She hasn't heard from him since morning.
He'd been on his way down to the prison, to check in with Danner and try to work out a way forward on the case. He'd looked nervous, which wasn't like him, and it made her worry, which was exactly like her.
He hadn't called. Hadn't emailed, or text, hadn't pestered her at all, asking for some paper work or for her to call the DA's office to grease some wheels or niggle their pool of attorneys into handing over a document they probably shouldn't.
And then it was the evening, and she'd waited as long as she could at the office before people would start asking why she was still there when he wasn't. There was a ball game on, which she doesn't care about but he does, and that's unusual as well, because he always calls to bitch about the umpire when there's a game on.
She'd distracted herself with drinks with Rachel, which had worked until she'd asked if they'd ever and she'd lied like it was second nature even as she flashed back to memories of strawberries and cream and the delicious pull of his skin against her. She'd picked up her phone several times through the evening to check on him while she lied to Rachel, to see if she'd missed a call, or at least to see if he had sent one of his furious, whisky-soaked texts where he calls the Yankees dogshit, but nothing.
So she'd worried.
She doesn't like to admit she worries about him. Well, not outside of the studied professionalism she uses to justify why she worries about him. It's my job, she says to anyone who will listen, anyone who questions, or anyone who looks sideways at her like they might question.
It's not her job to lie awake at night worrying about why he hasn't called to yell at her about baseball, but she never says that out loud to anyone, including herself, and never admits that she worries. It's for her benefit as much as it is for his, or for anyone else. He hates it when she hovers, and she hates the thought that she might look at him in a stray moment in a way that would give her away, further fuel the water cooler gossip.
And there is gossip, of course. Always has been, since their first week together in the DA's office. She doesn't let it bother her. Mostly. But she's as careful not to add to it as she is not to let it bother her.
He calls enough, usually, so she doesn't call him. He calls when he needs her, he doesn't when he doesn't, and that's all there is to it. If he's not calling, it's because he doesn't need her.
Still, she can't get rid of the squirm in the pit of her belly that maybe he does, needs her in a way he doesn't know how to ask for in a text or a call, and maybe she needs to find him.
She figures, nobody will know if she calls now to check on him.
She's brushing her thumb over his number in her phone and fighting opposing instincts when Mike calls and tells her she should probably check in on him.
–
Outside his apartment, she takes a moment, knocks with the hand she hasn't got pressed up against the doorframe for support. She'd never admit she was worried, and the woodgrain against her palm helps her keep the shake in her fingers hidden.
He opens the door, surprised to see her, and she's surprised to see the fresh bruise blossoming over his cheek. He's wearing slacks and a bomber jacket that he's never seen before.
"Donna," he says, startled.
"Harvey," she says.
"I - what are you doing here?" He leans forward into her orbit to look down the hallway behind her like he's expecting an ambush.
"I haven't heard from you all day." She shakes her head at him a little, unblinking, hooded gaze betraying her frustration and worry even as her voice stays light. "Derek Jeter struck out, I thought I would have at least gotten a call."
Harvey holds his gaze for a long moment, then breaks first, rolls his eyes and looks aside, guilt flirting behind his annoyance. "Not now, Donna."
"You don't call, you don't write…"
"I said not now, Donna."
"Not even a carrier pigeon? Telegram? Smoke signal?"
"Donna."
"Where have you been, Harvey?"
"I said not. Now." He turns away from her, petulant and exhausted.
"What the hell is going on?" she asks, and when he opens his mouth with a specific look in his eyes she knows too well, she cuts him off. "And don't even think about goddamn lying to me."
She can see him weighing his options for a long moment, before sighing, admitting defeat. He steps aside, gesturing broadly, lets her in.
"It wouldn't kill you to listen to me just once, you know," he says, evenly, as he follows her into the kitchen.
"Oh please, like I ever got anywhere listening to you. Sit." She pats the kitchen counter.
He dutifully perches on the island, leaning heavy on his hands, protesting that he's fine as he does so, but the dip of his shoulders betrays exhaustion shot through with stiff pain.
"Shut up," she says, scolding shot through with affection, and swears under her breath as she rummages through his freezer. "Where's your ice?"
"Are people meant to have ice?"
"Jesus, it's like a teenager's fridge," she says, digging. "Do you have anything you don't make in a toaster oven?"
"Hey, that toaster oven has gotten me through some hard times."
She comes up empty handed for ice, peas, or anything else with any anti-swelling or nutritional value, but the handful of whisky rocks he's got stashed in there permanently will do, she supposes. "You know they still make hot pockets, right?" she asks as she wraps them in a kitchen towel and turns back to him. "You didn't have to buy every single one you could find in the city."
"Breakfast of champions," he says, only half-joking. She cups his chin in her hand, and he winces when she turns his head into the shine of the downlights above him. '"Ow, hey. Stop it."
"Stop squirming. Let me see."
He settles into silence as she examines his cheek, sucks in a breath as she holds the cool of the kitchen towel up to the angry bruise sitting high on his cheekbone.
She can see his brain working, searching for a joke or quip, but he's tired, she can see in the light over him, and he finally gives in and drops the bravado, drops his eyes from hers so he doesn't have to pretend to her that he's not exhausted. The lines under his eyes are deep set, not just from whatever had happened since she last saw him but from the strain of the last weeks, painting his eyes stark against his skin.
There's something in the quiet and in the way his weight is leaning on his palms, thumbs pressed into the marble, in the way he's letting his legs swing loose, that makes him look younger and more vulnerable than she can remember.
He needs sleep, she thinks to herself, burying the insane and sudden impulse to scratch her fingers through the hair at his temple.
"How'd you know to come over so late?" he asks.
"I'm Donna, I know everything."
He studies her. "Mike told you, didn't he."
"He did."
Harvey snorts knowingly. "Snitch."
"Hush." She rearranges the whisky rocks, finding fresh cool to press against his skin. "What happened?"
"Hot dog guy finally got fed up with me asking for extra onions." It's a joke, burying how uncomfortable he is, but it's so obvious that she's almost offended by it.
"Harvey."
"I'm going to have to go back to the bagel cart."
"Harvey."
He shakes his head, sighs petulanty. "It was Danner. Goaded him into it. Needed some time. This got me it."
"Anything broken?"
"Just my pride, mostly," he says. "And I jammed my shoulder." He takes the opportunity to stretch his neck to the side, rolling his shoulder blade back until he forces a crack that gives some relief.
He suddenly becomes aware that she's gone still, hand static against his cheek, and he frowns, looks up to find her gaze. "What?" he asks.
"I just …" She searches for a moment, can't quite find the words. Because every now and then, he really surprises her, and this is one of those times.
For all his displays of genuine selfishness, of self-serving and cynical manipulation, there's this part of him that fights to the surface every now and then, emerges out of nowhere, where he's this other version of himself - still cynical and manipulative, but …
'Good' is too easy a word, she thinks. It's too simple, and doesn't give away any of the muddy complexity wrapped around all of this, hides the way he fights it as he does it and lies to everyone about his motivations. But. It's good, despite all of that.
And so is Harvey - good, despite all of ... him.
She wishes he'd hold onto it a little more.
He doesn't, mostly, and he says it's because he's not that guy, but she suspects maybe it's that he's that guy exactly, too much that guy, and touches like this one might open floodgates he doesn't know how to close.
This doesn't feel like floodgates, but it does feel a bit like the first drops of spring rain, fresh and like promise.
"It was good of you," she says finally, shifting the towel over his cheek so that she has something to look at instead of into his eyes.
"It's not a big deal," he says, uncomfortable, and insists again, "it's not," when she doesn't agree with him quickly enough.
She looks at him.
"It's not."
He doesn't blink quickly enough when he says it, and then, just unexpectedly enough to catch them both by surprise, their eyes lock properly, like she remembers they did once years ago, and it's probably just because Rachel asked about them earlier in the night that makes her think of that moment, but ...
She remembers the feeling of sinking into him, hidden in the quiet black of her apartment, away from work and expectation, and she remembers how they'd had this moment, beyond what they were at the time - one night lovers squeezed in between work and responsibility - and she'd held her breath because the world had stopped, and she was afraid if she breathed too loud she might damage it somehow.
That moment had felt like this moment does, unfolding in front of her with the whole world watching and keeping secret for them.
She catches her breath in the same second that he lets out a slow sigh, and for a long moment she lets the sea change in him shift around her. She's quiet for long enough that she thinks she can feel what he's thinking, read his thoughts through his eyes.
Despite his best efforts, he's always had eyes that connect directly to his soul.
She can see him in front of her, selfish and selfless mixed together, confidence and uncertainty, that maddening mix of self-centered scheming and unconscious generosity. And in the quiet, with her hand to his cheek and his frame slumped a little towards her, in the dim that fights against the swinging light overhead, some silent shift moves to sit, unspoken between them. The quiet recognition from her that something is different about him that's made him allow this, and the silent embarrassment from him, that he's been caught in a moment of trying.
The compress has gotten too warm to be helpful, and he reaches up, slowly, to where she has the whisky rocks pressed against his cheek, nudges a thumb between her hand and the towel, takes it from her and drops it next to him.
She should probably drop her hand, she thinks, but before she can, she finds her palm pressed against his cheek.
Her thumb drifts along the line of his cheekbone.
He doesn't stop her.
She almost leans in, but he blinks at just the wrong moment, breaking whatever momentary spell they'd slipped into, and she's suddenly aware that they've been quiet for far too long a moment, hiding together in the spring rain.
She turns her hand, puts the back of her knuckles against the bruise. "Do you need anything for it?" she asks, and it comes out with a lot more breath than she's expecting.
He doesn't answer. Guilt's settled into his gaze and he looks down, away from her.
"Hey," she says, ducking her head to catch his gaze again. "You would always have gotten him out."
"It felt close."
"It was close. But you did it." A pause. "I'm proud of you. You did a good thing, Harvey."
"I was undoing a bad thing."
He lets his head drop then, properly, giving into doubt and weariness. He looks a million years old and like a kid all at once, and he's always been so goddamn hard on himself, she knows. Away from the bravado and bluster, he's wrapped up in insecurity and terrified he's going to make a wrong move. And now that day he's dreaded has come. He's made a wrong move, and he's fucked up some kid's whole future along with it, and he can't fix it, not really.
She can see all the bitterness and mourning of it written in the line of his shoulders and the weight leaning in his palms, and it's not even a conscious thought she has to step into him, slip her arms around his back and let him fall into her hug.
He's tall, taller than her anyway and the kitchen island exaggerates the difference, but he drops his face into the crook of her neck, an arm around her shoulders and another around the small of her back, and there's something comforting, she thinks, in the way his legs frame her hips and in the way his torso presses against hers.
He's still, except for the way he squeezes his eyes shut tight enough for her to feel it against the curve of her neck. She runs a hand up his back to his shoulder blades and back again, settling into a comforting rhythm, and doesn't say anything.
She can read his soul in his eyes, but she swears she can feel his whole being in the curve of his spine and the catch of his breath. He clings, tight, the way he sighs into his lungs feels like gratitude, and she wonders how long it's been since he touched someone without the chase of sex. She guesses it's been a while.
"I'm sorry," he says, with the same low rumble he'd had when he said to her in the office a couple of days ago, but this time it's slow, unbidden, without the undercurrent of reluctance that word is so often soaked in. "I should have called."
She smiles against his shoulder. "Consider yourself forgiven."
He draws back then, eyes just this side of watery, unsure if he should be embarrassed or not, and he settles for a slightly embarrassed shrug as he rubs the back of his neck. "Thanks," he says. "I … thanks."
Donna busies herself tidying the kitchen towel and whisky rocks, giving him the space to gather himself and slip off the counter. "Do you need painkillers?" she asks.
"Whisky?" A pause, then when she rolls her eyes, "What? It counts."
She laughs, says, "I should go," before he can invite her for a nightcap, because… then what?
He walks her to the door, and as she opens the door, says,
"Hey."
She looks back. "What?
"So is it … okay if we hug? Sometimes?"
He looks so unsure of himself, hands in his pockets and asking for touch like he's trying to disarm a bomb.
She's not certain, but it feels like he knows things aren't quite the same as they were a few days ago, and he needs to know she'll still be there if he's not quite who he's always been anymore.
She smiles, squeezes his arm.
"Always."
On the way home he texts, fucking Yankees.
notes.
I always loved the lines 'is it okay if we hug?' and 'always', because it feels like a hint to this rich relationship between Harvey and Donna we don't get to see much of on screen.
Also, the infamous 'they hug' stage direction we all love.
So, an exploration of those hidden moments where they hug.
writing hiatuses happen to me a lot more than I'd like. Life is busy, and this year has held some of the best days of my life and some of the hardest, and I have missed writing these two. in 2024 I'm trying to find gaps to explore them in amongst all the busyness. I don't know how much time I will have but we live in hope.
Like making pancakes, the first bit of writing back after a break always feels like a bit of a sacrifice. But I like this idea and let's see where it goes.
I'm aware Suits has found a new lease of life on Netflix, so if you're new - welcome. Let's enjoy these idiots together.