I
Harvey grips the steering wheel tightly as he merges onto I-95 North, weaving between lanes. Rain drums steadily on the roof and wipers squeak rhythmically across the glass. His foot presses the gas, edging past 90. The SUV hums smoothly as it surges past a Volvo and he checks the rearview, watching it fall behind.
He fumbles for his phone, eyes darting from the road to the screen in front of him, pulling up Donna's contact info. Her voicemail clicks on, as it has the last three times he's tried. It's 10:30 and still no word from her. The police could be there at any moment. His blood pounds in his ears at the thought and his knuckles whiten on the steering wheel.
He swipes through his contacts and taps Mike's number. He picks up on the second ring, words spilling out rapidly. "Harvey. I've been trying to reach you —"
"Where is she?"
"I— what?"
"Where's Donna, Mike?" His voice feels tight. The engine roars as he passes a slow moving minivan. "I've called three times and she's not picking up."
A loaded pause. Harvey's grip tightens further, his foot pressing down on the gas pedal.
"They arrested Donna twenty minutes ago. It's all over the news." Mike's voice strains with emotion. "I'm sorry, I tried to stop it—"
The words fade, drowned beneath the roaring in Harvey's ears. He sucks in shallow breaths, vision tunneling on the road in front of him. Donna is in custody, he thinks numbly, behind bars, likely terrified. He had promised he'd keep her safe. Promised she wouldn't be charged. All the things he said to reassure her, to get her to trust him, and it's all bullshit. All of it. He failed her. He failed them all.
"Harvey." Mike's voice brings him back into focus, the roar abating enough to make out his words. "...talk me through what you're thinking, okay? We can still find a way —"
"We need to get her out," he interrupts, the words clipped. "Right now."
Mike doesn't respond and Harvey thinks he might be holding his breath, the air feels charged somehow, a static hum filling the silence. The engine whines in protest as he passes another sedan, then another. The highway stretches before him, dark and seemingly endless, rain pelting down, the road a blur of wet and red taillights.
"I'm trying, Harvey." Mike finally says. "I've been calling non-stop and they won't even talk to me about releasing her on bond. And with the media's attention...and Donna's charges..." His words drift away and Harvey thinks he knows what he was going to say. It's impossible. Even he knows it's impossible. There's no getting her out tonight, maybe not even in the next 24 hours, or the next week, or longer.
But he can't leave her like this. Can't bear the thought of her alone. It's all too much and not enough and it can't be happening. It has to be some horrible nightmare, one that ends with him waking to find Donna curled against his side. The memory of it flashes, vivid. His hands twitch and his eyes blur with moisture.
"I'm heading to the precinct now," he manages.
There's a beat, and he thinks Mike must know what's coming, the lengths Harvey is willing to go. Because when he speaks, his voice has changed, all the hesitancy and uncertainty gone, leaving something steadying. Something calm and resolute. "I'll meet you there."
II
The holding cell is small. There are no windows, no clocks, just her, the room, and a toilet that reeks. The metal bars at the cell entrance cast stark shadows on the concrete floor. Donna sits on a small metal bench, staring. A numbness settles in as time stretches.
Her gaze drifts down to her wrists. They still tingle, tender from the cuffs, her skin red and sore. It's such a small thing. She traces the marks with trembling fingers, studying the delicate bones beneath the skin, the small blue veins and fine red hairs. It all feels too large to grasp. Like she is a bystander in someone else's body, watching as they fall apart and can't do anything to stop it. She's only ever been powerless like this once before, watching Alice pass away. That moment, and this, feel similar — the sickening dread, the paralyzing helplessness. The slow unraveling of everything that she is or was, piece by piece, until she is no more.
The lights buzz softly overhead, the echoes of a far off door clanging shut every so often. She strains for any sound of voices or footsteps but hears nothing aside from her own breath and the frantic pounding of her heart.
Time continues to pass and she continues to sit, perched stiffly on the edge of the bench, poised for flight though she has nowhere to run. The panic ebbs and surges like a tide, leaving her struggling against hyperventilation one moment and numbly detached the next. Her thoughts chase round and round, replaying everything that led her here. She wonders what Harvey is doing now, if he knows yet or if he is still blissfully unaware, speeding down the freeway from D.C. with the last possibility of hope.
She pictures the look that will cross his face when he finds out, something anguished and helpless, fury mixing with despair. Her chest constricts sharply at the image and she presses the heels of her hands over her eyes, fighting back a fresh swell of emotion. It's too much, being trapped here with nothing but the roiling contents of her mind. She needs a distraction, an escape, anything to make this ceaseless torment stop.
A metallic clang sounds then, loud in the silence. Donna's head snaps up, pulse spiking at the approach of footsteps beyond her line of sight. She holds her breath, listening to the rhythm draw steadily nearer then stop just outside her cell. The space fills with the jangle of keys and the squeal of metal.
There's a pause, heavy with anticipation, before Donna catches sight of a guard stepping into view. He looks stern but not unkind.
"Lets go," he commands.
Donna stands without question, smoothing her rumpled dress with shaking hands.
"Hold out your wrists."
She hesitates at the sight of the fresh pair of cuffs. A deep welling of panic flares low in her belly, and her legs suddenly feel rooted, frozen. It's happening, she thinks. They are taking her to be charged, interrogated. She is really and truly alone in this. The world begins to tilt.
"Now."
Donna blinks at the harsh tone, breath coming fast. She tries to obey, to force herself into movement. Her limbs remain stiff and useless. She can only watch as the guard advances, a strange look crossing his features as he grabs her arms and presses them together. She doesn't fight it as he fastens the cuffs into place. She is barely even there.
Then she is following, helpless, the guard's hand hot against the back of her neck, herding her forward through the labyrinth of concrete hallways and bright lights. Still no windows, no connection to the outside world or way to mark the passage of time. She follows numbly, footsteps echoing endlessly. Her arms throb and her mouth tastes stale, lips dry and parched. She can't remember the last time she drank anything.
When they finally emerge topside, she has to blink against the onslaught of noise and activity. The main floor bustles with cops and reporters and lawyers, people milling about, shouting. The guard directs her toward fingerprinting first, then a sterile room where camera flashes leave starbursts lingering as two officers document her condition from every angle.
The procedures blend together, a hazy stream of commands and questions, signatures and stamps. The photographs continue endlessly, wounds documented— bruised knees, a busted lip, a scraped arm from the scuffle with the marshal. A young woman in scrubs shines a penlight in her eyes, examines her hands, feet, neck. She listens to her heart and lungs, prods the back of her skull and palpates her abdomen. It is only when they instruct her to strip, passing over a bagged orange jumpsuit, that her control starts to slip. She protests weakly but the officers do not relent and she is left with little choice.
Her heart hammers in her chest as the zipper lowers and the dress pools at her feet, her fingers fumbling clumsily at the clasp of her bra and then she is naked and vulnerable and everything is so overwhelming she feels lightheaded and unsteady. There are hands on her, in places where they should not be. Her throat burns, eyes stinging, and she wishes more than anything in the world for all of this to be over, for someone, anyone, to save her.
Eventually, the hands recede, and she is able to don the thin cotton jumpsuit. Her limbs shake uncontrollably and it takes every bit of strength she possesses not to sink to her knees in humiliation.
After a time, a guard collects her again, leading her out of processing and into an empty room. The space is small and barren save for a metal table bolted to the floor and three chairs. She sits numbly as the guard fastens her handcuffs to the loop on the table. A harsh clang resounds through the room as he shuts the door, trapping her inside. Silence follows.
Her gaze wanders around the space. A large mirror spans the far wall — a two-way, she knows. Someone is certainly observing her right now, perhaps several people. The thought leaves her uneasy.
How long she waits there, she isn't certain. Time seems to crawl. She resists the urge to fidget or shift, schools her features into calm. Whatever comes next, she will face it with poise. She refuses to let them see her unravel.
When the door finally swings open, two men file inside — one older in a tailored suit, one younger bearing a cardboard file box. The older man offers a perfunctory smile that does not touch his eyes.
"Ms. Paulsen. Thank you for your patience." His voice rings smooth, soothing. He takes the seat opposite while the younger man circles the table to stand against the wall behind her. She fights the instinct to turn and track him.
"I'm Agent Yaeger. This is my partner, Agent Walsh." He places a mini recorder on the table between them and clicks it on.
His partner speaks from his place behind Donna, tone bored, indifferent. "For the record, you're currently in custody and have been read your rights. Is that correct?"
Donna doesn't answer. The agent makes a low noise, then circles into view, taking up the remaining chair and giving Donna an expectant look. He's tall, likely close to her age, handsome in a clean-cut sort of way. His piercing gaze and blank expression are a sharp contrast to Agent Yaeger's gentle smile.
She stares at the two agents. The men wait for her to respond. When she doesn't, Agent Yaeger gestures toward the recorder, raising an eyebrow. "The tape's rolling."
Donna glances toward the device. "I understand my rights and will not proceed until counsel is present."
Agent Walsh shifts back in his seat with a heavy sigh. His eyes wanders, settling on something past Donna's shoulder, expression blank, impassive. Agent Yaeger gives her an assessing look.
"We just have a few questions," he says. "Nothing that requires legal counsel present."
Donna keeps her eyes fixed on the recorder, watching the red light blink on, off, on. She searches her feelings and finds nothing at all. Her heart seems slow and distant in her chest, her limbs numb. Even her breaths seem shallow, detached. Like she's watching all this transpire from the other side of the mirrored glass.
"Fine." Agent Walsh breaks the silence, rising. He gathers the file box from the floor and plops it on the table in front of her. It lands with a loud thud. "Donna Paulsen, you have been accused of several violations of the US Code."
"Yes," she says. "I've seen the news reports."
"Well, if you're interested in getting the charges dropped —"
"I'm not." Her gaze flicks up to meet his.
Agent Yaeger folds his arms. "These proceedings will go smoother if you cooperate with us, Ms. Paulsen."
"Like I said," she responds. "I will not speak with you until I have legal representation present."
Her voice doesn't even quiver. She is proud of herself in a distant sort of way.
Agent Walsh smirks at her response, shaking his head. He leans forward, invading her space. "Maybe we haven't made it clear. As a national security risk, you have no right to legal counsel. We can question you as much as we like, however we want. And no lawyer you'd find here is going to be able to help you. Nothing short of a plea deal from the prosecution is getting you out of this."
She maintains her unwavering stare. Sinks her fingernails into the fabric of her jumpsuit, focuses on the pinch of her skin. "Then I have nothing to say to you."
Agent Yaeger touches his partner's arm, cutting a sharp glance between them. Agent Walsh steps back. The tension in the air grows electric as the two men exchange a loaded look. Then, slowly, deliberately, Agent Yaeger pulls open the box and rummages through a number of files. His fingers retrieve a stack of documents that he lays on the table, leafing through until he finds what he's looking for.
"I have the original documents of your indictment, in which you are charged with — " He pauses to glance down at the folder, shuffling the pages. "...treason, conspiracy to defraud the United States, conspiracy to defraud the United States of arms, money, and property, conspiracy to make false entries, misprision, perjury, bribery, and various other misdeeds, to be charged accordingly." He glances back up, and his eyes seem to darken, glint almost. "How are you so far, Ms. Paulsen?"
"Get to the point," she says.
Agent Walsh chuckles and she still does not move her gaze. It rests on Yaeger, hard.
He nods as if in approval.
"Point is," Agent Walsh breaks in. "We're well aware your ex-husband was the one calling the shots. That you were completely unaware of the consequences or what you were authorizing." He smiles almost. "With that in mind, we're prepared to offer you a lesser sentence."
She narrows her eyes. "Let me guess. In return, I give you information on Jonathan."
"Smart girl." His smile deepens.
"I won't."
"They aren't your signature. You weren't the one behind any of it."
"I won't."
His smile vanishes. "It could spare you a trial. A lifetime spent in prison."
"I. won't."
After a few moments of silence, it's Agent Yaeger who recovers, pulling her attention.
"If you're convicted of treason, they could give you the death sentence."
She smiles slightly. "So be it."
Agent Walsh slams his palms against the table, rising, the sudden violence pulling her from her reverie.
"You arrogant cunt," he snaps.
"Walsh," Agent Yaeger says sharply, "get out."
Walsh straightens. Runs his hands down the front of his shirt, jaw tense. Then he does as told, striding toward the door. Slides it open and closes it with such force she feels the reverberations beneath her feet. Yaeger shakes his head. His eyes have turned almost sympathetic.
"Let's start over," he says quietly. "Ms. Paulsen — Donna — do you understand what's going to happen to you? Please, try to understand how big this is, how dangerous. You weren't the one perpetrating the crimes, but you are going to be held culpable. The system will see you just as guilty."
Donna returns her attention back to the recorder. Remains mute. Beneath the table, her fingers have twisted so tight they are aching, tingling.
"You can keep silent, but — and with all due respect, this is nonnegotiable — you will pay for your involvement one way or another." Yaeger's gaze softens. "Is the information you have on Jonathan worth the years you'll serve for protecting him?"
"My attorney," she says. "Let me see him."
"I told you — your right to legal counsel does not apply under the current situation."
She locks eyes with him. Sets her jaw. "I want my attorney."
His expression darkens. "Ms. Paulsen, this is your last opportunity to—"
"All I'm asking for is legal counsel. If I can't have it, then take me to my cell. Right now. Because otherwise I'm done talking."
His expression hardens and he sweeps the papers back into the box, then reaches for the recorder, his finger tapping down in a swift motion. The recording clicks off. The room suddenly feels painfully still without it.
Yaeger sighs. Retreats from the table. She can sense him watching her, analyzing. For a moment, it almost seems he will say something else. But then he leaves her there, alone and shackled, without looking back.
Donna slumps, exhaling. She hates that her hands are trembling. She balls them into fists again, knuckles going white, and struggles to slow her breathing, to steady her racing heart. A bead of sweat trickles down her neck, clammy and damp. She wants to scream, to cry, to finally shatter into a thousand jagged pieces and vanish, forever. Instead, she closes her eyes, digging her fingernails deeper into her arms, and keeps her silence.
When they return, still without Harvey, she feels her resolve start to wither. The hours pass agonizingly and she cannot mark the time. They take turns with the questions — Agent Yaeger playing nice while Walsh stares, unmoving, watching with those unnerving eyes. The routine is always the same — question, refusal to answer, then repeat. Her own exhaustion is starting to weigh on her — eyes dry, stomach queasy with hunger. Her throat is parched from the stress and dehydration and the endless hours of repeating the same lines.
She can see the agents growing more agitated, their cool facade crumbling with the lack of answers. The older agent grows more direct, the younger more hostile. Her pulse pounds and her breaths come short as she repeats again and again: I have nothing to say. I have nothing to say. I have nothing to say.
Their attempts at goading and intimidating her fail, but they keep pushing, keep coming at her, relentless. Their words circle endlessly. Guilty. Liar. Fraud. Perjury. Charges. Prison. Prison. Prison.
When she begins to grow incoherent, the younger agent stalks off to find another partner, the room is again filled with men — men who seem to appear from thin air, and all of them with more questions. She tries to keep them straight in her head, their faces, names. She loses count. Her brain grows clouded from sleep deprivation, and she struggles to understand. She just wants it to stop. Wants the voices, the lights, the faces, to stop. It is all so overwhelming, but the words that emerge are always the same, a hollow chant: "I have nothing to say. I want my lawyer. Get my lawyer. I have nothing to say. Nothing. Nothing."
She is certain that Harvey knows by now, though there is still no sign of him. The thought hurts far more than she would like, and the feeling only adds to the onslaught of panic, of helplessness, of shame. It builds in her, and she thinks it's all so absurd, she could laugh or cry. But instead she is mute and parched, numb with the strain of keeping up this act and waiting for a relief that may not even be coming.
III
When Anita arrives at the precinct the morning after Donna Paulsen's arrest, she is met with chaos. The building is a mob scene of reporters and camera-men, all clamoring for information. She pushes past the hysteria to make her way to the lobby, and is unsurprised when she finds Harvey Specter already there, pissing off half the people in the room. He's making demands, issuing threats and generally making a spectacle. Mike Ross, ever the level headed one, seems to be playing interference, attempting to calm the waters while still urging the staff to give in to Harvey's demands. It is a sight to behold. Anita takes a moment to enjoy it before making her way over.
She clears her throat pointedly as she approaches. The men whip around to face her, a strange combination of surprise, relief and anger in Harvey's eyes.
"Anita," he says, voice strained. "Tell these assholes they can't hold Donna without counsel. It's been twelve hours since her arrest and no one will talk to me about where she is or what the hell is going on."
Anita lifts her gaze to the uniformed officer who seems to be in charge, flashing her US Attorney ID card. "Where's Ms. Paulsen?"
"The feds have her," the officer responds. He eyes the corporate attorneys behind her with obvious contempt. "Interrogation Room B."
She gives a curt nod in thanks and turns back to Harvey. "You need to wait here."
Harvey stares at her, incredulous. "Like hell I'm waiting here."
Anita's expression does not change. She stands taller and meets his eyes head-on, a familiar battle. "She's being detained by the federal government, Harvey. The last thing we need right now is you barging in there and making things worse. If you really want to help Donna, let me do my job, and don't interfere."
Mike puts a hand on his shoulder, perhaps as a signal or perhaps just an effort to keep him from lunging at her.
Harvey sighs and turns away, raking his hands through his hair in frustration. She gives him a moment, waits until she sees him release the breath he is holding, shoulders sagging, before speaking again, her tone gentler now.
"I will get you to her. I promise."
Harvey meets her eyes, his face weary. He looks so lost, so utterly unlike his usual brash and capable self that it is startling, "Please," he says softly. "She needs me."
Anita returns his gaze, some of her reserve softening at the words. "Go have some coffee. Take a walk and clear your head." She watches Harvey open his mouth to protest. "It could be a long time. We need you focused, ready to help her when the time comes."
Harvey hesitates, brows pinched with conflict, eyes still pleading. His distress is evident. Mike squeezes his arm, drawing his attention. Anita takes it as her cue. She nods to them and makes for the interrogation wing..
The viewing room is cold and bare. It has none of the plush accommodations and security cameras that are common in a standard FBI interview. No air conditioning or audio recording equipment. Just two plastic chairs bolted to the concrete floor and a long mirrored glass. Through it, she can see Donna sitting stiffly across a table from an agent — Yaeger, her mind supplies, remembering his face from court proceedings. An empty chair sits beside him, the table stacked with case files and photographs. Anita doesn't need to see the files to know the charges and evidence. She'd been working on the case against Paulsen and Martell for years and has witnessed the buildup firsthand. The evidence against the woman is nearly unheard of. There's no question of her guilt — she's as good as convicted.
Anita studies Donna through the glass, the way her back is rigid, chin tilted defiantly, hands fisted beneath the table, her body language all challenge and no surrender. Where Harvey had been frantic, nearly on the verge of hysteria, Donna is clearly in her element — shoulders thrown back, gaze steady, an unreadable expression cast toward her interrogators as they speak to her. Anita has to marvel at her resilience. Donna Paulsen is truly a force to be reckoned with.
Yaeger leans forward then, speaking. His voice comes through the speakers in the room, low and gentle. "I understand how you're feeling. I know it's hard. You're angry and you're tired and you feel helpless."
Paulsen doesn't react to his words, eyes fixed, unblinking on the two-way mirror. He continues.
"You don't trust anyone. You think you can handle this on your own, but the fact is that you're trapped, Donna." Yaeger places his hands flat on the table. Leans into her space. "I'm offering you an out. Give me Jonathan. Tell me he forced you. We know what kind of man he is. You have every reason to tell me what really happened, every reason to fight to keep yourself safe. Just tell me the truth."
Still, Donna doesn't respond, doesn't even flinch. She keeps her gaze locked on the mirror, staring through him and at nothing.
"I need you to look at me, Donna," he says. His voice is still calm but the frustration is becoming more and more apparent. "We've been talking for a while now and I know this is a lot. You've been through a lot, and you're probably really confused right now. You feel alone and scared."
He reaches toward her. Pauses, fingers inches from her arm, watching her. Perhaps testing her resolve. Perhaps, a last ditch effort to elicit a reaction. Then his hand falls away. He sighs, leaning back in his chair, regarding her. "I know you think you're protecting someone. Maybe someone you love. But if you keep doing this, you are just making it worse on yourself. And it will be too late. You need to speak to me."
Donna just sits there, palms pressed flat. Her expression is so blank, so devoid of emotion, that for a moment Anita wonders if she's even registering his words. It's unnerving and impressive and she doesn't envy Yaeger's task of making this woman speak.
Yaeger abruptly rises from his seat. He turns from Donna, circling the table with slow steps to come to stand at her side. He studies her face for a long moment before lowering himself beside her, arms crossed, leaning close.
"I'm sure you miss her," he says. The hushed volume of his words sends a chill through the room. "How old was she when she died? Seven?"
There is a flicker of a reaction then, something vulnerable and pained crossing Donna's face before she stifles it. She tears her eyes away from the glass and fixes them downward at her wrists, the red welts and chafe marks where her skin is held in manacles. Yaeger goes on.
"Did her sickness cause all this? Did Jonathan bribe you with a chance to cure her? I bet he said all the right things — a new life, a second chance — and you had no choice but to believe. How far would a mother go for her child?"
"Stop," Donna says, more to herself than the agent, her voice nearly a whisper.
Yaeger watches her, his tone taking on a new edge. "You would have done anything. Sacrificed anything. I know how this must be for you...the desperation, the intensity. The choices. The guilt." He pauses, letting his words sink in. "But Alice is dead. What are you really fighting for anymore?"
Donna keeps her eyes on the table, unmoving and rigid. Still unwilling to budge.
"I'm giving you a way out of this," he murmurs, reaching toward her. He touches her chin, steering her head to meet his eyes. "You are worth saving, Donna."
"No," she says, her features twisting in agony, the admission costing her. "I'm not."
"Yes," he responds, his hand coming to rest on her shoulder, voice still low. "I am willing to fight for you, to make this right. I'm fighting for you now, just as Alice would if she were here. And we both know she'd want you to let us help you."
Anita winces at the manipulation, no matter how effective it may be. It's clear that Agent Yaeger's goal is to hit Donna where it hurts, to provoke a response with well-placed words. But this tactic — dredging up her daughter's memory, manipulating her grief, exploiting her guilt — is as ruthless as it is ugly. Beneath the surface, it screams desperation. They are running out of options, fast. This is Yaeger's last attempt, or else they are backed into a corner without a play. The realization should be cause for celebration but instead makes Anita distinctly uneasy. Because while the federal government doesn't lose often, when they do, it's swift, efficient and unspeakably brutal.
Donna's jaw is tight, she seems on the verge of shattering. All the vulnerability she'd attempted to quell is brimming beneath the surface, filling her eyes, seeming to pour out of her as she wrestles with her emotions. There is a pause, a ripple in time, and everyone seems to stop and hold their breaths, waiting for it. Waiting for her to give up her tenuous control. The silence builds, nearly unbearable.
Then, slowly, her eyes rise to meet Yaeger's. They are no longer glassy and distant. Instead, they are sharp and fierce and undaunted.
"What my daughter would want," Donna says. "Is for you to get me my fucking lawyer."
Anita fights the urge to smile at the obvious disappointment in Agent Yaeger's eyes. He'd gone for a winning blow and missed, utterly. There's nothing left to say.
Yaeger withdraws his hand, brow furrowing at Donna. He appraises her with disappointment, or perhaps admiration, before he abruptly gathers the stack of files and withdraws.
When Yaeger enters the observation room, he looks more disappointed than annoyed. "She's not going to break," he says, his words directed toward the younger agent who trails in behind him.
The younger agent crosses to stand in front of Anita, ignoring her entirely in favor of turning to address his superior. "It's not surprising. She was young when she married. Martell probably trained her to protect him." He shakes his head. "I would guess her conditioning was extensive and her loyalty to him is absolute."
Yaeger glances at Donna through the glass and Anita is struck by how exhausted he looks, face drawn, shoulders slumped, gaze tired, the man in him no longer the one watching Donna from across the table. When he turns back to face them, he shakes his head slowly. "It's a shame," he says quietly. "She's a smart woman with her whole life ahead of her. Martell ruined her, destroyed everything good she was capable of, everything she could have done or become." He gives another long look, something like sympathy and resignation passing across his face before it clears and he turns to Anita. "You're one of the prosecutors?"
"US Attorney, Anita Gibbs," she replies. "How long have you been at her?"
Yaeger lets out a humorless laugh. "Since her arrest, pretty much non-stop." He glances at his watch. "Close to eleven hours now."
"How many turns?"
"A dozen, at least." Yaeger rubs at his eyes. "She's not budging. Refuses to talk about the case, Martell, or the documents."
"Why doesn't she have counsel in there with her?"
The younger agent shifts at the accusation in her voice but Yaeger meets her eyes, calm. "We have an exemption for national security reasons. I don't need to remind you she's accused of treason, a crime against our nation. It's an issue of public safety."
Anita studies the two agents. Yaeger holds her gaze, steady and unblinking while his partner's eyes keep flitting from her to the two-way mirror. He can't seem to tear himself away from the scene in the next room. "There are procedures."
"We're following procedure. Protecting our citizen's security and well-being. I assure you, Ms. Paulsen is fine."
"Bullshit. You're exploiting her rights, making this less a matter of public safety and more a pursuit of your own interest."
Yaeger shrugs, unconcerned. "You want to file a writ, I can get you the papers."
She does not like his tone. The way he seems to think his job and his authority grants him some divine right to disregard rules and ethics. She takes a step closer, her eyes boring into his, and when she speaks her voice is firm and unwavering. "There will be a writ," she says, "And you will get her counsel. The last thing we need is the media getting wind that she wasn't afforded due process. Now, I'd like to speak with her, if you don't mind."
Yaeger makes no move to protest. Only nods and steps aside for her. "She's all yours."
"Gentlemen," she says, tone dismissive as she walks past them and back out into the hallway.
When she enters the interrogation room, Donna is still staring blankly at the table. She glances up, startled by the sound of the door opening. Their eyes meet and her posture goes defensive, wary, as Anita approaches.
"Donna," Anita says, moving to sit opposite her at the table.
Her eyes bore into Donna's, speaking to more than the case and their battleground professional relationship. Donna searches her face and relaxes slightly at whatever she sees.
"Harvey is here," she murmurs. "Outside in the lobby."
The admission fails to elicit any physical reaction, no smile or light in her eyes. But there is relief in her voice as she whispers softly, "Is he okay?"
"He's fine," she says, "Furious, but fine. He's been demanding to see you all night."
"Why haven't I?" Donna asks, and she tries to sound firm, to sound composed and strong but her voice cracks on the question, a single tear sliding down her cheek. "Why haven't I seen him?"
"They've been putting him off, some backhanded exemption to keep you without counsel for national security reasons. But you'll see him soon, I promise."
Donna draws a long, steadying breath, wiping at the tear as though it were nothing and straightening in her seat. She stares down at the table, at a spot near her cuffed hands and seems to struggle to compose herself before meeting Anita's gaze once again. "What will happen now?"
"I'll ask them to stop questioning you," she says. "Then try to expedite your arraignment so we can get you out on bond. If there is one."
Donna stares at her for a beat before shaking her head, looking almost defeated. "And if there isn't?"
Anita pauses, choosing her words carefully. She knows that no bond would mean Donna spending weeks, maybe months in custody before a trial even commences. "We'll file an appeal. This is the federal government, Donna. Things don't move quickly. I'll make sure they stick to the book but — " She swallows, giving the redhead an apologetic look, "— it may not be as quick as you're hoping for."
The resignation settles across Donna's face. "It's okay," she says, eyes drifting toward the two-way mirror, and when she speaks again it is quiet, barely audible. "Tell Harvey not to blame himself. There's nothing he could have done." She pauses and swallows. Her eyes shine, her face suddenly so heartbreakingly open and honest and full of longing, so different from the stoic mask she was wearing earlier that Anita finds herself holding her breath. When Donna speaks again her voice is firm, resolute. "Tell him I'm okay. That aside from the hideous jumpsuit, being locked up is really no worse than working with him." She forces a smile that does not reach her eyes and adds, "I'd even call it a vacation."
The joke is a false front and yet she tries. And after what she's been through, Anita will let her have it. She wants her to have it. Before she can stop herself, she reaches forward and grasps the other woman's hands, squeezing. Donna's grip tightens in response. For a moment the two women merely look at each other, neither one speaking. Then, just as the moment grows too long and Anita feels awkward, Donna's hands abruptly release hers and withdraw.
That is all Anita can manage. She wants to say more, offer words of reassurance, explain why she, despite their long standing enmity, is on Donna's side now. But instead she keeps her mouth shut, silent. In the end, she is a prosecutor — not a defense attorney, not a champion for justice or an ally. And Donna understands that as much as she does. She will do her job, protect the state and her own career, but — and the realization is strange and foreign — Anita's priority, somehow, unexpectedly, is Donna's best interest. More specifically: keeping the redhead from saying one more goddamn word to these rats.
IV
Harvey paces the floor of the bullpen, checking his watch every five seconds, every cell of his body wanting nothing more than to run back into that interrogation wing, barge past everyone and drag Donna from the building by sheer force. She has been alone for almost thirteen hours now. Thirteen fucking hours of nothing, and he hasn't even gotten to see her, speak to her. The thought is making him lose his goddamn mind.
His hand runs through his hair in aggravation as he glances at Mike for what feels like the hundredth time in the last twenty minutes. When their eyes meet, he can see he is just as nervous, just as frazzled. He opens his mouth, likely to deliver another set of empty assurances when Anita walks in.
Her face is grim and Harvey feels his chest tighten in panic. His legs move faster, bringing him to her side in an instant. "What's going on?" he demands. "Is she okay? What happened? What — "
Anita holds up a hand. She glances over her shoulder, eyeing the sea of officers that fill the room and gestures for the men to follow her into a quiet corner. Harvey finds it increasingly difficult to keep himself together as they wait for Anita to speak again. He swallows, his eyes never leaving her face, not sure what he's most terrified of at this point — what she is about to tell them or if she's going to draw out her silence, the tension building until he snaps.
Finally, she looks up to meet Harvey's eyes. "Donna hasn't talked," she says. "Not about Martell, about anything. And I mean not a single word. It's almost superhuman how well she's keeping her composure. I've seen people crumble after far less."
"Anita," Harvey growls in frustration. He can tell she's avoiding giving him an answer and it makes him feel more agitated, more scared. "Tell me she's okay."
She stares at him for a moment, seemingly searching his eyes for something before letting out a small sigh. "She's holding up well, all things considered. She looks exhausted, and is understandably anxious to be with you. "But—" Anita pauses, her lips twitching in an almost-smile. "Well, between the two of you, I'd say she's definitely the one in the calmer state."
Mike visibly releases the breath he'd been holding. Some of the tenseness seeps from his body as he leans back against a desk, his expression turning thoughtful. Harvey, however, remains undeterred. The panic and apprehension don't quite let go. He wants to feel relieved. He wants to take comfort in knowing that she is at least coping and being treated okay. But all he can think is how it shouldn't be happening, not like this. And how he can't do a single damn thing about it. The thought is torture. "I want to see her," he says quietly, the words feeling empty and futile, but he needs to get her alone, needs to hear her voice, see her face and make sure she really is okay. "I need to see her. I — "
Anita's phone rings and she lifts a finger in silent apology. Harvey can't even find the energy to be angry at the interruption. "It's Judge Morrison," she explains as she puts the phone to her ear and walks out of hearing. Harvey sighs and collapses onto the nearby bench, dropping his head into his hands, trying to get his emotions under control. It is not an easy task. Mike is a solid, calming presence at his side, but the silence between them feels heavy and uncomfortable, so unlike their usual banter. They simply don't know what to say to each other.
A few minutes later, Anita returns. Harvey stands, looking at her expectantly.
"Well?"
"Judge Morrison agreed to expedite the arraignment. She has a slot 45 minutes from now. I pushed for an immediate bail hearing, but know that the prosecution is going to come at you hard, Harvey. They do not want her free until she gives up Jonathan. You'll need to be prepared."
Harvey nods. "What are my chances?"
She hesitates, seeming to consider the question carefully. "Not good." She sighs. "But if we can't get her bond then we can at least try to expedite the pretrial motions and —"
Harvey doesn't wait for her to finish, striding past her without so much as a backward glance. The anger in him is back and growing, a furious flame threatening to engulf him entirely. It's too much. All of it is just too damn much. The uncertainty and helplessness, the hopelessness of the situation, the sheer lack of control he feels. It's eating him from the inside, burning in his lungs, making his blood run hot.
He finds an empty restroom and paces in tight circles, taking long, gasping breaths. It takes him several minutes to regain his composure, to bring his thoughts into focus and tame the wild beating of his heart.
When he emerges from the stall, he goes to the sink, turning on the tap and splashing his face with water, forcing himself to look in the mirror and focus on his own face. His hands are shaking so he grips the sink edge tight to still them, letting out a slow breath.
The door swings open behind him, and he meets Mike's stare through the reflection in the mirror. "What's the plan?" Mike asks, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the sink, eyeing Harvey with concern.
"The plan is we go in there and I do what I do best." He runs another hand through his hair, pushing the still-wet strands off his forehead, and gives a shrug, attempting nonchalance and failing miserably. He turns from the sink and makes for the door. "Let's get Donna home."
"Harvey," Mike says, a gentle warning. "Are you sure you're — "
"Yes," he cuts in, and his tone is hard, leaving no room for discussion. "I'm fine."
Mike looks as though he wants to argue. Harvey turns away and marches through the door, ignoring him entirely. The less said on this particular subject, the better.
V
The courtroom is packed with reporters and camera crews, the usual audience for such high-profile cases. The air hangs heavy, and he can feel everyone watching as they make their way to the defense table. Harvey doesn't meet the stares or look around. His focus is singular — Donna. She is being brought in through the prisoner's gate, her hands and ankles shackled together. She moves with purpose, eyes focused ahead, her features impassive and neutral. It makes something in him break. It is his worst nightmare come true. He wants to yell and rage, throw things, fight back in some way, but there is no enemy to strike. Not yet. All he can do is stare, feeling more helpless than he has ever felt in his life.
Mike gives him a slight nudge. It snaps Harvey from his trance. He looks up to find the judge walking in. Everyone stands, and Donna is escorted to the seat beside Harvey. She looks at him for the first time as she sits, and the effect is instant — he feels all of his tension leave his body, a wave of calm and peace and love washing over him. Her gaze is warm and full of affection. It is a promise and a lifeline, a thousand words of reassurance that he needed more than he would have thought.
It's enough. Harvey feels his face break into a soft smile as he gives her the smallest of nods. She nods back before facing the judge, her expression once more carefully guarded.
When everyone is seated, Judge Morrison speaks. "Is counsel for the defendant present?"
"Yes, your honor," Harvey says, and he has never been more glad for the structure and protocol of the court. It grounds him, helps keep his focus, keeps his thoughts clear of everything else. It is simple — win. He meets the judge's eyes as he speaks. "Harvey Specter and Michael Ross of the New York City office of Pearson Specter Litt for the defendant Donna Paulsen. We waive formal reading."
"Is the defendant aware of the charges against her?"
He glances at Donna beside him, and sees she is watching him just as intently, her gaze steady and sure. She looks far more collected and in control than he feels. He wonders how she manages to do it. "Yes," he answers, turning his focus back to the judge. "We waive the arraignment."
"And how does she plead?"
"Not guilty."
There is a shifting behind Harvey, the murmurs of those in the audience filtering through the room. A mutter of "bullshit" sounds somewhere to Harvey's left, accompanied by the click of a camera shutter and flash.
"The prosecution is seeking a detention hearing, Mr. Specter. Your client is charged with a serious crime, one for which the US Attorney is asking to detain her without bail while we await trial. I take it you have no objections to this motion?"
"I have no objections, your honor, and we move to set bail. Ms. Paulsen is an upstanding citizen and resident of New York who has never been arrested in her life and who is willing to surrender her passport until the resolution of this case. She should be free to post bond immediately." He speaks firmly, voice filled with confidence.
The US Attorney, a middle-aged woman who Harvey vaguely recognizes, stands as she is called to argue. She is composed and direct, and Harvey can't help but feel an immense dislike for her as she opens her mouth to speak. "Your honor, this is not some run-of-the-mill white-collar case. Ms. Paulsen stands accused of the highest-level crimes this nation can levy. She's been arrested because we have a duty to keep the American people safe, and because her continued liberty would pose a significant flight risk. This case will be complex. The evidence will be highly technical, the allegations will be broad in scope, and the witness list is very long.
"We cannot and will not permit the defendant to flee from justice, and we do not think a financial bond can reasonably prevent that. To ensure she can't, the United States is requesting that she remain in custody during trial. Thank you, Your Honor." She looks to Harvey, her gaze hard and unflinching. "I know the defense would like to see her go home today. We want that too, Mr. Specter. The only question is: Would she really go home? Or would she leave the country?"
She lets the question hang, and the silence in the room is deafening. Donna looks at the floor, expression closed off and unreadable. The US Attorney steps aside and Harvey rises slowly, buttoning his jacket before speaking. "Your honor, the defendant is an outstanding member of our community, and a respected member of New York's corporate world. The government is asking to incarcerate an innocent woman based on unfounded fear that she may flee to another country, when in reality, Ms. Paulsen has no such intention."
"You know that for a fact, do you, Mr. Specter?" Morrison's tone is derisive, her eyes skeptical. Harvey meets her gaze steadily.
"I do, Your Honor, because I know Ms. Paulsen. I have known her for a long time now, and I can personally attest to her integrity." He pauses and takes a deep breath. This is where his whole world will be made or broken, but there is no room for self-doubt or hesitation now. His only option is to convince the judge to set bail, and he will stop at nothing until he succeeds. "Ms. Paulsen is not only willing, but eager to prove her innocence. She wants this to be resolved as quickly as possible and I'm sure, for the sake of her career and her reputation, she would rather see a trial with the ability to prove her innocence than try to live the life of a fugitive. After all, she has known about these charges for days, and yet made no attempts to flee. She recognizes the importance of staying and pursuing justice." He pauses for emphasis, keeping his eyes on Morrison. "The defendant should be set to bail, Your Honor. Thank you."
Donna looks at him as he sits, and Harvey feels a swell of relief to see the pride on her face. It bolsters him and grounds him, and, more importantly, it gives him hope.
The judge turns his attention to the US Attorney. "Anything further?"
The prosecutor stands slowly and steps to the front of the bench. "Your Honor, in addition to her flight risk, I would also submit for consideration that Ms. Paulsen presents a danger to herself. The US Marshall's arrest report cites that during Ms. Paulsen's arrest she made deliberate movements toward oncoming traffic and had he not intervened, she might have stepped directly into the path of a vehicle. I would submit that Ms. Paulsen does not care for her own safety and well-being and therefore would be at significant risk of self-harm if set free."
"Your Honor." Harvey is out of his seat before the prosecutor finishes her statement, his eyes fixed on Morrison. "That is outrageous. Ms. Paulsen was under a substantial amount of duress, having been arrested without any warning. She was not herself, and it's ridiculous to even suggest she poses a threat to herself. This is not grounds for detaining her during her trial. It has absolutely no merit and — "
"That's enough, counselor." Morrison has her hands raised in an effort to silence him. Harvey takes it as a sign that the argument struck a nerve and bites back the rest of his rant. The judge turns to the prosecutor. "Do you have any more basis for that statement?"
The prosecutor opens a manila folder in her hand. "During our arrest we observed Paulsen exhibit clear signs of depression and anxiety and were able to retrieve these prescriptions from the search of her apartment." She pulls out a few sheets of paper and steps up to the bench to hand them over. Morrison gives the papers a quick scan before meeting Donna's eyes. "Ms. Paulsen. Did you intentionally place yourself in danger, as the government is alleging?"
Harvey opens his mouth to argue but the judge holds up a hand to silence him before he has a chance to utter a word. Donna looks at the judge, seeming to hesitate, before responding. "I... I was..." Her voice wavers slightly and Harvey can feel his stomach sinking.
"It's okay, Donna," Morrison says in a soft, understanding voice. "Just tell the truth."
She glances at Harvey then, something like panic and guilt passing through her expression before it disappears and she faces the judge again. "I don't remember, your honor. It's been a difficult few weeks, I... I'm not really sure."
Harvey can't keep quiet any longer. He leans forward to cut in, his voice firm. "Your honor, I kindly request that any questions be directed through me rather than addressed directly to my client. Ms. Paulsen has clearly been placed in a very difficult situation and should not be required to respond to blatant accusations of a false nature."
"Rein it in, Mr. Specter," Morrison says, fixing him with a sharp look. "You know better than anyone that I am going to ask whatever I please, especially in these circumstances."
"Is that what the justice system is now? Whatever you please?" It slips out before he can stop himself. He knows he has miscalculated, and that it's precisely the wrong time for him to lose his cool, but the words have been stuck in his chest since the moment Donna was taken from him. Now they force themselves out. When he speaks again, his voice is hard and threatening. "I won't have you questioning her about things she cannot possibly answer, and I won't stand for the government attempting to sway a judge with manipulation and lies. You're the judge, this is your courtroom, and I trust you to be fair, unbiased and mindful of the defendant's rights."
Morrison begins to speak but he cuts her off. "Regardless, I'd like to assert on record that such a question has no place in this hearing and that the United States seeks to entrap my client through — "
"Harvey," Donna's voice is a whisper at his side, her fingers brushing his in warning.
He is filled with a terrible realization that he's gone too far. He freezes, still staring up at the judge, mouth half-open, searching for something else to say that will fix his mistake. She fixes him with an unreadable look, the corners of her lips turned down, her fingers reaching for the gavel.
"Mr. Specter," the judge starts, her voice void of the softness from before. "My patience wears thinner by the minute and I am perilously close to holding you in contempt. I will not tolerate another outburst from you and will inform the court reporter to immediately reflect a sanction if one occurs. You are this close, Mr. Specter. This close. Do you understand?"
Harvey holds her eyes, silent and contemplative. It takes him a long time to respond, and when he does, his voice is weary, despondent, and totally without its prior energy and anger. "Yes." He swallows, studying her face and the cold anger he sees there and gives a nod. "I apologize."
"Good," Morrison says and sets the gavel back down. She settles herself in her seat, collecting her thoughts, and eyes the defense table with apprehension. It is silent, painfully so, the room feeling as though it is full of anticipation, as though any moment the situation could burst into chaos at the slightest provocation. Slowly, she folds her hands in front of her, fingers steepled as though she is praying, and lifts an eyebrow.
"Donna Paulsen," she says, addressing the redhead directly, something in her demeanor conveying the frustration she clearly felt at Harvey's interference. "You have an excellent reputation and are apparently extraordinarily important to the man beside you. But I have my job to do as well. It is not a simple decision to set an alleged criminal free, especially when you are charged with crimes of this magnitude. It is my duty as a judge to uphold the law and decide based on evidence, and it is yours as a defendant to be accountable. If, therefore, I give you this privilege, I need to make sure I can trust that you will meet your obligation and return to the jurisdiction.
"I do not take lightly that your life, and your career, hang in the balance here, but, nevertheless, I will have to decide based upon what is provided to me in this courtroom." She stops and Harvey feels his gut lurch as she draws out the moment, her last words ringing in his ears. Then, finally, Morrison reaches again for her gavel. "It is the ruling of this court that the defendant is granted bail —"
The courtroom falls into chaos. Relief washes through Harvey with such force he sags against the railing. He hadn't realized until then that he had a vice-like grip on the wooden surface. He looks over and Donna's face is so pale, she is staring at the judge with this unbelievable expression, half-smile, half-sad, as though she might burst into tears at any moment. The prosecutors' table is eerily quiet.
"However," Morrison continues, pounding her gavel, voice measured and serious. "I do have contingencies. They're not something I usually employ, but I find I have a duty in your case to invoke them." She waits until she is certain Harvey's focus is on her before she continues.
"To address concerns related to the defendant's well-being, the court is inclined to grant bail subject to certain conditions. The court hereby orders that, as a condition of bail, the defendant undergo a comprehensive psychological evaluation. Additionally, the defendant shall engage in any recommended therapy or counseling pending further court review."
"Your Honor," Harvey protests, preparing himself to object at length, but the judge simply raises a hand, cutting him off. "If at any time it is determined by the assessing officer that you are a risk to yourself, the conditions of your bail will be enforced and you will remain in pretrial detention. Does this all seem clear?"
Donna is staring at the judge in front of her. Her throat bobs and her hands clutch at the edge of the bench, knuckles white with how hard she is gripping the wood. Harvey rests his hand gently over hers, instantly feeling her fingers loosen.
"Donna," the judge prods.
"Yes, I understand," she answers finally. "Thank you."
"Very well," Judge Morrison nods. "I'm afraid you will have to go back to holding until the assessment is completed." She takes another look at Donna and her eyes soften. "I do not intend for the conditions of your bail to be strict nor overly burdensome. You have a defender with very strong passion at your side. Let him help you see this thing through." She looks to Harvey at last, her eyes full of warning.
"As for you, Mr. Specter. I remind you that in my courtroom, I will do everything in my power to ensure the protection of the accused. I don't give second chances and I will throw you in cuffs if you make another attempt to disrupt one of my hearings."
"Yes, your honor," Harvey says with a pained smile. "I appreciate your forbearance."
"Your sense of entitlement makes me wonder." She shuffles her papers, collecting her thoughts. "Nevertheless. Don't make me regret today. Bailiff, return Ms. Paulsen to custody."
He watches as the bailiff approaches and Donna reluctantly rises from her chair, turning to face Harvey. There is a long silence. Then he reaches forward and pulls her into his arms, relief coursing through him that he can touch her, breathe her in. Her grip around him is strong, though her body is trembling. There is no time to speak, to say what he needs. He is vaguely aware of the noise surrounding them and the room emptying. People filter past on their way out, staring curiously as they pass. He can't bring himself to care.
The bailiff reaches a hand to Donna's shoulder, prompting her to move with him. Harvey doesn't want to let go.
"Harvey," she whispers. It sounds like her voice is breaking, even as she tries to sound strong, and her fingers grip the lapels of his jacket. "It's okay."
It doesn't feel okay. This should have ended, he should have fixed it, and instead, he has all of these new fears, all of these new things that may go wrong and he's afraid.
"Tell the doctor what they need to hear," he says instead, his voice low. He is speaking with utmost seriousness, his fingers tracing the length of her spine. "Only what they need to hear, absolutely no more." She nods and swallows, glancing toward the waiting bailiff, an inscrutable, detached expression crossing her features.
"Donna." Harvey's voice drops even lower as she pulls away. Their eyes meet and hold. "I love you."
For the briefest moment, her expression changes. In the steadiness of his gaze, the grounding weight of his hand on her hip, the slight drop of his head and the vulnerability there, the fearlessness he's directing at her, the ice and strength and resolve melt, as if in an instant. She is unable to mask her shock and affection and fear, the trepidation and tenderness. It's replaced as quickly as it appears. She takes a breath, her fingertips warm against the collar of his shirt, then steps back, and away, out of his grasp, eyes falling to the ground. Her face is completely blank as the bailiff escorts her out of the courtroom.
The door clangs closed behind them, and the walls suddenly seem to cave in around him.
"Harvey."
Mike's voice is tentative, drawing him back to the present. His expression is lost somewhere between worried and sympathetic. Harvey clears his throat and straightens his tie, taking every precaution so his features reflect nothing. He is cognizant of the room, which seems to have mostly emptied, though the guards at the door give him a distrustful look. He can't blame them.
"What do you need me to do?" Mike asks quietly, his voice earnest.
Harvey pauses and sighs. He tries to collect his thoughts. There are too many things going on in his head and he's having trouble focusing, trying to find the most critical thing to deal with now, where to even start. "Get us more information on this psych eval. Does the shrink have to be court appointed, or can we produce our own? We can't afford having an arbitrary asshole making a recommendation on her mental state."
Mike nods, and then hesitates. "But Donna... Do you think she's —"
"She's fine," Harvey interrupts, before he can even finish the thought. "She just spent thirteen hours being interrogated by the fucking feds, Mike. I'm sure she's exhausted. If a psychologist says that she's at risk to her own safety, this court is either naive or deluded."
"You're probably right, Harvey. But…" Mike lets out a short breath. "If it were anyone else, would you not worry that maybe —"
"Just do what I asked you to do," Harvey snaps. "I can't afford worrying about another goddamn what-if. I just need her out."
Mike looks torn for a moment. He searches Harvey's face before finally giving a brief nod and turning on his heel, pulling his phone out as he moves toward the back of the courtroom.
VI
They put her back in holding.
She sits alone on the cold metal bench, staring at the barred door. She doesn't cry. She doesn't panic. She doesn't let herself feel much of anything at all. Every movement seems surreal, dream-like, almost as if her brain is shutting down from everything around her. Even as the events play out, she can't decide if she's awake or not.
Time becomes a blur, endless and meaningless. Nothing exists outside of the empty room and her; nothing until she hears the sound of jostling keys and the snap of the lock turning. This time, when she looks to the door, there is no officer standing in the entrance. Instead, it is as if a mirage, a vision, conjured from some fantasy deep in her mind is looking back at her.
"Jonathan," Donna whispers, relief and disbelief tumbling through her in a single breath. She can see the exact moment his eyes settle on her, the shift in his composure, the rise in his chest as he fills his lungs. It feels so wrong, so unwelcome. She isn't sure if it's her hesitation, or maybe the nature of where they are, but it feels stilted, forced. As though he's saying to her, 'Look at what I've done.'
And yet, before she can get up, or lift her hand, or speak, or run and throw her arms around his neck, he is surging forward, dropping to his knees in front of her. He looks pale, she notices, gaunt and drained, and his hands are gripping at the pants of her jumpsuit, bunching the fabric up in his fists. She isn't prepared when he drops his forehead to her lap. Her surprise lasts only a moment, and then her fingers are treading gently through his hair, her hands resting on the back of his neck.
"Donna." His voice is hoarse, his fingers gripping tight around her legs. He lifts his face, looking up with such shame and sorrow and desperation that her heart squeezes tight in her chest. She has never seen him look this way—so exposed. It's as if everything he's hidden, every emotion he's avoided letting surface, has finally found a way to open up and seep out. He is practically a stranger. She blinks hard against the emotion welling in her throat and touches her palm to his cheek.
"You're insane," she says gently. "How are you even here?"
"It doesn't matter," he murmurs, as if it's self-explanatory. As if none of it even matters anymore. "Are you alright? Have they hurt you in any way?"
Donna shakes her head, and his eyebrows push together, his eyes searching her face. The corner of her mouth twitches at the gesture. "Really. I'm okay."
"You don't have to pretend."
"Don't I? You've broken into my jail cell. God knows how many incapacitated bodies are piled up out there." She manages a small smile and brushes the hair back from his face.
"Only about a dozen," he admits, a half-hearted smirk on his lips. "A light day, really."
He falls silent, and his face turns serious, the smile fading away and leaving his features looking grim.
"I'm sorry," he says quietly. Donna frowns, and instinctively touches his brow, trying to smooth it down, to ease his features. It's the first time in too long that she's been able to feel some part of reality. After a few moments, Jonathan hangs his head, avoiding her eyes.
"I didn't anticipate..." he starts, but quickly trails off. There's something in his face, something like fear, and it's so unfamiliar and chilling. It makes Donna uncomfortable and she swallows before bringing his face back to hers with her fingers under his chin, forcing him to look her in the eye.
"Stop," she urges. "It's not your fault."
"I have to confess, Donna."
"No. You do not."
"They have enough evidence to keep you locked up forever." He rises, moving away from her, and scrubs his hand over his face.
"If you do this," Donna warns, and her voice cracks, tiredness and concern and apprehension rushing through her in sickening waves. "Then they get away with it. It'll be over, Jonathan. Is that what you want?"
"I can't watch this happen to you."
"Don't you see?" She stands, meeting his eyes, trying to keep his focus, get him to understand. "This is their plan. This was always their plan."
His eyes close briefly and his fingers ghost the back of his neck, smoothing up and into his hair. Then, taking a breath, he takes a step closer and links their fingers, his gaze holding steady as he leans down to rest his forehead against hers.
"I'll be okay," she whispers, squeezing his hands. "We just have to do this smart. We have to play along."
For a long time, he's silent, his eyes closed and his breaths deep. Finally, he shifts, sliding his hand around to the back of her neck, and presses a kiss to her forehead.
"I love you," he says. "You know that, right? I'll do whatever it takes. Whatever I can. I'll fix this, Donna."
She nods, her eyes falling closed. Then his lips are pressing against her temple, her cheek, her hair, and finally, her lips. For a while, she lets the feeling surround her, the soft brush of his palms against her neck, the gentle stroke of his thumb, the barely-there brush of his mouth.
He doesn't let go, his hands coming up to cup her face. His jaw is set and there's a familiar determination she's seen so many times before, years of partnership and friendship and love.
"Everything will be fine," he tells her, his voice firm.
And then he's turning to the door and moving into the hall, looking as resolute and stable and brave as ever. She clings to that image, letting the mantra play on a loop in her head, unrelenting.
Everything will be fine.
