share a conspiratorial smirk. The joke loosens something tight within Donna's chest. How easily they slip back into old rhythms, hips swaying in tandem, laughing over shared secrets.
Jonathan sobers first. "We should drop by your firm," he says between steady breaths. "See where they stand on strategy."
Donna chews her lower lip, considering. She knows Harvey has been working tirelessly preparing her defense alongside running his firm. Part of her craves to witness that fervor firsthand again, feel his conviction wrapping around her like armor. But another part shies from facing him right now, from confronting the mess she's dragged him into.
Since that heated encounter in Jonathan's kitchen, she and Harvey have been avoiding any intimacy beyond hurried phone conversations and brief texts to discuss legal strategy. She tells herself it's a necessary distance for the trial, but knows the real reason lies in her own fear.
Melanie's warning haunts her...they'll go after him if they know he's your weakness. She can't let Harvey end up in the line of fire meant for her. He deserves so much more than this ruin she's brought upon his doorstep. A clean escape she can't seem to provide, no matter how she tries to sever the tangled knot of their lives.
Oblivious to her inner turmoil, Jonathan continues, "You know those financial accounts better than anyone." After a thoughtful beat he adds, "And...I think it would do you good to get out of your own head for a bit. Stop dwelling on the what ifs."
Donna presses her lips thin, unable to deny his point. Her thoughts have been circling themselves in the endless quiet hours. Maybe he is right that seeing Harvey on familiar ground will lift her spirits. Remind her what she's fighting for, beyond just her own neck.
"Alright," she relents. "We'll go by the firm after."
Jonathan's hand squeezes her shoulder briefly in approval. The subtle contact kindles a traitorous glow inside her chest. Needing distraction, she picks up their pace.
"Come on, old man. Let's see if you can keep up."
She takes off down the path at a punishing run. Jonathan matches her stride for stride. The shoreline blurs by as they devour mile after mile, breathing harshly in sync. She pushes harder, lungs searing, determined to break his composure. Still he hangs on her shoulder, jaw set with quiet focus.
"Getting tired?" he goads.
She responds with a burst of speed, thighs burning. The city falls away behind them in a haze of exertion. Only the river remains, sunlight glistening off the currents.
Donna loses grasp of how far they've come, miles passing uncounted. Her mind empties of everything but the need to run until exhaustion takes her. Maybe then she will outpace the ghosts nipping at her heels.
When her legs finally falter, she stumbles to a wheezing stop. Hands braced on knees, she fights the urge to be sick. Sweat plasters her shirt to skin, stings her eyes.
She startles at the press of a water bottle into her limp hand. Jonathan stands over her, breathing labored but composed. The contrast of their states —her a trembling mess, him barely ruffled— irks her even through the nausea roiling in her gut.
"Drink. You're dehydrated."
Donna forces herself to take measured sips despite the urge to guzzle greedily. The sun beats down from directly overhead. How long have they been running? It feels like hours have passed in a daze of pavement and wind and burning lungs.
She takes in her surroundings for the first time. Industrial buildings and a deserted construction site. They must have passed 125th street ages ago. She has no recollection of the distance traversed since that first mad sprint along the Hudson.
"How far did we go?" she pants.
Jonathan tips his head back, gauging the sun's ascent. "Only about six miles. We're nearly there."
Donna sputters on her water. "There? Six miles— that's halfway to Riverdale!"
He shrugs, unconcerned.
She sets her jaw, anger rising. "You're a sadist, you know that? I'm about to vomit and can barely walk."
His mouth quirks a fraction. "You'll feel better once we start moving again."
When she makes no move to stand, he crouches down until they are eye level. His hand engulfs her own where it rests limply atop her knee. She resents the sparks that skitter up her arm at the contact.
"I know it's hell pushing past the exhaustion. But you can do this." His solemn gaze bores into her. "On your feet, Paulsen. It's just a little farther."
Jaw clenched against the acid churn in her gut, she allows him to pull her upright. They set off again at an easier pace. One foot after another, Donna focuses on each labored step and not the nausea twisting her insides.
Gradually she becomes aware of their surroundings changing. Industrial edges into residential, the waterfront receding behind glass towers. The neighborhood niggles something in her memory, but exhaustion has blurred her mental map. She forges on, pushing leaden legs to keep pace with Jonathan.
Until all at once, she stumbles to a stop, chest heaving. Dread crests inside her, a building wave. Across the street rises the stark face of Mount Sinai West, its familiar outline searing itself behind her eyes.
"What the hell, John?" She rounds on him, pulse hammering.
He halts, facing her. "Just a little farther. Come on."
Donna shakes her head sharply, horror growing. "Are you out of your goddamn mind?"
Jonathan grasps her shoulders to steady her. "Donna. Breathe."
She struggles for air past the constriction in her lungs. She hasn't been here since that final night, since watching them wheel Alice away to the morgue. She swore she would never step foot in this godforsaken place again.
"I can't...why?" is all she manages, still gasping.
"You can." His voice remains infuriatingly calm. As if this is any normal challenge to be conquered and not the mouth of hell actual before her.
"Fuck you." She shoves at his chest, tears springing hot behind her eyes. "I'm not going in there."
His hands close around her wrists. Caging, not confining. She could break free if she wished.
"Yes, you are." His voice softens. "We have an appointment. I'll be with you the whole time."
She searches his face through the film of tears. All his stoic armor has fallen away, leaving only the boy who once sat next to her on the piano bench, chasing her fingers across the keys in an intimate duet. Who cried silent tears when he thought she was asleep. The man who, despite all they endured, still knows the deepest parts of her heart.
Drawing a shaky breath, she nods. Lets him pull her across the street and through the sliding doors of the emergency room entrance. Sheer force of will keeps panic at bay, breath sawing harsh and fast through her lungs.
They leave Molly with security, bypass the bustling emergency intake and veer down a corridor. Jonathan's palm engulfs hers, warm and broad. She clings to him, focusing on the hiss of their breath and squeak of rubber soles over waxed linoleum.
When the sign for the oncology wing appears, tears blur her vision. She sees flashes — the sterile monotony of IV bags draining, Alice's fragile limbs swallowed by a hospital gown. Remembers clenching Jonathan's fingers just like this as a doctor, eyes gentle with pity, told them her cancer was aggressive and drug-resistant. Terminal.
That was the day something broke between them, she realizes now. The day Jonathan withdrew into himself instead of grieving at her side. She'd been too consumed by administering medications and wiping up vomit to tend the wounds in his battered spirit.
Shame wells up, a sickness in her gut. She wants to turn and run even as she clings tighter to him. As if she could make up for a decade of distance with the press of her palm. Jonathan's steady stride remains unchanged, her anchor in the riptide of memory.
"Here we are."
His low voice pulls her back. They stand before a nondescript door, nothing marking the purpose within. Jonathan opens it and guides her inside gently. Still dazed, Donna takes in the sight before her.
A conference room, warmly lit. A handful of administrative types murmur around the long table. At the head sits a familiar figure — the oncologist who had treated Alice. Older now, hair iron gray instead of black, but still recognizably Dr. Rabb. His dark eyes widen at the sight of Donna. She realizes how she must look, sweaty and unkempt in her running gear, and blushes.
"My god. I heard Jonathan was coming but I didn't know..." He strides around the table to grasp Donna's hands in his own. "It's so good to see you, dear."
Donna nods numbly, overwhelmed by the surreal situation. Her mind struggles through muddy fatigue to understand why Jonathan would bring her here, of all places. Why he is meeting with the hospital's leadership.
As if reading her thoughts, Jonathan speaks up. "Let's all take a seat. We'll explain."
He keeps her hand in his even as they settle into chairs at the conference table. The other attendees watch them with curiosity, murmurs dying to silence. Dr. Rabb remains standing at the head of the table, hands braced on the polished wood.
"When Jonathan first approached me," he begins gravely, "I'll admit I had...concerns. Given the allegations brought against him." The doctor's dark gaze settles on Donna briefly. "Against both of them."
Donna stiffens, prepared for condemnation. But Dr. Rabb only shakes his head, smile sad.
"I won't claim to understand exactly what transpired professionally after Alice's death. But I know the parents who sat vigil in that hospital room for months, who cried and prayed and clung to hope with everything in them." His voice thickens. "And I know those same parents would move mountains to honor Alice's memory."
Donna blinks back tears. Dr. Rabb turns his attention to Jonathan. "So when Jonathan proposed establishing a foundation in Alice's name, specifically to aid families struggling to finance life-saving treatments... Well. I didn't hesitate to gather our team so we could hit the ground running."
Stunned understanding dawns. Donna turns to Jonathan, his face bathed in the golden morning light. Of course this was his plan. Even now facing the ruin of his freedom and reputation, he thinks first of how to wash clean their daughter's legacy.
Always strategizing three steps ahead while Donna lets waves of anguish sweep her under. He is a far better person than she ever deserved.
Emotion clogs her throat, so instead she squeezes his hand fiercely. Hoping her eyes convey what her voice can't. His lips quirk in a bittersweet smile.
The rest of the meeting passes in a blur. Jonathan negotiates details with his signature shrewd diplomacy, never releasing his hold on Donna's hand. His thumb traces absent patterns against her wrist, the sensation both soothing and distracting. More than once, she loses the thread of conversation, hyper focused on that rough graze of skin on skin.
Later, after documents have been signed and teary farewells exchanged with Dr. Rabb, they step back out into the bright morning. Donna pauses, letting her lungs expand with the first full breath she's taken since before entering the hospital. Beside her, Jonathan mirrors her deep inhale, shoulders relaxing.
"Thank you," she says. The words feel wholly inadequate for what he gave her today. A chance to replace haunting memories with new purpose.
Jonathan shakes his head, deflecting her gratitude. But she won't let him diminish what this means. Gripping his forearm, she repeats firmly. "Thank you, Jonathan."
His Adam's apple bobs. When he speaks, the words come out low and rough. "You don't need to thank me. It was long overdue. I should have..." He shakes his head, regret softening his eyes. "It doesn't matter now. I'm just glad Alice's legacy won't end with her treasonous parents."
For the span of several heartbeats they linger, silent on the sidewalk as people stream past. She watches the play of light across the sharp planes of his face, so beautiful in its imperfections. Feels that familiar pull between them — two negative poles perpetually pushing away, even as hidden forces compel them back together.
She wonders suddenly what might happen if she gave in to those darker impulses. Stepped flush against him and brought her mouth to his. Would he return her kiss? Or gently push her away for both their sakes?
She finds her body swaying closer of its own volition, drawn moth-like to his gravity. Sees an answering darkness flicker behind his eyes. Feels the air charge between them, atoms colliding.
But before either moves to close the small distance, a horn blares loudly. They jolt apart, the sharp sound shattering the moment. Jonathan scrubs a hand roughly over his jaw, looking anywhere but at her.
"We should get you back." His voice comes out gruff. Clearing his throat, he steps toward the curb, Molly trekking at his heels, to hail a taxi.
II
Rachel sits in the minimalist Barcelona chair, legs crossed at the ankle looking relaxed though her nerves hum just below the surface. The conversation eddies around her, Louis' voice rising and falling as he gesticulates wildly before his deranged conspiracy board.
"It's all connected, see? Vulkov Pharmaceuticals out of Russia, Aydin Holdings in Turkey. Money flowing through a dozen shell companies before getting funneled to the Super PACs."
Harvey and Mike stand shoulder to shoulder before the board, debating strategy. Harvey's eyes blaze with that relentless intensity Rachel knows so well. Mike, ever the faithful disciple, counters Harvey's forcefulness with rational precision. Donna's mother presides over it all from her perch atop the leather sofa, posture languid, elegant leg crossed at the knee, austere in her judgments.
Rachel nods along politely though her eyes keep darting to the doorway. They've been over the financial web a dozen times, waiting on one person to arrive and make sense of it all. Where is Donna? The office feels empty without her in it, a stage missing its star actress.
Louis paces before the board, voice growing impassioned. Rachel tunes back in reluctantly. He points an accusing marker at Mike. "And you're sure Quantum Holdings was a dead-end?"
Mike nods. "Positive. Their CEO was clean. Didn't accept any suspicious campaign donations."
Louis abruptly rips a paper from the board, wads it up and throws it in an aggressive overhand. Rachel winces as it bounces off Mike's forehead.
"Louis..." Sandra's reprimand is interrupted by the discrete chime of the elevator out the in foyer.
Rachel's head snaps up as Donna strides out, a vision in a black wrap dress and stilettos, exuding effortless command. At her flank stands Jonathan, equally stunning and remote in his dark suit and tie, all sharp lines and brooding intensity. Around them the office stills, mouths snapping shut mid-sentence. The air quivers with uncertainty.
Rachel's eyes cling to Donna, afraid she might dissolve into memory. But the redhead moves with haughty purpose toward Louis' office, Jonathan on her heels. Rachel springs from her seat, nearly tripping in her haste.
Donna's presence hits like a drug, glossy lips quirking into that patented smirk. "Sorry I'm late. Traffic was hellish."
Just her voice, husky as velvet, soothes Rachel's fraying nerves. She steps eagerly forward but Donna breezes past, focus locked on the board. Her gaze scans the conspiracy web, fingers trailing absently over her collarbone.
The others filter in behind Donna, crowding the modest office. Sandra moves last, watching Donna with unconcealed disapproval.
"So nice of you to finally grace us with your presence."
Donna doesn't react beyond an arched brow. "Mother. A pleasure, as always."
The words drip sarcasm. Rachel glances between them, unease swirling. Another fracture in this increasingly precarious alliance.
Louis breaks from his trace, rushing over with open arms. "Donna!" he cries, folding her into an exuberant hug that lifts her toes from the floor.
To Rachel's surprise, Donna returns the embrace with a brief squeeze and a soft sigh. Whether from affection or tolerance is unclear, but Louis is glowing as he sets her down, taking both her hands in his.
"It's been hell without you," he says. "The worst kind of hell. No one in this goddamn building knows how to use a fax machine or get me sticky notes that are actually sticky. Also, Harvey's not shaving and I'm pretty sure he's seeing someone because he's wearing yesterday's tie and smells like Chanel No. 5. And I know this because you wear Chanel No. 5." He pauses briefly, sniffing the air around Donna. "Yeah, that's it. I'm like a bloodhound when it comes to scents, but…" He sniffs her again. "That's weird because you also smell like Aventus which is what Harvey wears —"
Donna cuts him off smoothly. "Louis." She removes her hands and gestures toward Jonathan. "I don't think you've met my ex-husband —"
"The alleged war criminal?" Louis glares up at the chairman. "I say alleged to be fair, but you're not fooling anyone, Butcher of Basra. I read your file and — " He sniffs the air around Jonathan, right up to his collar. Jonathan, ever the statue, doesn't even pull back. "Also Chanel No. 5." Louis furrows his brow. "Chanel and Aventus."
Harvey stiffens. Rachel bites her lip, torn between amusement and horror. Donna pinches the bridge of her nose.
Jonathan extends a hand, lips drawn into a subtle smirk. "Quite the bloodhound. I ought to take you hunting with me."
Louis crosses his arms over his chest. "Why would I go hunting with you? Donna, why would I go hunting with him?" He rounds on Harvey. "Harvey, why would I go hunting with Donna's alleged war criminal ex-husband who smells like you and Donna?"
Harvey stares Louis down. "Shut up and focus."
Louis huffs but steps back, grumbling under his breath. Jonathan reclaims his stance at Donna's side, unaffected by the awkward exchange.
"Well." Sandra claps her hands. "Now that the circus has concluded, shall we continue?"
Harvey moves near Donna, hand hovering just shy of her lower back. Like a magnet pulled by her presence yet unsure of his welcome. Rachel's chest squeezes at the naked longing beneath his impassive mask. Donna seems oblivious, focus locked on the conspiracy web.
"How're you holding up?" His voice comes out low, meant only for Donna's ear.
Her chin lifts, brave face fixed in place. "Nothing I can't handle."
The lie settles heavy over the room. Donna moves closer to the board, gaze combing each piece of paper. Searching for the fatal thread that might unravel her. Rachel aches to erase the resignation haunting her eyes.
"We'll get them, Dee."
Jonathan's hand finds Donna's shoulder, touch intimate yet cautious. Donna softens into the contact, some of the rigid tension leaving her frame.
Quiet jealousy flickers in Harvey's eyes before he smothers it. Images crest in Rachel's mind, unwanted — knotted limbs and slick skin, cries swallowed by hungry mouths. A surge of heat creeps up her neck.
"So where do things stand?" Donna asks. "Have we made any progress?"
The shadows flee Harvey's face as he embraces the familiar refuge of law. "I met with Gibbs yesterday. Off the record, she confirmed discrepancies in the evidence." He pats his breast pocket. "Handed over files that should expose the manufactured bullshit."
"That's huge." Mike grins. "We get those records in front of the right judge, reasonable doubt is guaranteed."
Louis bobs his head eagerly. "Yes, and I've traced Vulkov money through no less than seventeen offshore accounts. It's only a matter of time before I can directly link —"
"Enough." Donna's sharp voice cleaves through Louis' rambling. "We're not winning this with accounting tricks."
Her fingers trail across glossy prints, nails clicking against one document pinned centermost. Rachel recognizes it even from afar — the plea deal that began this catastrophe. Jonathan's discharge papers, 90% redacted by the government.
"We get our hands on an unedited copy of this, everything changes. Jonathan was framed to hide deeper corruption. Once we prove —"
Harvey cuts her off. "Gibbs tried and was stonewalled. Said original documents are protected by the Espionage Act."
"Then we'll just have to get more creative." Donna levels Harvey with a challenging stare. "Unless you're content to roll over while the AG and his cronies bury us in red tape."
Harvey meets her defiance head on. "So what's the plan then, Donna? More illegal shit on top of all the other illegal shit you've already done?"
Rachel winces. Louis and Mike shift uncomfortably. Jonathan watches the exchange with inscrutable cool. Sandra settles onto the couch, smug gaze tracking the drama unfolding.
Donna shrugs, unfazed. "If the game is rigged, we can't exactly play by the rules, can we?"
"Jonathan's redemption is not our problem." Harvey crosses his arms. "Our job is defending you, end of story."
"I appreciate your loyalty," Donna says, softening slightly. "But Jonathan is part of this whether you like it or not."
Harvey's jaw ticks. Rachel fears he might erupt. Donna holds his glare until he finally relents, turning away with a muttered curse.
Donna's gaze finds Jonathan's, some silent accord passing between them. He gives her a slow nod, quiet promise in his eyes.
"Jonathan and I will pursue the discharge papers," she says at last. "I have some old contacts I can approach. Discreetly, of course." She makes an effort to lighten her tone. But Rachel isn't fooled by her forced nonchalance. She doesn't know what lengths these two are capable of in the pursuit of their cause. The last time they faced treacherous waters... Well, the result is plastered across Louis' office walls.
Mention of deeper strategy brings a weary shadow behind Harvey's eyes. She itches to ask how he really is, though there's no private moment. She'll have Mike press him later. See if he'll open up.
"Alright." Donna turns her attention to Rachel, then Mike. "Keep digging into the offshore web Louis uncovered. Find anything you can tying back to Vulkov Pharmaceuticals or Aydin Holdings. Harvey, stay focused on my defense. Mother —" Sandra arches a regal brow. "Try not to drink before noon."
Sandra smirks but makes no reply. Donna surveys the room, radiating quiet command. It is strange and yet not, seeing her claim this role Rachel associates so closely with the likes of Jessica Pearson. But it is Donna in her element — the competent COO they never knew.
When no one challenges her pronouncement, Louis rounds on his associates gathered indiscreetly by the doorway. "Alright, maggots. You heard the woman. Let's get to work."
As the others file out, Donna pauses beside Rachel, fingers grazing her wrist.
"Come with me a sec?"
Rachel blinks up at her, startled. Donna tips her chin subtly toward the door and Rachel follows wordlessly. They weave between cubicles and glass offices toward the ladies' room. The door swings shut, sealing them in tiled stillness.
Only then does emotion crack Donna's façade. She grips the sink, head bowed as she draws a shaky breath.
Rachel touches her arm tentatively. "Hey. Talk to me."
Donna turns, managing a brittle smile. "God. I've really fucked things up this time, Rach."
Despite herself Rachel huffs a laugh. "You? Never."
That earns a genuine chuckle. Rachel revels in this small victory. How long since she and Donna laughed together? Weeks or mere days feel stretched by years.
Donna leans back against the sink, arms crossed loosely. The fluorescent lighting deepens the hollows of her cheeks, the bruised skin beneath her eyes. Rachel aches at this visage of her.
"How bad is it really?" she asks gently. "And don't bullshit me."
Donna's throat bobs. She stares up at the speckled ceiling as though it might offer solace.
"Bad," she admits finally. "Between the indictment, Mommy Dearest showing up unannounced..." She ticks each disaster off on one hand. "Oh, and apparently, I'm having fervent sex with my boss and pining after my ex-husband. Who Harvey definitely thinks I'm fucking now too thanks to Louis and his big goddamn mouth —" She cuts herself off with a groan. Rachel bites her lip against a nervous giggle. Donna levels her a sardonic look. "Yeah. So. Things are not good."
Rachel squeezes Donna's arm in sympathy. "God. You really are a hot mess."
Donna's answering laugh teeters toward hysteria. "Christ, Rach, what is wrong with me? Hooking up with Harvey now, of all times? And Jonathan just showing up, being so..." She gestures vaguely, at a loss.
Rachel arches a brow. "So Jonathan?"
"Yes! With his stoic nobility and those damn eyes..." Donna shakes her head sharply, rejecting that train of thought. "Point is, I'm losing my mind."
"Or finally listening to your heart?" Rachel offers gently.
Donna scoffs. "My heart is a fickle bitch whose advice I can't trust."
Rachel bites back a smile, sobering. "Maybe. But you're allowed to be a mess, Donna. What you've endured..." She shakes her head, anger and sorrow twisting hotly. "I don't blame you."
Donna searches her face, lips pressed thin. Then she pushes off the sink and pulls Rachel into a crushing hug. Rachel returns it fiercely, breathing in the clean, distinct scent of Donna — top notes of citrus with earthy undertones and something, as Louis discovered, uniquely Harvey. It is a smell deeply associated with this firm, this city. Home.
"Thank you," Donna murmurs thickly.
Rachel just nods against her shoulder, at a loss for words. Finally Donna pulls back, dabbing the smudged corners of her eyes. "Well. This pity party has been enlightening but duty calls."
Rachel swipes discreetly beneath her own lashes. "Just...take care of yourself, okay? You can talk to me about anything. I mean it. Anything. Including how you feel about..." she waggles her brows. "You know. The men in your life. Or the love triangle. Love square? Hexagon, I don't —"
A soft palm collides lightly with her cheek. Donna smirks but her eyes sparkle with amusement.
"Love you. Go."
She waves Rachel toward the door, turning to fix her mascara in the mirror. Rachel hesitates on the threshold.
"Please be careful, Donna."
Donna meets her eyes in the glass, gaze serene despite the chaotic events at play around them. No fear or doubts linger as she wipes her hands and turns to follow Rachel out.
"Always am."
III
The afternoon sunlight streams golden across Samantha's glass-walled office, painting the hardwood warm and honeyed. She massages her temples, squinting down at the jumble of files and notes strewn before her.
Jonathan Martell's case has proven an insoluble knot from the start. Every thread she pulls only seems to tighten it further. His military records are a mess of black marks and contradictions. Key witnesses have disappeared or clammed up. And the federal prosecutors are playing hardball, throwing roadblocks at every turn.
Her phone buzzes with another rejected FOIA request. Samantha groans aloud. Bureaucratic bullshit. They're dismantling her systematically, dismantling the man she's sworn to defend.
A discreet knock sounds at her open door. She looks up to find Robert framed in the entrance, impeccable as always in pinstriped gray. His dark eyes assess the state of her in one glance — rumpled blouse, bloodshot gaze, tangled hair. Another disaster, then.
He steps inside. "Anything of use?"
She scoffs, tossing her pen down. "They're jerking me around, Robert, and you know it. Half these records are classified beyond clearance. The rest have been doctored to shreds." She sweeps papers aside, frustration boiling over. "Either Martell is the most compartmentalized operative in US history, or the government is trying to bury him."
Robert settles opposite her desk. "You expected honesty from a corrupt system?" His lips quirk a fraction. Amusement or pity, she can't tell which insults her more.
"I expected competence," she mutters. "Some semblance of due process." Samantha sighs, massaging her aching temples once more. Robert watches her, annoyingly calm. "Stop evaluating me and say what's on your mind."
"You need Martell's war buddy to corroborate. Without him, prosecutors will paint Martell a sociopathic war criminal." Robert arches a brow, expectant. Samantha grits her teeth, unwilling to voice what he already knows.
"Jonathan won't let me contact him." Her client is proving infuriatingly rigid. Despite his stoic calm, Samantha has glimpsed the pain and guilt simmering just beneath. Enough to suspect he's punishing himself for past failures.
Robert studies her. "Martell won't bend his principles without cause. Earn his faith." Samantha levels him a withering stare. Robert shrugs, unbothered. "Or accept defeat. Your call."
Samantha frowns. "We're on the clock, Robert. I don't have time for heartfelt conversations and bonding trust falls."
"Make time." He stands, straightening his cufflinks. Samantha resists the urge to hurl her stapler at his retreating form.
Instead she glares down at the chaos of documents. Robert is right, much as she hates the fact. Jonathan Martell prizes loyalty above all else — she's seen how he talks of ex-wife with something close to reverence. Saw how he clung to the memory of his squad even after the military's betrayal.
If she wants his cooperation, she must prove herself one of his own. Prove herself worthy of the sacred trust he offers so sparingly. Easier said than done for a woman whose only allegiances are transactional, at least at surface level.
Samantha sighs, mind churning. Earn his faith or accept defeat. Robert is right — it must be one or the other.
Swallowing a curse, she reaches for her phone.
IV
Harvey leans back in his office chair, rolling a basketball between his palms. Across from him, Mike perches on the edge of the leather sofa, knee jittering.
"I still don't like it," Mike says, breaking the pensive silence. "Her being with Jonathan alone. What if he's playing some angle here?"
Harvey suppresses a flare of unease. He and Mike are on the same page regarding Martell — the man remains an enigma.
"She insists he's trustworthy." Harvey lifts a shoulder, feigning nonchalance. "I can't exactly forbid her from seeing her ex-husband."
He tosses the ball to Mike, who catches it reflexively.
"This 'help' seems to require a lot of private time together." Mike bounces the ball, a muffled thwap thwap against the carpet. Harvey levels him a pointed stare. Mike relents, twirling the ball between his fingertips. "I know Donna can take care of herself. But you and I both know Martell is hiding something. And Donna..." Mike trails off, brow furrowing.
Harvey understands the unspoken sentiment — Donna is vulnerable, driven by grief and obligation. He sees Martell wielding her guilt like a weapon, subtly manipulating.
"You think I haven't considered what he might be after? But short of putting a detail on her..."
He trails off with a scowl. Truthfully, the thought of Donna confiding in Jonathan, seeking solace from her ex-husband, stirs an ugliness in Harvey he despises. Jealousy is beneath him.
"It's just..." Mike searches for the right words. "Donna seems different lately. Harder. Like someone peeled back her warm, witty exterior to reveal something..."
"Cold?" Harvey supplies grimly.
Mike gives him a pointed look. "I was going to say formidable."
Harvey quirks a brow. Mike tosses the basketball back. Harvey catches it, pondering the observation.
Mike isn't wrong. Ever since her past unfurled, Donna has shed her polished secretary persona to reveal the cunning woman beneath. Like his favorite comic book fantasies come to life, the meek alter ego melting away to uncover the antihero within. Where her wit had once seemed harmless, now it holds bite.
He finds this edgier Donna intriguingly unpredictable. Their dynamic is shifting, boundaries blurring. No longer does she automatically bend to accommodate his needs above her own. She challenges him, demands his submission.
The shift unnerves Harvey on some base level. Donna has always known him better than anyone. Anticipated his needs, maneuvered him like a chess piece. He craved that power dynamic, addicted to her unwavering faith. But lately Donna holds him at arm's length. Questioning his judgment, pushing back.
It should terrify Harvey. Instead it captivates him, dark curiosity coiling low in his gut.
Mike shifts forward, voice dropping conspiratorially. "Harvey. If Martell is playing her somehow... We can't let it jeopardize her defense."
Harvey levels him a wry look. "Since when are you Donna's white knight?"
Mike flushes. Harvey hides a smirk, tossing the basketball back. Mike catches it with a huff.
"Look. Martell is a wild card we can't control. All we can do is focus on Donna's defense and pray the information Gibbs gave us is enough to exonerate her."
They sit in silence until Mike ventures softly, "Where do you see things going with you two? After the dust settles?"
Harvey tenses. Truthfully he avoids examining his relationship with Donna too closely these days. Their connection runs too deep to analyze without getting sucked down an existential rabbit hole.
"I'm focused on getting her out of this mess," he says, voice clipped. "Anything beyond that is background noise."
Mike holds up a hand, pacifying. "You really don't know, do you? If she's in this for the long haul."
His empathy annoys Harvey more than the question itself. He comes around his desk to lean against the front, arms crossed defensively.
"Donna isn't exactly upfront with her feelings. But she lets me be there for her. That's enough for now."
Even as he says it, doubt flickers. Is it enough? Or is he still clinging to comforting illusions regarding Donna's affections? Perhaps she views him as merely a distraction. Their mutual desire a product of trauma and circumstance, rather than any profound bond.
Mike watches him with knowing eyes. "You're crazy about her."
It isn't a question. Harvey feels suddenly exposed. He pushes off from his desk and crosses to the window overlooking the city, buying time to regroup.
"She's been through hell. I just want to get her to the other side in one piece."
Mike stands and claps him supportively on the back. "We will."
Harvey offers a curt nod. Mike moves toward the door but pauses, grip tightening on Harvey's shoulder.
"For what it's worth, I think she loves you, Harvey. Maybe doesn't know it herself yet. But she does."
Harvey swallows hard against unexpected emotion. Before he can respond, Mike disappears out the door.
Harvey turns once more to the sprawling cityscape, sun sinking beneath the horizon to ignite the skyline in brilliant orange. Beyond the dazzling façade lies darkness and corruption, unseen machinations crashing Donna's world down around her. He will do anything — sacrifice any principle or risk — to keep her safe.
Mike may be Donna's self-appointed white knight, but Harvey will burn Washington to the ground before he loses her.
V
Donna stands at the floor-to-ceiling windows, gaze fixed on the city lights glittering below. The phone feels cold and lifeless in her hand, the parting words of the Attorney General's voicemail echoing through her mind.
The jury convenes on your indictment at nine. This is your last chance to cooperate.
She should feel something, she thinks distantly. Fear, anger, desperation. Instead an eerie calm descends, time slowing to stillness around her. There was a finality in the AG's measured tone that chills her blood. The endgame has arrived.
She thinks of Harvey and his fierce insistence they will win this. His stubborn refusal to give up or back down. She admires that relentless hope in him even now, standing at the precipice. But she heard the truth plainly in the AG's dispassionate words — for her, this is over. The charade of justice served. Her role is to go quietly, repentant. Take Jonathan down along with her.
The glass chills her palm, fogged by her breath. She focuses on that sensation, using it to center herself against the static threatening to fill her head. She thinks of Alice then, pictures her delicate features so like Jonathan's. Imagines her whispering, Be brave, Mama. Show no fear.
On some level she knew this day would come. Had sensed its inevitability from that first deposition with Gibbs. She wonders now if some part of her had wanted it, hoping for the release of finally atoning for past sins. An ending to the ceaseless grasping and clawing just to take another breath. Perhaps this was meant to be all along.
Still, fury kindles in her chest at the thought of them claiming victory unchallenged. The AG and his cabal of suits picking her bones clean then tossing her aside, their power untarnished. She refuses to bow out so meekly.
Lifting the phone back to her ear, she dials the AG's line from her voicemail. He answers after two rings, voice smooth and unhurried. The sound of it hardens her resolve.
"Ms. Paulsen. I assume you've reconsidered —"
"I have." Her fingers tighten around the phone. "So I'm sure you'll understand when I say I'll be declining your gracious offer of mercy. Now go ahead, take your manufactured evidence to your corrupt jury and serve me my indictment already. But know this, Joseph, if I go down, I'm taking you and every crooked bastard attached to this with me."
Silence. In the background Donna hears the rustle of papers and the click of high heels. The sounds of an office still bustling, past six on a weekday.
The AG chuckles. "Still defiant to the end, are we? Alright. We'll do this the hard way." His voice loses all pretense, cool and menacing. "You'll be remanded to solitary tomorrow evening. Enjoy what's left of your freedom."
The line goes dead. Slowly she lowers her arm and allows her forehead to thunk softly against the glass. The initial bravado wavers, spine chilling with the reality of what she's provoked. A declaration of war against men who hold all the power.
Madness. She must have a death wish.
A humorless laugh escapes her throat. Is she finally unraveling, after everything? Shedding sanity along with any self-preservation instinct?
She thinks suddenly of Jonathan's cool assessment yesterday. The balcony railing is still there. No one would blame you. Such an easy solution to end the ceaseless fear and running, beckoning like a siren's call. Let gravity rush her troubles to a permanent end.
The idea should terrify her. Instead it holds an undeniable allure. Going out on her own terms, with head held high. But she knows Harvey would never recover. Something to live for, she muses. At least until this final play reveals itself. After tomorrow, all bets are off.
She lifts her gaze once more to the cityscape, heartbeat settling into calm resolve. If this is to be her last dance, she will make it count. Play the symphony to its deafening crescendo and damn the cost. They expect her to be contrite, compliant. She will give them uncontrolled fury. Unleash the woman she'd caged long ago beneath silk suits and iron smiles.
Let them come, she thinks. Let them do their worst. She will not go gently.
VI
The gym buzzes with muffled thumps and cries of exertion as Samantha strides the tiled floor towards the boxing ring. She chose this industrial space in Hell's Kitchen for its anonymity, far from prying eyes or rumbling subway lines. Here, amongst the scent of leather and liniment, she can shed her polished veneer and channel her inner fighter. It is cathartic and comforting.
Jonathan already occupies the ring, stripped down to black sweatpants. His hair curls damply at the nape, skin shining with sweat as he feints and dodges an unseen opponent. Samantha admires the defined muscle and easy power in his movements. He is a man made for the fight.
He glances up at Samantha's approach, eyes hooded yet missing nothing. Her presence draws no outward reaction, only that subtle flare of nostrils betraying keen senses on high alert. Always assessing, always wary. She wonders briefly what must have occurred in his life to leave such scars. Then she recalls his military career. No, not a wonder. An inevitability.
"Martell." Samantha nods, looping the weighted tape around her knuckles with practiced efficiency. "Ready when you are."
He stands immobile, expression inscrutable. The seconds tick by, punctuated by dull thuds from the ring nearby. She flexes her wrists, testing the tension. He is evaluating, she realizes. Deciding if this is the true Samantha, or merely an act.
She cocks her head. "Do you always stare like this?"
Amusement flickers at the edge of his mouth. "I'm still deciding if you're here to spar or interrogate me."
"Both. Neither." She lifts her gloved fists, feigning a few jabs in the air. "It's not an ambush. But we don't have a lot of time for the dance. And you, my friend, have answers I need."
His jaw tightens imperceptibly. Samantha allows him one more beat of silence before stepping through the ropes. Jonathan still doesn't move, hands fisted loosely at his sides. "Think this is wise, Ms. Wheeler? We both know how this ends."
She flashes her best smile. "Let's find out. Come on, big guy, show me what you're made of."
He sizes her up for another long moment. Then he is on her in a blur of motion, not pulling his strikes but forcing her onto the defensive. Her ribs twinge where his heel connects with sudden precision but she rolls fluidly with the impact, springing back upright with fists raised. His frank appraisal shows grudging respect amongst calculated savagery.
Sweat slicks between her shoulder blades and beads her brow as she dodges and weaves, aiming kicks where vulnerabilities show in his guard. His mass and reach far outstripped her own yet she adapts, fluid and focused. No blows connect for long moments. A low thrum of respect builds in Samantha's chest, mingled with appreciation for the man before her. He is ruthless yet measured. Every movement calculated.
Then, briefest twitch of eyebrow hinting intent, his trap springs shut with shocking force. Samantha finds herself grappling palm to wrist, locked chest to heaving chest while he murmurs against the shell of her ear. "Yield."
She twists to no effect. She could drop to a low stance, sweep his feet. But a stubborn refusal to be outmaneuvered burns in her gut. He leans forward, testing her limits. His scent fills her senses, masculine musk tinged by bergamot and sweat. "You're stubborn, I'll give you that." His voice vibrates warm through her chest. She stifles a shiver.
"So I've been told."
Jonathan huffs out something resembling a laugh and releases her. They step apart, appraising, breath mingling in the narrow gap.
"You box," he observes at length, winding damp cloth around scabbed knuckles once more.
Samantha nods, rolling her sore shoulders. "And more. Four years active military before law school. Saw my share of tours, took up martial arts to blow off steam stateside."
A flicker of interest lights his somber eyes before extinguishing, "Where?" he asks, blunt but not unfriendly.
She shrugs. "Middle East mostly. Then my last tour saw us in Baghdad. Shit was chaos but we did what we could." She tosses the tape aside and reaches for her water bottle. Jonathan mirrors the gesture. "You were Special Ops."
His mouth thins, eyes skimming past her shoulder toward some distant, private battle. "Classified."
"Figured." She takes a swig and lowers her bottle, turning to find his gaze focused intently on her once more. He studies her, no trace of wariness left. Samantha cocks a hip, meets his probing stare with a level look. "We done with the pleasantries? Or did you have something else you wanted to ask me?"
She sees him suppress a smile. A small victory, yet a victory. He gives the smallest nod and she mirrors it.
They circle lazily, feeling one another out through the haze of endorphins and adrenaline rush ebbing. Familiarizing. A muscle twitches in her neck where his knuckles had connected firmly, blooming tender already. She smiles.
"So I gather Special Forces training goes beyond hand-to-hand?" She gestured to the tattoo peeking out beneath the strap of his undershirt. "And that scar...shrapnel?"
Jonathan shrugs noncommittally, unreadable once more. Retreating behind stoic walls she longs to penetrate. So many mysteries there, layers within layers begging to be peeled back by caring hands. Or perhaps that is wishful projection on her part, attorney starved of intimacy amongst heartless paper chases. The foster child always wishing someone would claim her. Stupid girl. She shakes herself inwardly. Focus, dammit.
She lets her own walls crumble, allowing honest concern in her voice. "Jonathan." She waits for his gaze to settle on her once more. "I mean to get you exonerated. But I need your full cooperation."
He steps forward, body coiled and tensed. Waiting for her demands, her inevitable compromise of principle. Samantha feels a surge of compassion. This man, this stranger she should feel no allegiance toward, already holds her loyalty in the palm of his hand. He simply doesn't know it.
"Your war buddy is your best bet at corroborating your story. With his testimony, we dismantle the government's narrative. Let me arrange a meeting -"
"No." His voice holds finality, eyes glinting like gun metal. She clenches her jaw.
"Listen, I don't care about your brother-in-arms bullshit. Whatever he knows, whatever he saw, it could save you from prison for the rest of your goddamned life. Do you get that?" She gestures in frustration. "And let's be clear, Jonathan, we are running out of time."
His expression remains cool, unwavering. "No. The answer is no. I will not put my friend or his family at risk."
She rounds the ring in frustration, slumping to a bench beneath the rack of free weights. A dull throb echoes behind her right eye, a familiar precursor to a tension headache.
A beat later the bench shifts. Jonathan settles beside her, palms clasped loosely. "My life is not your concern," he says simply. She snorts in exasperation.
"You are my concern. You're my client —" She stops, biting the inside of her cheek. Something like amusement flickers at the corners of his lips, almost imperceptible. Samantha's own lips curl in answer.
"Look, I can't help you unless you help yourself." She lays a gentle hand on his forearm. "Your friend. He has information we need. Information that could save you. That could save Donna." She watches her words sink in. Jonathan's eyes glaze briefly, then sharpen as he looks up to meet her gaze. Samantha leans forward earnestly, maintaining eye contact. "We have no idea when they're going to move. We could have a week, a month, or mere hours. All we have is time running out."
He stares through her, fixed on some unseen horror only he can see. Finally he sighs. "You can't arrange a meeting." Samantha frowns in disappointment but he continues, "I will."
A flood of relief washes through her. She stands. "Then let's make it happen." She starts to move past him but a firm hand on her hip halts her. His palm radiates warmth even through the material of her pants, steady and solid. Samantha forces herself to meet his gaze, sees there the depth of his own vulnerability.
"Samantha..." The sound of her name on his lips makes her pulse race, the gravity of his voice sending her skin tingling. "This will go to hell soon enough. You know that, right? You are risking everything —"
"To save you," she cuts him off. His expression flickers, then he looks away, eyes darkening. She places her palm over his and squeezes until he looks up once more. "This isn't altruistic, Jonathan. You are a client. This is my job. To take risks for your benefit. No matter the personal cost."
The tension radiating through his hand dissipates slightly at her touch, fingers twitching beneath hers. A charged moment passes, his gaze boring into hers with such intensity that Samantha feels a flicker of unease.
"Donna doesn't deserve this. Neither do you," she adds quietly. Jonathan's jaw tightens. He looks suddenly impossibly young, almost lost. Achingly human. Samantha wants nothing more than to smooth the troubled lines from his face, reassure him she will never abandon him.
But the moment passes. Jonathan drops his hand abruptly and stands. The steely façade returns, mouth hardening into a thin line.
"Tomorrow. 7am, your office. We'll rendezvous and I'll give you the address for where we'll be meeting our witness." Samantha opens her mouth to object, but he cuts her off with a glare. "Those are my terms. You want his testimony? We do this my way."
Samantha returns his stare with equal fire. Finally she nods, curt. "Tomorrow it is."
VII
Donna moves through the darkened hallways of Pearson Specter Litt. The lights extinguished hours ago, the associates and senior partners tucked away in their expensive high rises, far from the coming storm.
Only Harvey remains, office aglow in the sea of shadow. She doesn't need to look to know he sits at his desk still, jacket shed, sleeves rolled up as he pores over precedents and trial records. Trying to weave fragile strands of reason from madness. Her white knight.
She pauses at the threshold of what was once her domain. The cubicle stands barren, desk cleared of the framed photos and playbills that had marked her presence. All her personal effects boxed up, awaiting her return. Not that there will be one.
The wheeled chair creaks faintly as she sinks into it. The worn leather molds familiarly to her shape. How many hours had she spent in this seat, helm of the ship, steadfast at her post? Ruling her queendom with cool confidence, every detail orchestrated flawlessly.
She trails her fingers along the curved desktop, conjuring memories. The clack of manicured nails on keys, crisp efficiency. Harvey's voice through the intercom, whiskey-warm, beckoning her. The fizzy pop of a fresh highlighter, neon pink ink bleeding vividly across pallid paper. Already relics from another life.
A glance toward Harvey's office spins her further down the rabbit hole. He sits exactly as envisioned, sleeves pushed up on tanned forearms. His dark hair, glinting beneath the lamps. When had the years etched their passage so clearly? She still sees him as the brash upstart, hungry to prove himself. But time had left its mark on him too.
How many nights had she sat vigil just like this as he worked, admiring his dedication? The cut of his jacket across his shoulders, strong and steady. His hand raking through his hair when frustration mounted, leaving it endearingly rumpled. The way he would loosen his tie, glancing sheepishly through the glass to find her watching, a secret shared.
Nights that had at once felt endless yet gone in a blink. She averts her gaze, throat tightening. It all seems so far away somehow. As if she views that past as distantly as her life with Alice, remote and untouchable.
Harvey glances up then, eyes finding hers through the glass. His brows knit in silent question. She offers a wisp of a smile and stands. Her heels click a somber melody as she crosses the space between them.
Harvey straightens as she nears, surprise flickering across his features. "Donna. What are you doing here?"
She perches on the edge of his desk, fingering the smooth lip of glass. "I was nearby and saw your light on."
"You shouldn't be out alone this late. Not with everything..." He trails off awkwardly.
She forces brightness into her tone. "Oh, Vlad and the rest of the brute squad are lurking around here somewhere. I'm in good hands." At his deepening frown she waves a dismissive hand. "I just wanted to check on you. Catch up."
His eyes cling to her, seeing too much. After a taut moment he nods and gestures for her to sit. She sinks into one of the leather chairs across from him, knees pressed tight together.
"I just got off the phone with Gibbs," he says wearily. "The grand jury will convene tomorrow morning. You'll be formally indicted after."
Donna absorbs the information distantly. Tomorrow. After. Concepts devoid of meaning.
"Well, that's something to celebrate then." She forces levity she doesn't feel. "I believe your liquor cabinet is calling my name."
Before he can respond she rises and crosses to the crystal decanters. The bite of whiskey steadies her frayed nerves. She pours one for Harvey too, knowing he needs the bolster as much as her.
He accepts the tumbler she offers, throwing it back efficiently. The amber liquid catches the low light, fracturing it.
"You really shouldn't be out, Donna," he says. "I don't want them accusing you of tampering with evidence or coercing testimony."
Her answering laugh rings brittle. As if she still has any moves left to make. They both know the endgame grows near, options dwindling to a final few. Still, she appreciates him trying to protect her. Misguided as the effort may be.
"I'm not here to tamper with anything," she says gently. "Although, there is that cute little shredder I've had my eye on. Very discreet."
A reluctant smile touches his lips though worry lingers in his eyes. She softens seeing it. Her brave Harvey, still convinced he can wrestle back control of this runaway train and steer them clear of disaster. She envies his determination, if not his faith.
"I don't want to talk about the case," she continues, voice low. "Let's just...pretend for one night that everything is how it used to be. Before."
Understanding ghosts across Harvey's features. After a weighted beat, he gives a single nod.
Donna moves to the vinyl collection along the far wall. Her fingers trail lovingly across the worn sleeves until settling on one — Chet Baker. The melancholy strains of "This is Always" fill the office, Baker's wounded baritone floating hauntingly. She closes her eyes, letting the music wash over her.
When she turns back, Harvey watches her with naked longing. She offers a melancholic smile and returns to the liquor cart. This time she pours two healthy glasses and carries them to the leather couch along the window. Harvey follows wordlessly.
They sit angled toward one another, knees not quite touching. Donna takes a slow sip, savoring the whiskey's velvet burn down her throat. Outside the window, the city glitters beneath a heavy moon. The beauty of it catches at her heart.
"Do you remember that fundraiser gala we had to schmooze?" she asks suddenly. "The one where Louis got trashed on champagne and sang show tunes all night?"
Harvey huffs a laugh. "Vividly. Didn't he serenade Jessica with 'Memory' from Cats?"
"Oh he most certainly did." Donna grins, lost briefly in the memory. "I thought she was going to murder him right there in front of the donors."
"Honestly, I almost would've helped her hide the body." Harvey shakes his head, smiling. "God, what a nightmare."
"We finally had to drag him off stage when he tried to cajole people into joining for a rousing 'One Day More' from Les Mis."
Harvey groans dramatically. "Jesus. Why'd you have to remind me? I'd successfully repressed the whole debacle."
Donna's answering laugh spills out clear and bright. Joy swells in her chest just to trade fond memories of happier times once shared. She spent so many years clinging to this place and these people. They had become the bones that structured her second life after Alice.
Now all she clings to is slipping sand, no matter how desperately she grasps. But tonight yet remains.
She angles toward Harvey, studying his beloved face in the low light. Lines fanning from his eyes, the warmth in his amber gaze. Weary tension lingering in the set of his jaw. But still so handsome, still everything she has ever wanted. He will remain long after she is gone. The notion brings unexpected comfort.
"I always loved our late nights together," she says softly. "When a big trial was looming and we'd hunker down fueled on adrenaline and takeout. You at your desk, me at my post. Battling until dawn to knock the opposition dead." She stares into her whiskey, smile turning wistful. "Simpler times."
Harvey's hand covers hers where it rests on the couch. Warm, steady.
"We'll get back there," he says. "I'm not losing you, Donna. I don't care what I have to do."
Emotion clogs her throat, eyes suddenly burning. Sometimes his faith takes her breath away. She wishes she could cling to it, borrow some scrap to warm her hollowed chest. But the well of hope inside her ran dry long ago.
She sets both tumblers aside and shifts closer, tucking herself into his side. Harvey's arm comes around her automatically. She turns her face into his throat, inhaling sandalwood and spice, imprinting him on her senses. His lips find her hair, breath stirring the wispy strands.
"Let's not talk about it," she whispers. "I just want to be here with you. While I still can."
She feels him tense, jaw clenching against the top of her head. But he doesn't argue further. Only pulls her closer, hand trailing up and down the thin silk covering her spine. Each pass scatters tingles in its wake.
Donna loses track of time, lulled by liquor's languor and the hypnotic motion. But eventually the record spins to a close, needle skating emptily. In the stillness she feels Harvey's heart thudding, each beat trying to etch this stolen moment deeper into flesh and bone. Someday, hopefully years from now, he'll look back and recall this. Remind himself she had never needed words to tell him how much she cared.
But right now time weighs heavy. Numbers ticking mercilessly down from the hands of a clock they can't control. So she lifts her head from his shoulder. Meets his searching gaze and holds it, hoping he sees all the words she doesn't need to speak. If she says them out loud he will only insist upon her survival, no matter the cost. She can't let his blind confidence fracture her resolve. She's barely hanging on by a thread as it is.
So she does the only thing she can — tips her head and captures his mouth. Relishes his surprised inhale, the flutter of his eyelids when she presses him gently into the cushions. She thinks distantly that in another life they could've had this. Flirty lunches and hushed confessions, moments stolen on the LSAT review couch or in a hidden corner of the file room. Her at his side, and all the endless possibility ahead.
Tonight she drinks in that lost fate, drowns herself in every unspoken wish and wanting. He rises to meet her, fierce and needy, demanding more with the press of his mouth. She doesn't deny him, surrendering to the swell of desire and yearning. Giving him all she can while she still can.
Gradually they slow, caresses easing into gentler exploration. When his thumb grazes her cheek bone, she realizes there are tears there. Another tracks down her bare arm and drips, heartbreakingly delicate, to soak the fabric of his shirtsleeve.
Donna rises to her knees, forehead pressed to his. His familiar scent invades her lungs, strong and steadying. If she lives to a hundred she will never tire of breathing him in, the way his breaths intermingle with hers. In the last weeks, she's let fear drive her, fleeing and grasping and hiding, fueled only by flight. But she is done with that now.
Tomorrow she won't run. She'll face this head on for all the things and people in this life and beyond worth fighting for. The end may be determined but this ending will be hers.
A/N: Thank you all so much for continuing to show interest in this and pushing to see its completion. I love hearing all your thoughts and theories, so if you have the time please leave a review! I can't express how elated I am when you guys reach out, makes my day!
Muito obrigado a todos por continuarem demonstrando interesse nisso e pressionando para ver sua conclusão. Adoro ouvir todos os seus pensamentos e teorias, então se você tiver tempo, deixe um comentário! Não consigo expressar o quanto fico feliz quando vocês entram em contato, faz o meu dia!