"So we'll go from there," he manages, laying out terms in his lawyer voice, sounding terribly hopeful as he speaks. "We'll figure it out."

"We always do."


Without the feeling of the shower to ground him, Harvey lists a little to the side, and Donna eases him down to the basin ridge again before he can keel over. She paces over to the sink, filling a cup with cold water, turning back and all but pressing it to Harvey's lips.

She sets to his dressings, noting how fresh blood has started to bloom again slowly from a couple of the deeper gashes. Only a little, though. Exacerbated in effect by the stream of water from his hair as it dries.

Pyjamas still dripping wet, Donna presses the edge of a towel to his forehead. She peels the backing from a first steri-strip, avoiding eye contact, devastatingly close. Harvey winces when she first presses it to the cut on his temple, but she works fast, finishes up before he can flinch hard enough to affect the dressing.

"You look super badass," she murmurs jokingly, motioning to the thin strips of bandage which draw across the now-closed wound.

Harvey grins, chuffed. "Don't I always?"

She swats at him. "Yeah, well. More so when it looks like you've been out street-fighting."

There's a question between words which she doesn't yet have the nerve to properly ask — what were you really out there doing? — and Harvey pauses, blinks up at her. The silence stretches.

She moves fast after that, drying him off slowly and applying the antibacterial cream to all of his smaller cuts, only needing to use the steri-strips again when she gets to a wider abrasion near his collarbone which she didn't see before when he had his shirt on. He winces as she presses at the skin around it, and Donna murmurs an apology so close to his ear that she can feel him shiver at the sound of it.

And then she's finished, and he's finally clean. Finally washed of everything except the storm-burst bruises which mottle his chest.

"Thank you." Harvey takes her hand. Holds her gaze. His voice breaks a little over the words.

Donna softens, passing him the towel as she crouches to meet his gaze.

"Don't mention it," she smiles, and she means it. "You'd have done the same for me."

"Of course," he rushes, knee-jerk. You can never go back. "Over and over."

It's who they are: this give and take. She's going to kiss him if she crouches here any longer, and they both know it, so Donna breaks away. Not yet, not yet, not yet, thunders at the inside of her skull like a new heartbeat. Sharing the space, obviously, with its thrumming counterpart: why not, why not, why not?

"Your dry-cleaning," she says, shattering the moment. "You gonna pass out if I leave for half a minute to grab it?"

Harvey smiles and settles back against the tile wall of her bathroom.

"Tough one."

Donna stands to go, finally processing the state of her soaking-wet pyjamas when she opens the door to the relative cool of the rest of the apartment. She's relieved to find Harvey's dry-cleaning exactly where she left it, draped over the back of a chair, and she tries not to think about the way it's been taunting her for the past couple of days. His clothes. His smell. The facts of his existence strewn so carelessly across every spare surface in her life.

He looks pensive when she comes back to him, eyebrows creased in an expression which she doesn't really know how to ask about. It feels strange. She knows him, better than anyone, better than he knows herself — and yet.

"There are a couple of t-shirts in here," she says, by way of introduction (choosing not to comment on this ridiculous man and his ridiculous insistence on dry-cleaning his t-shirts), "and some boxers. No pyjama pants, though."

Harvey chooses to cock an eyebrow instead of asking outright why she knows the exact contents of his laundry.

She feels strange, watching, peering down as he rifles through the clothes she knows so well (the new shirt that he wore to the gala last week, the trousers that he spilled hot sauce on that one time, the suit jacket with those awful fucking bone buttons that she once wasted hours of her life trying to track down), so Donna slips out wordlessly by way of giving him space to get dressed. She breathes a sigh of relief at the feeling of finally taking off her own wet clothes, drying herself frantically and slipping into a more modest t-shirt and pyjama trousers combo before he can come strolling back in to find her with her boobs out.

It doesn't happen, thank god, and she's just starting to worry about him when he ambles from the bathroom a couple of minutes later.

Donna almost has a heart attack. For the second time this evening.

He just — Christ, she knows he's concussed and that they had one of the biggest splits of their lives two days ago and that it's not really the right time and that it's super late at night and she's maybe still a little wine drunk — but. Except.

He looks fantastic.

A dark t-shirt covers the worst of the bruises, leaving just the scatter of bumps and cuts along his face which make him look almost unbearably handsome. It's not good, obviously, none of it is good, but the rugged cool-guy street-fighter thing which he's suddenly got going for him is really just not helping any matters here at all. His hair, shower-mussed and unstyled, sticks ruffled and gorgeous from his head, sitting the way she doesn't normally get to see because of all the gel he normally puts in it, and she just. She. Just.

He's also dressed just in a t-shirt and boxers. Which makes everything worse.

"You look nice," she blurts, and he only grins at her in response.

"Someone's hot for teacher."

"In what world—"

Harvey lobs a spare shirt at her before she can carry on trying to defend her honour, which is probably for the best.

"Should I…?" He motions to the ground with the bag of clothes, and she nods. The air suddenly feels a little awkward again between them. A little dangerous.

"Just leave them anywhere. I, um."

For a moment, Donna isn't sure how to continue.

"I don't have a spare room," she says, which he knows, but she says it anyway.

"Couch is fine," Harvey responds, carefully. She notes the way he pauses, leaves a space there for her to fill if she wants to. If she can bear to. He mistakes her silence for hesitation though, and she watches as he stiffens. Just slightly.

"Or I can go home, sorry. Cabs are still out this time of night. It wouldn't be a big deal, and I'm fine now—"

He's backtracking. This can't happen. Never again: Donna's crossing the room before she can convince herself that it's a terrible idea. She's striding towards him through the darkness, and he's still talking, but he finally seems to get the hint and then Harvey's dropping the bag to his feet and stepping into her and—

"Stay," she whispers, with all of the conviction that she can muster.

And then she's kissing him. Time stops all over again.

His hands find her hair almost immediately, carding through, holding on, and his lips are still a little damp from the shower, and the feeling of him finally pressed against her like this feels like retribution for every time they've managed to mess this up before.

Harvey touches her with blinding reverence, kisses her like it's his last day on earth. Finally. Finally. She remembers it all so well — the way he moves, the way he takes — except it's different now. Worlds apart from that night ten years ago.

Some parts are the same (lips, teeth, tongue, how he melds his mouth to hers so desperately that she feels her knees start to shake) and some parts are searingly different. There's nothing casual about the way he kisses her now. No hint of the man he was, the whipped-cream grin he used to wear so well, the murmur of one night only which ran beneath every slide of his lips against hers.

His fingers curl in her hair and she moans, embarrassingly loud, but he doesn't break away to snicker at her like she knows he would've once. Just kisses her harder. Starts to walk her backwards towards the bed. It's not— she's not used to this. Not used to how genuine it feels just to touch him; how real it feels when he presses his mouth to her skin.

Donna's knees hit the back of the mattress and she folds, takes Harvey down with her, feels the thrilled rush of blood to her head so potently that for a minute she can taste iron between her teeth. She wants him (hopelessly, unendingly, craves him like a storm would crave its sea) and he knows it, he has to, she's holding him so close. Even through their shirts, she feels the thud of his heartbeat against her own, each lick of pulse matching strike for strike at a million miles per hour. It feels infinite. Feels untouchable. Feels like coming home.

All until she flattens a hand to his sternum and he flinches, hard, rearing away from her as if she burns.

"Shit," she murmurs, withdrawing as fast as it feels possible to. "Shit, Harvey, I'm sorry—"

He shakes his head beside her, the expression on his face like molten glass.

"It's okay," he manages, ghosting his own fingers up to press at the bruise. He's gone all pale again and Donna hates it. The way his lips are drawn, his eyes screwed shut — he's in agony.

"It's not," she returns, heavy with guilt. The moment shatters, and she splinters with it. "It's not, Harvey. You're hurt."

"I'll heal."

"Will you?"

Donna sits up a little, lets the severity slip into her tone, shifts away from him in a move which seems to rend the bones in his chest. She wants to apologise, and she will, she will, she just— fuck. She still doesn't know what happened, and she still doesn't know how to ask. But he's here, devastatingly wounded, his entire body thrumming slightly in the moonlight which sings in through her window.

"I'm sorry," she whispers again, finally, after a minute of silence. "For snapping. For… god, for all of this. I'm so sorry, Harvey." She's crying. Is she crying? Does it matter?

He only blinks. Only moves towards her again on the mattress, slowly, his eyes on hers the whole time. Like she's the one who needs saving. Some wild animal: ribs delineated like a junkyard dog's, all tremor and violence and bared teeth.

"Don't be," comes his reply, once he's close enough. She feels the shutter of his words against her cheek. "Please don't be."

She finally looks at him, properly. Holds his gaze. They're lying side by side on the bed, facing each other, and Donna finds herself struck by the familiarity of it. It feels a little like they're kids again: still young. Still with so much time.

"Why not?"

"You know why."

You know why.

You know I love you, Donna.

She tries to shake off the memory like seawater — it doesn't work. The salt slicks rough against her skin. How do you ever come back from that?

Donna sucks in a breath but it hardly helps, hardly achieves anything except for making this vicious gasping sound which seems to pull Harvey in towards her even more. He draws a hand up to her face. Rests it there. Waits for her to pull away — of course she doesn't. Of course she doesn't. He's all she wants.

"So tell me." She swallows. "Tell me anyway."

He stills. This is it: her one and done. Donna tries to reason with the ultimatum, tries to tell herself that if he gets up and leaves right now then she'll forgive him anyway, but it's hard.

She's not fighting fair, but she can't find it in herself to back down this time. She's not fighting fair, but if this is a battle she's losing anyway, and his sword between her ribs is somehow the only thing which could ever bring her back to the brawl.

"Donna," he says, at last. His voice breaks over the syllables. He drags them out, draws them down, lets them rest in the darkness between them. Her name, his voice. Always him. It's always been him.

"Harvey," she returns, pressing in. Oh, Harvey. His name as a lifeline, a prayer, a pulse.

They lock eyes and she knows what's coming. He soothes his thumb against her cheek, swiping away a tear with unthinkable softness.

"I love you."

The words shutter from him like sunlight.

Donna takes a minute to bathe in the warmth, the wash of his voice so utterly transformed from the blindingly matter-of-fact I love you which was pressed across to her three nights ago: admonishment and apology both. That tilted head, those haunted lips.

It's something else now, entirely. A seismic shift away from the wire which they've so trained themselves to walk on.

"I love you," he murmurs, again, like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"God." It's all she can even manage to say for a moment. "God, Harvey." One and the same. One and the same. She's been kneeling at his altar every day since they met and he knows, he knows, he has to. She takes his bread, and she drinks his wine, and she's not a religious person but oh, Christ, the way he looks at her. (Think sacrifice. Think sorrow. Think sin.)

"I love you too," she rasps. Through the rapture. Through the dark. "So much. Too much." Breath. Pause. Breath. "I love you too."

He smiles, and it splits his face like the dawn, golden light suffusing his features with this expression which looks a little like disbelief.

And then, quietly: "Yeah?"

Donna nods, utterly stricken. "Yeah." Her heart breaks a little for the man lying across from her, the print of his thumb pressing tight to her cheek as though to make sure she's really here.

She's never heard him sound this vulnerable. She's never known him to submit so whole-heartedly to the danger of being burned.

More than anything else, all at once, she has to fix this. Donna cards into him, her lips to his forehead, endlessly careful not to rest her hands on any one of his myriad wounds.

"I'm so sorry," she whispers, over and over again. Presses the sentiment like secrets to his skin.

It's okay, he gives back, every time. "It's okay. We're okay. It's okay now."

"I left you, Harvey."

He swallows. Draws backwards. "I know."

Donna feels as a tear starts to slip its way down her cheek. The floodgates, then. She presses on. "You should hate me. You'd have every right."

Harvey only shakes his head.

"I'd understand. You could hate me. I left. Just, after everything, and now you're. Fuck, you're here, you came back, you had to come back to me, and you're hurt," she breaks off into a sob with almost no warning. Harvey responds instantly, taking her by the hand, pulling her up to the top of her bed, so glaringly tender in the face of this turbulence that Donna feels a little faint with it. He's so gentle. Has he always been this gentle?

She continues even as he does, keeps forcing the words out as Harvey grits his teeth against the pain of tugging a duvet up around them.

"You're hurt, you're so badly hurt, and I don't know why, but you're— there was, fuck, there was so much blood—"

"Donna."

She doesn't stop. She can't. She's not sure how.

"And I was so scared. I was so scared. I thought," I thought you were going to die. She falters. "You were nearly unconscious, Harvey. I should've taken you to hospital. I should've, god, I shouldn't have kissed you, I'm so sorry—"

"Donna."

"This is my fault," she finishes, at last. Gasps for breath.

Donna finally resurfaces, finally takes a moment to drag in some air. This is it: that inevitable guilt. One: for leaving. Two: for staying. For being so blinded by her need to take care of him that she didn't just call a fucking ambulance. For kissing him. For hurting him. Again, and again, and again.

For this: breaking down in his arms beneath the sheets of her bed, when he's the one who needs actual medical attention.

A few moments pass where Harvey says nothing at all. Between the lines of her panic, he's somehow managed to get them both comfortable, heads on pillows like this is any other night.

"It's not about fault, Donna," he says, slowly. "It can't be about fault. Because then we're both fucked."

By some miracle, he manages to pull a laugh from her.

"You risked everything," she starts. "For me." And I still walked away from you goes unsaid.

"I'd do it again. But so would you."

"Yeah." A whisper. "Of course."

"So stay." Harvey says the words with this air of almost nonchalance. Like it's that easy. Like it's always been that easy. (Hasn't it?) "Risk everything. Stay this time."

Risk everything. All this talk of sacrifice, and somehow this is the easiest decision she'll ever make.

"I'm still sorry," she tries, feeble in the face of his determination.

"I know. But so am I, Donna. Neither one of us was fighting fair."

"I shouldn't have kissed you."

Harvey frowns.

"You're concussed," she continues, needing to explain. "And I— you know, shit, twice, and the second time I knocked one of your bruises so hard it looked like you were gonna pass out again."

He only smirks in response, such mirth in his eyes that it looks almost foreign.

"I mean. I'm not complaining," he tries, relaxing a little at her quiet laughter.

The silence stretches, and Harvey holds onto it. He looks beautiful. Even battered, even stitched up with shaking hands.

"I'm so glad you came," she breathes, finally. Honesty so raw it catches him off guard.

"Me too," he murmurs. "I didn't— there was nowhere else. There was no one else."

He crowds into her a little, and she feels the flutter of his eyelashes against her collarbone as he blinks. Donna feels a knot forming in her chest at his confession.

It's the same for both of them, really. They can each play all they want at having these endlessly full, gratifying lives — until the dust settles. Until anyone actually decides to look a little closer, and every layer of casual falsehood is sliced back to reveal the truth of things: two very lonely people in a very big city. In a way, he's all she has.

There was no one else. Oh, Harvey.

"I know. I know."

She knows.

There are no more words — the world pools thick and damp around them and she can barely move for fear of tearing the fabric of it. She watches as gaze starts to unfocus a little, his eyelids drooping despite what she imagines are his best efforts.

"You've gotta tell me what happened, Harvey." The knot of worry is still tight in her chest. Every time she thinks about it, the scene gets a little worse — him in a bar, him on the road, him passed out in an alley somewhere with only the thought of her front door to drag him from the darkness. Alone. Always alone. "Please."

"I will," he promises, "I swear, I will." He trails off, exhaustion taking over. "Just—"

"You can sleep, it's okay. I'm here."

He nods, shifting forwards, allowing for the press of their bodies against one another without any real force against his bruise-patterned torso. This is real. They'll talk about it tomorrow — they will, they have to — but for now he's falling asleep with his forehead pressed to her shoulder and a palm soft against the side of her chest and, oh, she loves him.

"You'll stay?" He speaks in a mumble, the day's adrenaline finally coursing from the curve of his spine. The fear in his voice nearly takes her out.

Donna trails a gentle hand through the soft hair at the back of his head.

"I'll stay."


so glad that so many of you are liking this story so far! huge massive thank you to everyone who has been leaving reviews — it seriously makes my entire day every time i get a new one in my inbox :) you're all so so kind!

sorry about this update taking a little while. i got an offer from cambridge uni (?!) so i've been pretty distracted all week with just trying to wrap my head around that! i am also sorry about slightly ruining The Moment in this chapter... it'll happen eventually, don't worry, i just felt like i should pay at least a little heed to the glaring facts of harvey's injuries before anything major goes down. didn't want anything to feel insincere/rushed/ignored, you know?

anyway. this is getting long, i apologise. chapter 5 is on its way — and i promise donna is FINALLY gonna (properly) ask about what happened to harvey! all will be revealed in time :)