Black Widow
Colliding with the door of the elevator, Harvey grips the throbbing ache that punctures his shoulder, hitting two wrong floors.
Fuck.
On the third try, the penthouse level finally lights up, and he slams his eyes closed, trying to control the drunken spin affecting his coordination. Donna's going to kill him. A notion he boldly managed to ignore while playing poker like a shark and drinking whiskey like a man with nothing to lose. Great for his gamble. Not great for his girlfriend, who had to attend their anniversary dinner stag. When 8pm rolled around and he still hadn't sealed the deal, he sealed his fate, texting her to say he wasn't going to make it.
Trying to regain some of his equilibrium, he digs out his phone, stabbing the screen.
No calls, no messages, nothing since she texted telling him it was fine—a death sentence if ever he's read one.
The doors open prematurely, and he sighs. At least he had the sense to—goddamnit. Ten minutes ago, there were flowers in hand. Realizing he must have left them in the Uber, he checks his watch. No time. Although, for all he knows, Donna has given up waiting and gone home. The idea they might spend their first anniversary apart sinks a stone in his stomach. He shouldn't have stayed. Donna means more to him than landing a whale. Even if the firm needed a whale to keep them both employed.
Once again, a ding lands him on the wrong level.
Starting the battle with his keys, he searches through all his pockets, clutching them, and racing out when he finally arrives on the right floor.
He drops them two—three times until, by some miracle, the jagged edges align and he's granted access inside.
Kicking off his shoes, he immediately trips over them.
"Donna?!"
"In the kitchen."
He follows her voice and finds her pouring a glass of water from the fridge's dispenser. She's already in her pajamas, looking like she could be headed for bed, and he winces, panicking at the thought of having to sleep on the couch.
"Here." She smiles brightly, placing the drink down and returning to the fridge. "I had the restaurant box up the Alfredo you wanted to try. Should I heat it up?"
He stares into the glass, recalling the time she accused herself of being a black widow.
"Harvey?" She tilts her gaze, eyeing his silence curiously. "Everything okay?"
He shakes his head, dumbfounded. "Are you trying to poison me?"
"I'm trying to hydrate and feed you."
His eyes swim with confusion and she chuckles. It's no surprise he hit his limit of whiskey. The stakes were high, and she expected him to play big to win. However, usually he can handle his alcohol, and she reaches for the water, taking a sip to dispel his paranoia. "See?"
She slides the glass back across, and he takes a hesitant step forward, palming the bench. "So you're not angry?"
"Why would I be angry?" she asks, suddenly suspicious. "What did you do?"
"N-nothing. It's just… Dinner, and—"
His stutter alerts her to the fact he's nervous and maybe not as drunk as she thought. "I told you, Harvey. It's fine. We can celebrate another night."
Slipping around the counter, she smiles, kissing him on the cheek, and he catches her waist, stopping her from pulling away. "You're really not mad?"
"I'm not mad," she laughs. Clearly, he's having aged time grasping the concept, and she delicately unravels his tie, trying to help him relax. "You landed a huge client. One the firm desperately needed. I think that's slightly more important than dinner, don't you?"
"Sure, but… Wait. How did you know I signed him?"
"Because you're here, and you're you."
His confusion starts slowly morphing into amazement. But she used the word 'fine', and after that—radio silence. "You didn't message or call."
"Because you were busy, Harvey." Her amusement winds into a smirk. "Besides, I wasn't sitting here pining away. After dinner, I went out with some friends."
"Friends?"
"People who aren't you," she teases. "Exactly how many of those intelligent brain cells drowned in whiskey tonight?"
He clears his throat sheepishly. "Okay. I might have jumped to the wrong conclusion."
She feathers her hands over his shoulders, smiling. "You think?"
"In my defense, most women would have been pissed off."
"I told you before, I'm not most women."
"No, you're not," he agrees, his chest expanding with relief. Any of his past girlfriend's would have raked him over hot coals for missing dinner, showing up smelling like a brewery, and—shit.
Donna's gift.
He stupidly left the box sitting on his desk, and he prepares to hit her with yet another anniversary failure, but he's distracted by her hand moving to the pendant she already has on.
"The necklace is beautiful, Harvey."
The disappointment he should feel rolls into elation. He wanted to surprise her, but his gift is that she knew wearing it would absolve his guilt. She really is that amazing. And what he should have remembered tonight is that when she says something's fine—there's no test. If she ever is angry, thirteen years have shown he won't have to wait to find out.
That level of trust between them is just one of the reasons he loves her.
"You're beautiful, and perfect."
He sweeps down to kiss her, and she crinkles her nose, laughing as she places a firm palm against his chest. "Okay, hold up, mister. You need to go brush your teeth."
"Fine. But you're coming to help." He grins, grabbing her waist and swallowing her squeal with a deep kiss.
This time she doesn't fight him, and he takes her hand, smiling like an idiot as he drags them toward the bathroom.