Hard Truths
Donna's so focused on Harvey, she doesn't see the swinging glass. All she registers is a jarring pain ricocheting through her nose as brightly lit stars dance across her vision. She manages to catch the door, stop it from inflicting more damage, as her other hand flies up, cupping the ebbing throb pulsing through her cheek bones.
Fucking asshole.
She blinks as Kyle lurches out of his seat, the movement forcing Harvey to turn around, but she ignores both men, pulling her fingers down and paling at the sight of blood splattered across them.
"Shit, Donna—"
"I'm fine," she snaps at Harvey, moisture burning behind her gaze as her brain catches up to what happened, but she refuses to let the tears fall because it would be unprofessional. Obviously, Harvey hadn't meant to hurt her, but they need to save face, and she lifts her hand to cover the nosebleed, muffling a stern warning. "Take the interview, I'll send in someone else."
Harvey flinches, his anger shattered by guilt as the door closes properly this time, Donna's form retreating in the opposite direction. He doesn't even spare a second glance at Kyle as his feet move to chase after her. He'd deliberately given her a wide berth—hadn't thought as he'd propelled all his emotions into flinging the handle, but the look of shock on her face, the crimson painting her fingertips is going to give him nightmares for weeks to come.
He feels sick to his stomach as he catches her disappearing into the ladies room up ahead—his only care reaching her.
…
Donna grabs a wad of hand-towels as she enters the safety of the bathroom, her breathing fast and laboured as she moves to the sink, clutching the edges to steady herself.
It was an accident—too many heightened emotions boiling to the surface, and a decade worth of feelings that she'd unearthed when she'd kissed him flooding into the light. Maybe it's her own fault. She'd made a mistake, been cavalier with their friendship, and hadn't stopped to think about the consequences of her actions. Harvey's let her go more times than he's ever fought to keep them together, and she'd had no right to assume even if she wanted more, he would too.
She sucks in a shaky breath, not sure which hurts more; his anger or her physical pain, and she wrenches the faucet, soaking the paper in her hand, letting it disintegrate like everything else in her life.
The door pushes open and she startles, trapped like a deer in headlights when she meets Harvey's gaze.
His heart stops, his eyes latching onto hers for a full second before the blood on her face kicks him into action. He grabs another handful of paper-towel, and closes the distance between them, flicking the wad under the running water, and swallowing hard as she stands unmoving in front of him.
He doesn't say anything, doesn't have words to convey how low he feels— like a piece of scum someone dragged inside on their shoe. He isn't accustomed to associating with lower life forms, has no idea how to grovel or beg forgiveness, but he'd drop to his knees in a second if he thought the act would do any damn good.
It won't though.
Confessing his rawest emotions would only confuse things. So instead, he asks permission, his voice hoarse and barely above a whisper as he lifts his hand. "Can I?"
She nods, scared if she tries to speak the sob buried in her throat will find its way out, and she closes her eyes, screwing them shut as he gently mops up the mess.
He tries to be careful, like she's porcelain and might break under his touch if he makes one wrong move, but the damage isn't as bad as his heart's screaming it is. The bleeding's stopped and her nose doesn't look swollen, prompting him to reassure her. "It's not broken, just bruised."
She nods, fluttering her eyes open as he deposits the rosy paper in the bin. She takes the opportunity to catch her reflection in the mirror, confirming his assessment, but what she can't hide are her blood-shot eyes, tired from pretending the rest of her is bruised and not completely broken. "It was an accident, Harvey. You should go finish the interview. I'm fine.".
"You really think I give a shit about that?" he says, well aware he was the one who didn't—still doesn't—want to talk, but that her face had just physically suffered the consequences of their fight and, accident or not, he's responsible for hurting her. "I never meant—"
"I know." She stops him, bitterness lacing the twitch at the corner of her lips. "Believe it or not, Harvey, I never meant to either."
The air leaves his chest in vacuum, and he doesn't know what to make of the confession, part of him scared that this whole time he's been worried she'd wanted more, when really, he's terrified she might give him an out. "What are you saying?"
"I'm not saying anything." She wraps her arms around herself, taking his approach for once, because she's tired, exhausted, of always putting her heart on the line and never getting anything back in return. "If you don't want to do the interview, I'll find someone else."
The words hold a double entendre—that she doesn't need him anymore—and every part of him wants to reach for her as she steps around him, but he doesn't, because now more than ever, he doesn't deserve her forgiveness.
He'd rather be the asshole denying the swarm of feelings threatening to consume him, than access them and lose her for good. Because whether she knows it or not, she means everything to him, and he's going to keep fighting to have her in his life, even if that means keeping her at an arm's length.