The Secretary

by Spectographer

"The best secretary in Manhattan and it never occurred to you to ask this woman where she came from?" The Assistant US Attorney almost sounds amused, as if she believes Harvey is being deliberately thick. "Donnas aren't born, Harvey, they're made, and all the things she does that you're so fond of, she did for someone else before you."

30. Unlikely Allies

Chapter 30: Unlikely Allies

I

Dr. Sophie Bennett steps into the staff room at the Philadelphia Mental Health Facility, pouring a cup of stale coffee with a quiet sigh. It's late. The hospital is quiet, and the presence of patients in the emergency ward is infrequent. As a new graduate, she finds herself working odd hours, often filling in during the overnight shifts. It's tiring, and she's frustrated with the work, but it's a stepping stone, a necessary evil that comes with starting her career.

She settles into a chair, scrolling through her phone, when the walkie at her hip crackles to life.

"Sophie." It's the night security guard, a stocky, older man named Henry. "We have a couple men here to see you. Say they're FBI. Should I send them back?"

Sophie frowns, sipping her coffee. "What is it regarding?"

"Not sure," Henry replies. "They won't say."

Sophie sighs. FBI showing up at her place of work in the middle of the night is strange, but not entirely unheard of. Sometimes they come in to conduct assessments on patients, or require interviews with trained psychologists, usually after raids or when processing prisoners.

"Send them back," she agrees finally, and rises from her seat, setting her coffee aside.

A few minutes later, Henry appears in the doorway, two men dressed in suits following behind. One is tall, handsome, with dark hair and a serious expression. The other is older, graying, with a kinder face.

"Dr. Bennett?" asks the older of the two men, flashing his badge. "I'm Agent Yeager, this is Agent Walsh. Do you have a minute?"

Sophie offers them both a professional smile. "Of course," she starts. "Henry said you were FBI?"

Yeager nods. "Yes. Manhattan office. We're hoping you can assist us with an evaluation."

Sophie pauses, a flash of confusion passing across her face. FBI requesting evaluations is common, but Manhattan? It isn't exactly nearby.

"Is this regarding a transfer?" she asks finally. Yeager exchanges a glance with Walsh, as though carefully considering his response.

"Not exactly," Walsh replies. "We have a defendant currently in holding in New York. We need to conduct a psychological evaluation, assess her mental health and determine if she poses a risk to herself."

Sophie frowns, crossing her arms. FBI requesting evaluations is one thing, but detainees are usually remanded to local hospitals, or assigned their own clinical psychologist. Coming all the way to Philadelphia seems counterintuitive.

"I'm sorry agents, but I don't quite understand. Why me? Surely there are psychologists near your holding facility —"

Yeager gives her a pointed look. "This defendant is in a very high profile case, Dr. Bennett. Due to the sensitive nature, we're required to interview physicians outside of New York, to ensure the defendant cannot influence the results."

Sophie hesitates, her brain mulling over the agent's words. She can tell Yeager is choosing his words carefully, being vague on purpose. It's unusual, and creates a sense of unease, but Sophie's curiosity wins out. Walsh produces a file, handing it over. The front is stamped with U.S. Department of Justice and a list of confidentiality disclaimers. Sophie studies the forms, apprehensive.

"May I ask what she's accused of?"

Yeager clears his throat. "White collar crimes. We can't provide more detail with the investigation being open. Just know she poses no threat of violence to others. Our main concern is her mental state." Sophie nods slowly, flipping through the evaluation guidelines. Walsh hands her a pen, his expression earnest.

"I understand this is sudden," Yeager continues. "If you agree, we'll arrange transport to New York and cover all of your accommodations. You'll conduct the evaluation and submit your report directly to Judge Morrison. After that, you'll be free to return to Philadelphia."

Sophie reads over the evaluation requirements and glances between Yeager and Walsh.

"I'm flattered you thought of me, but I just graduated medical school. Surely there are more qualified —"

Yeager shakes his head. "This woman won't open up to just anyone. But from your file, I believe you have a...relatability she may respond to. That could make all the difference." Sophie looks down at the evaluation form again, considering. It's unconventional, and definitely unexpected, but the opportunity is enticing. She has always wanted to work in New York, and completing evaluations in court is a valuable experience. It could be her chance to stand out.

Walsh clears his throat, drawing her attention. "So what do you say, doctor?"

II

When Harvey arrives at the lockup to retrieve Donna for her evaluation, he finds her dozing on the bench, her back propped up against the cement wall, legs drawn up to her chest, head resting awkwardly against the brick. Her hair hangs around her face, soft and messy and still beautiful, and despite his disappointment that she wasn't awake before his arrival, the familiar sight immediately soothes a part of him.

The last twenty-four hours had stretched endlessly, every moment a grueling game of catch-up, fueled almost entirely by caffeine and little else. Harvey had stayed awake, throwing himself headfirst into a plan to prove her innocence. Now that the stakes were made known, it was like he could breathe again, and he was taking advantage of every minute, every second, to find her a way out.

"Harvey." The guard reaches for a key as Harvey comes to a stop.

"How is she?" He asks, the question rushed. "Is she okay? Is she —?"

"Worn out, mostly," the man shrugs. "Been sleeping most the night."

The guard unlocks Donna's cell and Harvey steps inside. He crosses the small floor, steps measured and slow. When he comes up to the bench, he has to catch his breath, a flood of emotion passing through him.

She really is pale, he notes, and when he places a hand against her shoulder she doesn't move. Exhaustion is radiating off her, and an instinctive sense of foreboding washes through him. He understands that to fight, to push on, to win, she must be healthy and sharp and above all ready. He would never have allowed her to take this evaluation if he had thought her at risk of being unable to withstand the intrusive and potentially damaging questions he knows they are going to ask. He worries, but she needs to be done with this. They're out of options.

"I know you're up," he says. She remains motionless, not moving a muscle. "Come on, you slouch. Your evaluation is starting."

Nothing.

"I've never thought of you as the lazy type. Melodramatic, maybe." He brushes the hair away from her face, allowing his fingers to ghost her cheek. A small smile threatens to break his lips as he goes on. "High-maintenance, frustrating, infuriating. But never lazy."

"I didn't know you held me in such high regards," comes her husky voice, heavy with sleep. The effect is instantaneous, his worry and guilt melting away.

She blinks up at him and, before he can stop himself, he grins at her, stupid and toothy, at the familiarity and warmth and teasing nature of it. The small curve of her lips, the spark in her eye, the challenge and affection, he falls into them, into her. So easy, and so natural. It feels dangerous. Maybe that's why he tries to look away, quickly and under the guise of straightening himself to a more respectable position.

Her legs drop down from the bench and he turns his attention to the movement, her arms crossing in front of her in a stretch. The sleeves of the orange jumpsuit ride up as she does, and his throat constricts when he sees, for the first time, the deep purple and maroon lines that score her wrists. He sits down next to her and tentatively runs his fingers along the abused skin. She catches his eyes, finding the concern there, the way his focus is stuck on what he had so far been successful in keeping hidden.

"They didn't hurt me, Harvey," she says, voice quiet and reassuring.

"These say otherwise," he says after a moment. He slips his fingers around her wrists, gentle, his thumbs running over her pulse. She reaches a hand out to his face.

"These are from the handcuffs. From being arrested." She meets his eyes. "They didn't do anything to me. I promise."

"It was the Marshall? The one who made up that bullshit on your arrest report?" His voice is stilted as he studies her face, his expression suddenly hard.

She answers slowly. "Yes," and, "But — "

"I'll have his fucking badge. That's assault. That's mistreatment of — "

"Harvey," she stops him, her hand firm against his cheek. "He was doing his job. It wasn't personal, and it doesn't matter now."

"What do you mean it doesn't matter? Your wrists are a damn mess, Donna, it clearly matters."

"I just mean that I can handle it. Really. I'm okay." Her eyes are intense as they hold his, boring into him. There is a seriousness and a defiance in her demeanor that he has no choice but to believe her.

"You shouldn't have to," he admits, quietly.

"I know." She brushes the back of her fingers against his cheek and offers a small smile. "But it's alright. I'll be fine."

It hits him, in that moment, with the softness in her eyes and the weight of her words and her fingertips feather-light against his jaw, what exactly is implied in what she says, and how much trust she is putting in him. How badly he can't screw it up. The magnitude and importance makes his head spin. If only things hadn't gotten so bad, so quickly. He knows now he'll never take what they have for granted.

"Are you ready?" He asks.

"As I'll ever be," she sighs, dropping her hand from his face and onto her lap, where he takes it, entwining their fingers.

"Do exactly as I said. No more, no less. Tell the psychologist only what we practiced over the phone."

"I know, Harvey."

"Say it."

"Really?"

"Humor me."

"It was just the chaos of the moment. There was a lot of noise. I was overwhelmed. I wasn't making any rational decisions."

He squeezes her hand. "Good. Don't ask questions, even if you're unsure or uncomfortable. They're not friends. They're not the good guys."

Donna nods. "No unnecessary giving. I will be the perfect, parrot-taught parrot."

He smirks. "Right. But no fluffing your feathers."

There's a pause, a small smile quirking at the corner of her mouth. "Damn. You know I love fluffing my feathers."

Harvey laughs softly. "I do," he admits, studying her face, the strength that seems to radiate off her despite everything. He brushes his thumb across her knuckles, needing the contact. "Are you sure you're ready?"

"Of course. I need to get out. Someone has to keep your ass out of contempt."

Harvey nods. "Alright. Let's go then."

With effort, Donna stands, using the steadiness of Harvey's body to pull herself up. Once she's balanced, Harvey straightens and wipes some lint off her jumpsuit, lingering there, wishing there was something he could say, do, to make it all better, to take the pain away, to fix it so she never has to go through anything like this again. A part of him knows it's naïve, that the world doesn't work like that, it is unfair and unjust and not at all within his realm of control.

Even so, another part of him wants nothing more than to stay there, and hold her, and tell her it's okay, it's all going to be okay, and nothing and no one can touch them. Even if it isn't true. It's getting harder not to tell her, not to say things he shouldn't. The walls they built feel inconsequential, like a distant memory of a time when things made more sense. But now, here, nothing does.

"Harvey," she whispers, after a moment. His eyes move to hers and she smiles at him gently. It is somehow both playful and placating. Her hand covers his against her heart, the warmth of her seeping through. "Stop."

"Stop what?" His eyebrows knit together, and she brings her other hand to rest against his arm.

"Worrying about me," she breathes.

"I'll always worry about you," he says, and it comes out automatically, the truth of it nearly shattering him. The vulnerability of it terrifies him, the fact that he can't control when these words spill out, at the same time how true they are and how long it took him to recognize it all.

Her expression is somber, as if she really does understand exactly what he's thinking. Then she drops her eyes, the intensity leaving her, her muscles stiffening. "We should go. Get this over with."

Nodding his agreement, he lowers his hands and leads her through the barred door.

III

He falls asleep on her office sofa sometime after 10 am, legs spread wide and arms crossed protectively over his chest. Samantha wonders idly if sleep ever comes easily to Jonathan Martell. His brow remains pinched even now, lips compressed in a perpetual scowl. She tries not to watch him sleep, flipping absently through paperwork instead. But her focus keeps drifting back to him. To his broad shoulders, tense even in rest, and his long legs, one wing-tipped foot tapping occasionally as if in response to a nightmare.

Samantha wonders if nightmares chase him always, relentless, dogging his every step. Donna, she muses, would know the answer to that. Would soothe his restless limbs, trace the worry lines from his forehead. Samantha swallows a surge of envy, and then anger at the reminder that Jonathan was stupid enough to visit the redhead in holding last night. Reckless, foolish man. She doesn't bother asking why. Doesn't need to. His devotion to the woman is painfully obvious, the depth of emotion he hides behind calculated control palpable whenever Donna's name is mentioned. Samantha suspects Donna shares that devotion, though Harvey Specter certainly complicates the dynamic.

Samantha wonders idly if Jonathan harbors jealousy as well, considering Donna's feelings for Specter. Probably not. The man doesn't strike her as the type to dwell on what can't be changed. She respects that outlook, appreciates Jonathan's pragmatism.

Pragmatic yet vulnerable. Ruthless yet loyal. Caring yet utterly closed off. Samantha studies Jonathan's sleeping form once more, throat tightening unexpectedly. She hates these unexpected surges of feeling she has around him. The desire to see him happy. To ease his worries, and take the burden from him. She should not feel this way, and yet…

She shakes her head in exasperation, returning to her files once more. Focus, Wheeler. Focus.

There's a rap at her office door. Samantha startles, pen dropping to her desk with a clatter. Jonathan bolts upright, eyes immediately alert and scanning the room for potential threat. Rachel Zane stands in the doorway, files balanced in her arms, looking understandably uncomfortable under Jonathan's scrutiny. Samantha suppresses a grin.

Rachel straightens her shoulders, offering Jonathan a tentative smile. "Sorry. Didn't mean to interrupt. I have Jonathan's military files. All of them. Even those that were redacted." She deposits the files on Samantha's desk with a self-assured thump. Jonathan's eyebrows lift ever so slightly. Rachel flashes another awkward smile. "Donna arranged it, before...everything."

"How did Donna arrange unredacted military records?" Samantha frowns. Rachel hesitates, darting a glance at Jonathan. He cocks an eyebrow, expression unreadable.

"Um, some guy named Felix." Rachel bites her lip. "Apparently Donna knows him?" Samantha exchanges a bewildered look with Jonathan, who simply shrugs.

"Well, don't get your hopes up," Samantha says, leafing through the files. "None of this will be admissible if she obtained it illegally. The most we can hope for is corroborating Jonathan's credibility, establishing he served and earned commendations." She glances up at Rachel. "Thank you though, these will help."

Rachel hesitates once more. Jonathan stands, buttoning his suit jacket and assuming his trademark inscrutable expression. Samantha rolls her eyes.

"Rachel," Samantha prompts, sensing the young attorney has something further to say. Rachel glances between Jonathan and Samantha, hands wringing.

"I understand you start trial next week?" Samantha nods. Rachel bites her lip again, gaze settling resolutely on Samantha. "I want in. On Jonathan's defense. I want to be your second chair."

Samantha raises her eyebrows, taken aback. Jonathan remains impassive, though Samantha catches Rachel's determined gaze flicker toward him briefly.

"Are you out of your mind? This is a federal case. High profile. High stakes. And you're what? A year out of law school? You really think your father will allow —"

"Let her," Jonathan interjects smoothly. Both attorneys turn to face him in shock.

"Jonathan —" Samantha protests, but he holds up a hand.

"You were assigned my case because of her. She seems smart and resourceful. And Donna trusts her." His eyes lock with Samantha's, unflinching. Challenging. "Also, you come off a bit prickly and could use someone like her to soften your image." Samantha glares. Jonathan's mouth twitches infinitesimally. Rachel's cheeks flush.

"Fair point," Samantha admits. She turns to Rachel. "Fine. Be here at five Monday morning and be prepared to work your ass off. Don't disappoint me." Rachel nods eagerly. Samantha levels Jonathan with a disapproving look. "Happy?"

Jonathan's only answer is a cryptic half-smile. Samantha shakes her head in exasperation and rounds her desk, ushering Rachel out the door. Rachel casts Jonathan one last curious glance as Samantha shuts the door behind her.

Samantha turns, crossing her arms. Jonathan regards her with that infuriating unreadable expression. She waits him out, refusing to be the first to speak. Finally he quirks an eyebrow.

"You worried she'll steal your thunder? Or that I'll prefer her assistance to yours?" Samantha scoffs. Jonathan smiles fully now, a genuine smile that transforms his face. Her breath catches unexpectedly. He tilts his head, smile fading yet humor still dancing in his eyes. She swallows and he takes a step forward, invading her personal space. Samantha straightens against the door, pulse quickening.

"You worry I'll prefer her assistance to yours," he repeats softly. She lifts her chin, forcing herself to maintain his penetrating gaze. His proximity is unnerving. She resists the urge to touch him, trace the hard line of his jaw. She blames exhaustion and adrenaline. Jonathan cocks his head, gaze flickering to Samantha's lips briefly before returning to her eyes. Samantha holds her ground. Jonathan smirks, the bastard, and steps back abruptly.

"5 a.m. Monday," he says, collecting his coat. Samantha clears her throat, willing her heartbeat to slow.

"5 a.m. Monday," she echoes. He strides past, pausing to open the door. Samantha touches his elbow. Jonathan stills, glancing back at her. She allows her lawyer mask to slip momentarily.

"Sleep. Eat. Stay out of trouble." He gives the barest nod. Samantha releases his arm. He exits her office, door closing with a resounding thud. She sinks heavily against her desk, massaging her temple. Focus Wheeler. Jesus.

IV

The evaluation room is a small, windowless box, only about the width of two prison cots. There's a desk on one side and a small round table in the center. The surface is pockmarked with old coffee cup stains and scratches. It smells like cleaning products and old mop water. Donna is deposited into the space with instructions to sit and wait.

She sits there for at least half an hour, maybe more, yet no amount of time spent waiting could have prepared her for the young woman that slips through the door. She is dressed in a pale blue dress, and is slender and tall, with copper hair and blue-gray eyes. There are freckles splashed liberally across her heart-shaped face, a gentle spray that brightens her complexion. More reserved perhaps, more anxious, but similar enough that it almost feels like an older version of Alice is suddenly, inexplicably standing before her, alive and whole and real. A different world. A different life. And for a few beautiful moments, what could have been.

That's all it takes. All the composure and nonchalance that has been a lifeline suddenly vanishes. Her eyes fill, and her throat grows thick, and as much as she knows the resemblance is just that — a resemblance, she can't stop the surge of loss and longing that rushes over her.

When their eyes meet, it is clear to them both that they recognize something in the other. The young woman's smile falls slowly, her expression drawn and apologetic and almost guilty. Donna turns her face away, taking deep breaths and attempting to calm her wildly-beating heart, telling herself she can't fall apart now, not when there is still so much at stake. Because if the facade crumbles, what is left?

"Oh, I... They didn't say... I'm so sorry. Perhaps there's been some kind of mix up." The young woman's words hang between them, and Donna can hear her hesitating, uncertain, her breath quickened, the desire to leave present in her hesitation.

It is not a mix up, Donna realizes. Rather, it is perfect, if cruel, selection — as if someone had gotten into her mind and pulled this version of her daughter out of her most irrational fantasies. It is an assault. The prosecution knows exactly what they are doing, using her own past against her.

"I don't think there has been a mix up at all."

Donna watches as the young woman goes very still.

"Do you?" she prods.

At that, the girl falters, and with seeming reluctance, crosses the room and sits in the metal chair across from her. "My name is Sophie," she says. She pauses, lips pressed together, brow furrowed. It's obvious that she too is frustrated and caught up in the moment and being played in the same game. "And no, I don't think there's been a mistake."

"You look so much like her," Donna says, and she can't keep the hollowness and sadness from her tone. "God."

"I'm sorry." Sophie doesn't seem sure where to look or what to do with her hands and her frown deepens as she studies her lap. "You're here as the result of a criminal investigation, which means our conversation is being recorded."

The young woman casts a subtle glance up at the red light flashing on the security camera installed in the corner, and Donna understands the gesture for what it is, her meaning getting through immediately, a clear connection forming between them.

"I'm here to evaluate your mental state. I'll ask you a series of questions. How you answer is up to you. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Donna responds.

There is a long, awkward silence. The minutes tick by and Sophie seems as unsure about beginning as Donna is unsure of how to continue. The elephant in the room sits between them, massive and oppressive. Sophie makes a few aborted attempts to speak, glancing down at the notepad in front of her, pen in hand. Donna straightens and pulls her composure together. This might not be the daughter she lost, but the urge to protect her, to reassure her, is unchanged.

"It's okay," she says gently. "Ask the questions. I'll answer. We'll get through this."

Sophie lifts her eyes to Donna's and there is something remarkably open and grateful in her expression. It fills her with regret and nostalgia and it makes her want to cry, but she bites her bottom lip and lifts her chin. Sophie seems to take the response as an invitation, nodding slightly and clearing her throat.

"How are you feeling today?"

Donna forces a small smile. "Is this the part where I pretend I didn't just spend the night in jail?"

There is a pause, and then Sophie's lips tug upward. "Humor is generally a good sign." She makes a note, and Donna wonders what she's writing. "How do you feel you handled being arrested?"

This, Donna thinks, is the first real question. She gathers her thoughts, knowing the next words that come out of her mouth may impact the rest of evaluation and possibly her freedom.

"Surprised," she begins, giving herself a few extra moments, considering the best way to navigate the tension between truth and manipulation. "More surprised than anything else, initially, I would say."

She watches Sophie nod as she writes. "And after the initial surprise?"

"Exhausted, I guess."

Sophie nods again. "The federal marshal's report of your arrest indicates a 'deliberate movement toward oncoming traffic', the purpose of which was unclear. Could you please elaborate on this?"

The young doctor must understand the implications of asking such a question, because when she lifts her eyes, Donna sees a careful, understanding sympathy reflected there. A genuine suggestion of 'you don't have to answer that', paired with the suggestion of 'please give them something', a subtle play between them, an agreement reached wordlessly. Donna takes a few long moments, glancing around the room. They both already know the reason for her hesitation.

Finally, she drops her gaze, looking at her hands. "I guess... it was just the chaos of the moment. There was a lot of noise. I was overwhelmed. I'm not sure I was making any rational decisions."

Sophie nods. "I understand. You were in the center of an impossible situation, sometimes you act without thinking in an attempt to cope, even if it doesn't really make sense. Likely your behavior was just an impulsive fear-response. Adrenaline, panic, disbelief. That's all."

"Right," Donna says, her eyebrows rising slightly. "Exactly."

"That's usually the explanation for these kinds of behaviors." The doctor gives her a small, conspiratorial smile. A subtle fire in her eyes. The prosecution thinks they've found their pawn, but in reality, they've created a problem. An unlikely ally. The thought ignites a glimmer of hope and satisfaction inside Donna, a slight weight lifting off her shoulders. She is back in control, the power dynamic shifting.

The evaluation progresses rapidly, then. From that point forward the questions seem to unwind naturally, as if the dam has been broken. A great deal of the time is taken by Sophie's careful cataloging of Donna's history, her family, and her work. They chat about her role within the firm, and her relationships with colleagues, Harvey in particular. Sometimes Sophie switches tracks, delving into other sensitive areas, only to smoothly steer the conversation back. She's respectful, keeping her tone even and soft.

Donna never intended to discuss Alice, especially not Alice and Jonathan together, but as the minutes pass, and the questions mount, she finds herself talking about them. Mostly, the words tumble out in fragments, not many, before trailing off into silence. Sophie is patient throughout. She accepts, almost intuitively, when Donna becomes uncomfortable, or uncertain, offering a sympathetic smile and kindly allowing her space. She does not judge.

There is comfort in Sophie's presence, Donna discovers, a connection, and after a while, the evaluation begins to feel more therapeutic than an interrogation. There are times when she looks up and, in a strange, impossible, and perhaps deranged sort of way, it is like coming face to face with her daughter's ghost and words slip out, as if she is seeking absolution, needing to explain herself. Donna talks about Alice's death, the resulting grief, and Harvey's entrance into her life. Sophie listens without interruption, occasionally nodding, her pen and paper set aside, forgotten.

Then, there is silence. Sophie studies Donna quietly, her expression contemplative. Donna meets her eyes, and for a long time, neither speaks. Finally, Sophie shifts, her delicate brows furrowing. "When you get out on bail, how will it feel to return to your life? Your job? Your relationships?"

When. Not if. As if it has already been decided. And yet the question hits Donna in a way she doesn't anticipate. Her stomach sinks immediately. How would she feel, to go back? Does she even have a life to return to? She thinks of Jonathan. What they are, and what they can never be again. A door shut. Locked closed. Then there is Harvey. The things they've shared, and that awful, terrifying possibility that suddenly exists between them, of love and romance and partnership, yet still, there is something preventing her from approaching it. The weight of the last few days. Her own indifference. Her guilt. The growing realization of where those feelings ultimately originated. Of Mike and Rachel and her apartment, maybe not a home anymore. The possibility of a trial. Prison, forever. Jonathan again, and the horror of losing him when she just got him back. Of Alice.

Alice. God. The thought stops her breath.

"I..." She presses her fingers against her temples, leaning her elbows on the surface of the table. "I have no idea. None." Her voice is thin, echoing strangely as it bounces around the small room. Her fingers feel numb. "God, I think... Maybe it's just — Everything feels empty now. Everywhere. Here. Them. It all seems empty. And, I don't know, without cause or reason or meaning. It's like I'm disappearing. Like the Donna everyone knows and relies on is gone. Like I'm not even myself anymore. Like everything good has just...evaporated. And all that's left is this ugly shell. Broken and hollow and selfish."

She realizes all the wrong words have escaped her, slipping past the careful façade. A moment of weakness. Or maybe not. Maybe it's real. Maybe the last few days have stripped away everything insincere and left behind something simpler, vulnerable. Truth. Suddenly, the person in front of her is no longer a doctor or some older approximation of her daughter, she is a stranger, a friend, a listener — human. Something breaks. Donna's words rush out in a hushed, unstoppable torrent.

"I... I don't know what to do, Sophie. It's like my heart isn't beating at all, just thrumming, painfully, in the middle of my chest. I haven't felt this numb since..." She squeezes her eyes shut, unable to ignore the tears swelling in the corners of her lids. "Not since Alice. Since Alice died. I buried her and I've been standing there ever since, in that same place. Just Lost. Going through motions. I don't feel like I have a life anymore. I don't think I'd know what it means. I'm just... Stuck. At least in here, there's an end to this nightmare, even if I know where it'll finish. Outside, I have to wake up. I have to breathe, and move and feel and act, live and age and... And, god, I can't."

Sophie's expression is nothing less than crushed. She doesn't disguise her reaction, her lip caught between her teeth, tears pooling, making her eyes glassy. Her hand lifts and moves through the air, closing the distance between them until her fingertips are resting gently against the cool metal of the cuff around Donna's wrist.

"Donna," she says softly. "There are times in each of our lives where we feel it, that moment of complete loss — where the past and the future are gone and there's only emptiness where everything used to be. Like the whole world has ended and your choices are no longer meaningful. But your perception is currently warped. A dark tunnel with no exit. It isn't the truth. It feels final because your psyche is failing you, but you are not lost. You are still alive and as long as you can keep on moving, one step at a time, one day at a time, you'll find the light."

Donna looks at the young psychologist's earnest face, the passion in her eyes as she tries to convey her meaning, but no words are able to reach her. The concept is too foreign, inconceivable. She feels broken. Pieces and fragments scattered and shattered and drifting apart. She does not have the energy to move, can't imagine going forward, picking up the pieces and trying again. The fight in her is gone.

"I can't..." She takes a breath, shaking her head, and the words escape in a muted whisper. "I'm so tired, Sophie. I'm done."

"No." Sophie's voice is stronger now. She leans forward and her gaze, though soft, holds her firmly, demands attention. "Listen. This may sound superficial or simplistic, but you still have something. Something worth fighting for. Even if you don't know what it is or feel it right this moment, I promise you, it's there. Maybe you can't see it through the haze, but it's there. These obstacles, this is not the end. That's not where your story finishes. There's so much potential ahead, Donna. Don't waste it."

At the girl's pleading, and the need there, Donna exhales. They stare at one another and her vision is blurred. Sophie does not break away, her eyes round, sincere. They stay that way, frozen in time. Seconds, perhaps minutes slip by. Somewhere, an electronic beep sounds, the sound seemingly miles away and inside her mind, muffled and distant.

It is a surprise to them both when the door to the evaluation room opens, the noise shattering their concentration and jarring them from their mutual reverie. A guard steps inside, brow raised expectantly, the metal-gated door swinging shut behind him. "Have you finished up in here?"

Sophie clears her throat and sits back, rearranging her features.

"Just about." The shift is immediate, surprising. The sympathy and emotion present a few moments earlier has vanished, replaced by a professionalism, efficient and business-like. "Give us a few more moments, please."

The guard dips his chin, nodding, and disappears back out the door. The momentary peace returns.

"I have to ask, Donna." Sophie meets her eyes, she looks conflicted, her eyebrows drawn low. She seems hesitant, like she isn't sure she should go on. Donna understands, then, what she's about to say. "Are you a danger to yourself?"

"I..."

"Listen." Sophie leans in, searching her face, her tone hushed and urgent. "Pretend for a moment that I'm not asking you because it's required. Because I was paid, or assigned, or whatever. Pretend that your bail isn't a contingency here, or an outcome. You need to understand what is at stake, because if you lie to me..."

She watches as the young woman presses her lips together, cutting herself short. Finally, she whispers, "If you lie to me and you pose a threat to yourself, I will be partially responsible. At best, I would lose my job. My reputation, my credibility, my ability to practice and..." She pauses, tears slipping out. Her eyes trace the ceiling, seemingly reluctant to meet Donna's. "If this goes badly, if something happens to you and I didn't speak up... Well, let's just say I'm not arrogant enough to think it wouldn't absolutely wreck me."

A wave of surprise and sadness moves through Donna. The weight of the young psychologist's words wraps her like a tether and draws tight.

When she doesn't answer, Sophie releases a quiet breath. "It's not very professional of me to admit, but I'm rooting for you. I really am. I don't want you to be detained, but I think — god help me, I think that the best thing for you right now is to remain in custody, so I... So, I need an honest answer. Do you think..." She pauses and wipes her face. When she finally manages the question, her voice is low. "Do you feel like you could be a danger to yourself?"

The answer exists before she knows how to put words to it. Still, she hesitates, remembering that she's supposed to be strong, putting on a bravado, pretending like it will all be okay. For Harvey. For Jonathan. The firm. Everyone. Pretending she knows what to do, that she can survive this. A denial is easy, a show of bluster and nonchalance, but her heart is torn and the truth slips free.

"Yes."

That's all she says, the weight of it hanging between them, the confession, her life. The heaviness of her statement leaves her numb, disconnected, though there is relief, she thinks, lifting the burden, removing the weight she's held, giving up control and letting go.

Sophie swallows and nods. It's a minute movement, her expression carefully blank. Donna wonders if the young woman is disappointed. If this wasn't what she had wanted, or hoped.

"Okay," Sophie answers. "Alright. I'm going to recommend bail be withheld until the completion of biweekly therapy sessions for at least the next three months. After that, we'll reevaluate the risk."

Donna's lips press together in a tight smile, a final silent communication, acknowledging, 'we've done all that we can.'

"I will tell you one last thing," Sophie closes her notebook, looking at her earnestly, tucking a stray lock behind her ear. "In every tragedy, after the chaos, the wreckage, comes strength. I want you to take a moment and imagine what yours will look like. Who you will be when it has burned through you. Because that, Donna Paulsen, is what waits for you. Not this feeling of futility and regret. Not defeat. I will see you again and I will tell you that, here," her finger taps against the metal restraint around her wrist. "You chose to survive."

Maybe it's because she looks so much like Alice, and because she looks so proud of her, so hopeful and confident in Donna's future, or maybe it's the meaning in her words, and the promise. Or maybe it's simply that she is so overwhelmed and lost in the storm and the exhaustion and the whirlwind of everything around her, but she can do nothing else, but try to believe, and be grateful, a simple, "Thank you," leaving her on a quiet whisper.

Sophie rises from the table and gathers her things. Before she steps out, she looks back one last time.

"It's gonna be okay," she tells Donna softly. There is unwavering trust, conviction. "I don't care how lost you feel, no matter how many steps it takes or how far away the light is, we'll get you out of this dark place. Okay?"

Donna manages a nod, her lips pressing together. Sophie nods back. Then, she's gone.

V

The office is a disaster zone. It's quiet, though, save for the clicking of keyboards and hushed murmurs, but it looks as though there's been an earthquake. The couch and table are moved aside to create a large workspace, with Sandra and Louis in the center, papers strewn and tacked to every available surface. There are laptops on the desk, people in the chairs, boxes stacked high on every spare space, and more on the way, Mike knows. They are drowning in documents, but there is still a very large gap of information to bridge before this whole thing even has the slightest chance of success.

Louis stands suddenly and points at a paralegal, looking a bit deranged, his voice rising and bouncing off the walls.

"No. No, no. Not the corporate records. The partnership records, goddammit!"

Mike sighs. This has been going on since Louis woke up from his power nap, a furry of mania and paperwork and general Louisness. Before the current explosion, he picked a heated fight with a first-year associate for absolutely no reason. It took twenty minutes to convince him the guy wasn't sent from the prosecution to spy.

It is possible he hasn't properly slept since finding out about Donna's indictment, but Mike knows that's only a tiny piece of the reason for his agitation. Louis is in full-on Donna Defense Mode, and will stay that way until the charges are dismissed, or his heart gives out from exhaustion and he dies. Probably the former, Mike amends. It is much more likely, with the current trajectory of this case.

Mike finds himself wandering away from the madness and toward Harvey's office. He stands in the entrance, the door ajar, and stares. It's the only thing he seems to have the energy to do, the sight of the room's empty shell sending his thoughts spiraling back to the hearing, the courtroom, the sight of Harvey and Donna standing together as Donna was led from the room, alone and pale. He is about to leave and find his way back to the documents they need, when a familiar voice, one he hasn't heard in far too long, speaks behind him.

"Where is he?"

Mike spins around in surprise, relief flooding him as he catches sight of Jessica Pearson standing before him. "He's —" He can't seem to finish the thought and swallows around the emotion suddenly thick in his throat. Jessica's expression is hard, determined. There is not an ounce of her typical intimidation, though, just concern, and Mike knows, for the first time since everything went to shit, he is looking at someone who might really know what to do. "Thank god," he breathes.

She quirks her lips, raising her eyebrows expectantly.

"Um. Sorry, yeah," Mike says, clearing his throat. "Harvey. He's at the precinct. Donna...She's been—"

"I heard." She nods in the direction of the associates. "And this mess? Louis?"

"Oh, uh, yeah," he laughs nervously and nods. "The mess. Donna... It's..." He trails off, unable to get the words out. Jessica just nods in understanding and clasps his shoulder as she steps past, heading into Harvey's office. Mike follows on her heels.

"How is Harvey taking things?" she asks.

"Uh... Okay?"

She lifts an eyebrow in response and he continues, thinking better of it. "Not great. He's not handling this well. Not at all. Honestly, I think..." He trails off, hating himself for the thought, but he knows she needs to know, and that he can't hide the truth, especially from her.

"I think we need to pull him off as lead counsel. The way he spoke to the judge during the bail hearing...I just don't know if he's capable of handling this case."

He doesn't want to believe it, but it's a nagging worry, one he's tried to push to the side, even as he's seen more and more evidence that proves how much the last few weeks have affected Harvey, how close he is to the edge. And the idea of pulling Harvey off a case, one involving his most important person, is unthinkable, even for the man he once thought of as an unbeatable, immovable, all-powerful god. But Mike can't deny what he saw in the courtroom. Harvey went rogue and nearly destroyed their whole defense before the trial even started.

Jessica nods, unsurprised by his answer. "I would agree if we weren't fighting this on two fronts." He hears the 'we' and his chest feels a little less tight. He realizes just how much he missed her presence.

"What do you mean?" he asks.

"The court of public opinion," she replies simply. "The media is outraged that the prosecution used Donna's mental health against her. Harvey's fury toward the judge came off as justified and empathetic. It's working in our favor."

"But—"

"Mike, trust me." She fixes him with a serious look. "Bad PR is like a death sentence to politicians, especially during an election year. We should let Harvey run free, even if that means he pisses off every judge in Manhattan. If we can keep our ground in the PR war, they'll start to panic and maybe offer a deal if only to save face. Besides," she adds, her mouth twitching up at the corner. "Have you ever tried to get between that man and something he loves?"

He is quiet for a long time, thinking it over, his eyes wandering around the empty office. Finally, he shakes his head.

"I'm really glad you're back."

He is almost positive he imagines the slight softening of her features at the statement, the hint of a smile, the brief touch of her fingers on his shoulder as she turns away.

"Let me know the minute Harvey gets back," she orders over her shoulder. "I have things he needs to see. And we've got a lot of work to do."

She's gone before he can answer, disappearing down the hall. He finds himself grinning at the sound of Louis' shriek of joy upon seeing her, the rush of his footsteps, and her long-suffering sigh as she relinquishes herself to the crushing hug he no doubt inflicts.

"God," Mike mutters, shaking his head in disbelief and affection, and making his way back to his office, where a fresh stack of files and research awaits.

VI

Harvey is pacing as he waits. He doesn't realize he's doing it, but he's moving up and down the same path. He's furious, angry, but more than that he's scared. Nothing could have prepared him for Donna locked behind metal doors, accompanied by a red-haired psychologist with Alice's ghost in her features.

He tried to intervene, to stop the proceedings, tried to get inside, but somehow, despite everything, the FBI agents and NYPD officers had blocked him, cuffing his wrists and hauling him, unsympathetically, outside.

They'd uncuffed him soon after, there had been threats and accusations, but he wasn't paying attention. All he could think was that she was alone and traumatized and he wasn't there for her.

He drops his chin and leans his forehead against the cool glass of the building's main entrance. Donna has been inside the evaluation room for over an hour and his mind has come up with a thousand scenarios. None of them good. Just when he thinks this can't get worse, when the ground feels as if it's falling beneath his feet, it does. The young doctor emerges, wrapped in a gray pea coat, bright red hair down, spilling over her shoulders. The sight is jarring — not only is she not Donna, but she is undeniably like Donna, a younger replica, only with blue eyes and freckles along the bridge of her nose.

Her blue eyes watch him, then. Harvey straightens, and the young psychologist's steps falter, as if she's unsure, or even a little intimidated. His emotions surge and in the next moment he's stumbling forward, his anxiety and worry reaching a boiling point.

"Tell me she'll be released," is all he can manage.

There's hesitation. Too long. He already knows what it means.

"She can't be released, I'm sorry." There is so much sympathy in her expression that Harvey nearly loses his composure, his hands squeezing into fists at his sides. This stranger must see his turmoil, because she hurries on. "This was a calculated recommendation. Her emotions are volatile right now. I... I don't mean to seem aloof, and I know you don't believe me or want to hear this, but I think this is the best place for her, where her trauma can be managed. Therapy can provide structure and comfort, it can minimize triggers, it will help her process and learn to cope, she won't be quite so overwhelmed or..."

The psychologist falters. Her expression is pained and she seems to struggle with the rest. "I'm not saying she's not capable, or resilient, because I know... I know it must have taken a lot, to get where she is. I know. I do, Mr. Specter, believe me. In there, I saw..." The words trail off, but she tries again. "I have confidence this is where Donna can best regroup and get the proper care she needs."

"No." Harvey shakes his head, glaring at her. "You're wrong. Donna's fine. You manipulated her, exploited her, you just— played with her feelings and sent her back into a cage like some goddamn animal. You know nothing about her. You—"

"Please, Mr. Specter. Let me make this absolutely clear."

The tone of her voice stops him short. It is commanding and without compromise, like ice.

"I didn't want to do this. I didn't want to do this anymore than I wanted to have that evaluation. But her mental state — the numbness she's experiencing, her apathy, this lack of goal or direction, all while confronting the ghosts of her past, and the very real legal problems she faces now... If not treated, these issues could lead to self-destructive behavior or worse."

Harvey shakes his head. He just keeps shaking his head. "You're wrong," he says again. But even as he says it, the denial sounds empty, his argument an illusion. As much as the last few weeks have brought him closer to Donna, showing him facets of her he never knew, it has also served to show him parts of her he has chosen to ignore, aspects of her past that only illuminate their current predicament. She thinks he doesn't know or understand her depression or her lack of sleep or drinking, her moments of abject inaction, the withdrawal.

Maybe subconsciously, maybe willfully ignorant, he has dismissed it, rationalized it, labeled it 'emotions'. Now he's forced to confront the truth — she isn't thinking clearly, even if she seems okay, acting the part of Donna-always-together, and stronger-than-most, and the Donna he's always known. He'd convinced himself she'd just breezed through this, like she breezes through everything, with grace and force, a presence.

Now here he is, standing in front of this proxy, this young doctor, knowing what Donna has endured, this person who looks like Alice, who held her hand and elicited painful revelations and has promised her rehabilitation, and there is an overwhelming realization that he has failed her. This is his failure.

The doctor regards him sympathetically, her tone softening. "I'm sorry," she repeats. "I know this looks like I've done you a disservice and that I'm keeping her here as some sort of punishment for a crime she probably didn't commit, but that isn't true. This is a precaution and an intervention. Donna is strong, but she is not invincible. She's hurting, and overwhelmed, and stuck in a dark place, and... and I think... I know she's reached a point where she might not believe there's a way out. Where she's given up." She meets his eyes, her gaze steady. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Harvey drags a hand through his hair, letting it grip the back of his neck as he considers. "She's..." he starts, but he has no words. Suddenly, he is so exhausted. The stress and lack of sleep and continuous anxiety all crash down. God, he can't do this, whatever this is. He doesn't know how.

"What can I do?" he asks finally, dropping his hands, meeting the young woman's eyes. "How do I help her?"

The doctor seems relieved at his surrender, her posture softening, a small, encouraging smile gracing her lips. "Be there for her. Be present and patient and remind her that she isn't alone." She pauses, studying him, and Harvey isn't sure, but he thinks she can see how lost and inadequate he truly feels. "Keep showing up. It's all you can do."

Harvey nods, exhaling a long breath. The doctor offers a sympathetic, reassuring smile and turns, disappearing down the precinct steps, swallowed by the throng of pedestrians and yellow taxis. Harvey watches her go, trying not to think, not yet, pushing away the hopelessness and futility, instead focusing on what is ahead. Right now, Donna is alone, and scared, and locked behind bars, and she needs him, and that, at least, is something he can give her.

His phone rings as he steps back inside the lobby, Louis' name flashing across the screen. Harvey silences the device, slipping it back into his pocket. There will be time for the firm, and explaining her absence to Rachel and Mike, answering questions, and preparing their defense, but none of that matters right now. Donna is his only priority.

When Harvey reaches the assessment room, the guard posted outside is reluctant, but after a few moments and a call to his supervisor, he is allowed entry. Donna is sitting at the metal table, alone. Her head is bowed, her face hidden behind a curtain of auburn hair. Harvey crosses the room, sitting in the metal chair across from her. She doesn't move, doesn't look up, she just remains motionless, trapped in her own thoughts, staring at the restraints around her wrists. Harvey reaches across the surface, resting his palm against the metal. Donna's fingers are cold, and when he touches her, she startles, her head lifting, surprise and emotion flooding her features.

"Harvey." Her expression crumbles, her composure slipping away, and he can see her struggling, attempting to regain control. "Harvey, I..."

She doesn't finish. Harvey rises from his seat and moves around the table, crouching in front of her. Donna watches him, tears pooling, her lips pressed together tightly. Harvey lifts his hands, framing her face, his thumbs tracing her cheeks. Donna's breath catches, a quiet, distraught sound leaving her. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so —"

Harvey shakes his head, interrupting her, shushing softly, pulling her forward, wrapping his arms around her and holding her against him. Donna goes willingly, her forehead falling against his shoulder, her fingers fisting in his jacket, clinging to him. Harvey presses his cheek against her hair, closing his eyes, relief and dread and determination moving through him.

"Donna," he murmurs, his words quiet. "Whatever happens, however this plays out, I'm not going anywhere. We're gonna get through this. I promise."

Donna doesn't answer, she just holds him tighter, and Harvey understands that right now, she is unable to believe him, and that's okay. That's why he's here. She doesn't have to believe it. He will. For both of them.

VII

It doesn't take much effort for Jonathan to find out where the agents are staying.

When he does, he immediately begins to strategize. His thoughts are a whirlwind, an angry cloud of frustration and regret. It's a struggle to remain in control and to keep from lashing out. He remembers his promise to Donna, though. Keep it together. Play it cool.

So he takes a shower and changes his clothes, makes himself a meal and drinks an entire pot of coffee, pacing around the house. He doesn't touch any alcohol, not wanting to compromise himself. Instead he runs around the neighborhood until it gets dark. He tries to focus his anger and his energy on something productive, something that can help Donna, not just fuel the rage that threatens to overwhelm him.

But as the hours pass, his irritation and fury only increase. He is tired of letting this play out on someone else's terms, of following rules and being kept out of the loop. The waiting. The longer he sits there stewing, the more the plan becomes clearer. There are no doubts left. He is going to do it. No matter how many times he goes over the scenarios, he always lands at the same place — it is the best course of action, the only option, a matter of protecting Donna. He justifies it to himself by reminding himself that this isn't the first time he has acted on her behalf. He has been playing dirty for her for as long as he can remember, why stop now?

At nine thirty, he slides the gun into his waistband, and leaves for the hotel.

By the time he arrives at the address, a calculated calm has descended over him. He doesn't let himself hesitate or question his actions. There is no second-guessing, he knows what needs to happen and that he will follow through. His hands don't shake. The nerves, the fear, the worry — all of it has melted away. There is only purpose.

The night clerk in the lobby doesn't pay any attention as he crosses the room toward the elevator bank.

A few minutes later he is stepping off on the twelfth floor, counting off room numbers, counting his steps as he goes. There is no one around.

Room 1226 is on the right side, toward the end of the hall, away from the elevator, quiet, isolated, almost as if he picked it out himself. The door is dark and when he reaches up and knocks, there's a muffled sound, and then the sound of locks clicking. A man appears, mid-thirties, dark hair, tired eyes, a government agent who's seen more than he can handle. He frowns, not recognizing him, not quite comprehending, and Jonathan doesn't give him time.

A well-aimed swing connects with his jaw, hard and fast, the crack of bone against bone, a loud snap. He drops with a startled groan and a gasp.

Jonathan follows him, landing a final strike to the side of his head. He isn't moving anymore. He isn't going to wake up anytime soon, either. He can feel it. But there's no thrill of accomplishment. No excitement. He just feels empty, a purpose fulfilled, but the void it leaves behind remains, growing.

He pulls the gun, and enters the room, leaving the agent's unconscious body on the floor. He shuts the door, his back against the wall. The room is a typical hotel space, with two beds, two chairs and a round table. An open laptop, files and folders and notepads spread everywhere. He hears the shower running. He waits.

A second man enters, dressed in a bathrobe, feet bare. His eyes fall to Jonathan's gun, then to the slumped body of the agent at his feet. He immediately steps backward. "Whoa, whoa, whoa... Easy."

Jonathan levels the barrel directly at the man's forehead. "Get your cuffs."

"Listen, if you are who I think you are —"

"Then you already know why I'm here," Jonathan tells him. He tries to keep his tone steady. "Get your cuffs. Get your buddy up."

Yeager's gaze drops to his partner. He is breathing, his mouth hanging open, his skin red and starting to purple where Jonathan struck him. He frowns and looks back at the gun pointed at his head. "We can talk about this."

Jonathan's eyebrows raise. "Okay. Let's talk about it. Talk to me about the way you dragged my ex-wife into this investigation, just so you could manipulate her to turn on me. The way you brought that doctor here, knowing that her presence would be emotionally torturous." He lifts the weapon a little higher, aiming at his right eye now. "Tell me, Yeager, do you want to have that conversation?"

The agent raises his hands, palms open in surrender, and Jonathan realizes then how much of the rage in him is obvious. How thin his restraint is stretched, ready to break.

"You're making a big mistake —"

"The only mistake I made," Jonathan says. "Is not being here sooner. Now cuff your friend before he bleeds on my shoes or I will fucking shoot you."

There is a tense moment, an exchange of angry glares. Finally, Yeager lifts his hands, giving a nod of agreement.

A few minutes pass. There is a scuffle. Grunts. Movement. Then the unconscious agent is seated in a chair at the table. His hands cuffed behind him. Jonathan can see his eyes beginning to roll beneath closed lids. He won't be out much longer, which means it is time to finish what he came there for. Yeager stands near the door, watching him carefully. He hasn't made another sound.

Jonathan points at the second chair, motioning with the gun. Yeager takes the seat, slowly lowering himself. There are no words, just a tense stare. Finally, the older man seems to get his bearings, clearing his throat and looking away.

"You know you aren't going to get away with this, right?" he asks, his tone filled with an odd calm.

Jonathan nods. "You're probably right. I don't really give a shit either way. I accept it, but I have some things to say to you, and if I go out, it's with you knowing."

Yeager lifts his chin. His expression is unimpressed, his mouth twisted. He waits.

Jonathan moves forward until he's standing over the agent, until they're close enough to touch. Then, he lowers the gun, using it to lift Yeager's chin so that he's looking directly at him, a hard glare in his eyes, his voice low. "You understand what you are? You get what you've done to us?"

Yeager stares back. There's no fear in his gaze, only irritation.

"This isn't about the law. It never was. The DOD used my family to cover up their own ineptitude. My daughter, my wife... Me. They turned us all into a piece of the machine."

He steps back. The gun returns to center. His fingers tighten on the trigger. His chest is heaving. "That's not what a government does, Yeager. They aren't supposed to be that corrupt. But here you are. And there's the proof. What I need you to understand is that I see what this is. This game you're playing. It isn't justice. You and your organization don't care about truth or law or freedom. You care about money. You care about saving face."

Jonathan feels his eyes fill. There are so many words, and yet so few. A lifetime of resentment. Of pain.

"I won't let you win. I won't let you keep using me, using her, keep hurting us like this. You have taken from me for the last time."

There is silence, just a few moments, just the two of them there, Jonathan staring down the barrel of a loaded gun pointed at Yeager's forehead. The agent looks tired and sad. His expression is defeated. There is understanding.

Jonathan watches him nod. He lifts his hands, holding them up. A gesture of acceptance and surrender.

"I'm sorry," he says. "For what it's worth... I get it."

"I don't need your fucking pity," Jonathan snaps.

He lowers the gun. Aiming at his chest. At the place he knows will make it quick and easy and clean. He knows it is what Yeager deserves. It is the right thing to do, he tells himself. And god, there is nothing he wants more than to pull the trigger. It makes his hand shake. It makes the rage bubble to the surface, the need to let the violence free, to make a statement.

Yeager meets his gaze, then closes his eyes and nods, as if he knows. As if he can tell. "Just do it."

His voice is soft and sad, his shoulders dropping, defeated, and for a moment, Jonathan feels as if they are one and the same. Yeager has been broken too, by the government he swore to protect, and the job that ruined him. Yeager is simply following orders. Just like Jonathan did. He has lost pieces of himself. Pieces that are no longer a part of who he is. Hell, perhaps shooting him is a mercy.

But he isn't here to kill these men, that will only complicate the situation further. It won't do any good in helping Donna. He came for the truth. And this isn't about his personal revenge, his feelings, his rage, or his grief. It is about helping the woman he loves. About doing what he promised to do, even if he never thought it would go this far, even if it goes against his most primal, visceral instincts.

His mind clears and the anger slips away. He breathes. His hand steadies. His voice, when it comes, is quiet and controlled. "The problem is, Yeager, I don't know what the fuck I'm supposed to do with you. You and that bastard. This whole fucking mess. If I kill you, who wins? What do I prove? You don't matter."

In the end, the gun goes down and Jonathan feels an unfamiliar twinge of regret, of pity. The agent, who had been waiting for a death sentence, blinks in confusion, then lowers his head to stare, his eyes wide and uncomprehending, at the gun aimed at his feet.

"Okay," Yeager answers. He seems dazed by the sudden change of events. "Okay."

Jonathan studies him. There's fear there. He understands, he is still at the mercy of an unstable mad man with a loaded weapon and nowhere to go. He nods toward the laptop.

"Is it recording?"

Yeager hesitates. "Not yet. But I can have the system—"

"Do it. Then, we'll talk. I'll tell you everything. All the questions you want answers to. But you are going to make it stop. You are going to do whatever it takes. You're going to help her. Do you understand?"

Slowly, Yeager's eyes lift and meet Jonathan's, the first show of any real emotion there, the first spark of life. The barest hint of something, like he is no longer the broken puppet of an uncaring entity, but a real human, and Jonathan can almost see him now, as the man who made the wrong choices, who maybe has a wife and a daughter at home, who loves them, and doesn't want to let them down, who maybe was in the service, once. A good man. Or at least the shadow of a good man. The shell of something that might have once been a good man.

Jonathan isn't sure what Yeager sees reflected back, but there is an understanding that passes between them, a recognition. They are both broken men, Jonathan thinks. Men with nothing to lose. Men with nothing.

He watches the agent give a slight nod.

Jonathan nods in return and takes a seat at the table, across from him, his gun resting against the wood, the barrel trained directly on his chest, but neither of them paying it much attention, because there is the possibility now, of an agreement, and a peace between them. A mutual goal, however unattainable, perhaps. The idea is there.

"Start recording."