Kidnapped
AN: This is an old one I wrote a while ago. It got lost when I accidentally started deleting chapters of this story (Why?). I must have been having my own version of a slump day haha. Thank you to remeberwhyyoustarted for not just reaching out, but remembering it! xx
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Harvey breathes in fiercely through his nose, adjusting his tie and clutching the briefcase he brought along in his sweaty palm. He doesn't get nervous and is seldom scared. He can probably even count on one hand the times he's been truly afraid. When his father passed. When Donna almost went to jail. When Mike did go to jail. When Donna left him to go work for Louis. When Jessica moved to Chicago. The theme of abandonment plays a heavy role in his life, casting a shadow over anyone he gets close to, a number easily measured by his other hand. Caring makes people weak, a mantra he's lived by, and one that's never rang more true as he glances from side to side down the dirty, derelict alleyway that reeks of piss and garbage. Only crack addicts and the occasional, unfortunate, lost tourist wind up in an area like the one he's standing in, and he clenches his fist, his skin crawling with unease as he rattles the vandalized metal door.
He fucked up.
He cared.
And he doesn't know how they know that, but when wolves smell blood, they circle, cunning, calculated and ruthless. What's worse is, he didn't see their attack coming. It took him an hour to notice something was even wrong.
For sixty full minutes, he was blissfully unaware Donna's journey into work had been cut short only a block from her apartment. The security footage of her being forced into a van is enough to give him nightmares for years to come, and the scenarios he's conjured since will haunt him for the rest of his life. However long that may be depending on how the exchange goes down.
For all he knows, he's walking into a trap.
It seems a little convenient they only wanted files. Why just destroy evidence when they could take out the lawyer working on the case, too?
He's morbidly detached about how easy it would be. No one knows they contacted him or where he is, leaving him completely vulnerable. Or maybe he's just numb to the danger because it's Donna on the other side of the door, and, really, if this is his last chance to be brutally honest with himself; she is his life.
His entire existence is contingent on her walking out of this hell-hole in one piece.
No cops. No wires. No games.
It's just him and a goddamn briefcase deciding their fate, and when the door wrenches open, he straightens, every molecule of his being alight with anger because wolves can also smell fear, and he's about to storm their den.
"Hand it over."
He sizes up the asshole who's clearly a fucking idiot thinking he's getting anything without showing him Donna first. "Where is she?"
The man's gaze travels the alleyway, and Harvey bites down hard on the inside of his cheek, waiting, not patiently, for the piece of scum to make a decision. And then suddenly she's there, pulled roughly from the shadows, in her black Gucci dress and nude heels, and he thinks it's probably ridiculous to be distracted by how beautiful she looks when she's probably petrified and his own heart is hammering like a freight train threatening to burst out of his chest. The briefcase gets ripped from his grasp, but his hands are already moving towards Donna, the slamming door not registering as he hauls her out onto the street; his first instinct to steer them away from danger. Then he runs his gaze over every inch of her body, looking for any sign she's hurt, but to the naked eye, she just seems shaken, and he flexes his fingers to stop himself from trembling.
"I'm okay." She swallows dryly, her throat parched. But a few hours locked in a room without water isn't worth mentioning if it's just going to fuel his worry. She's more concerned about what he traded to get her free, guilt rattling her vocal cords. "You gave him the evidence."
"You're damn right, I did." He can't fathom why she sounds more upset over his actions than the fact she was kidnapped and held against her will, and he could blame shock, Stockholm syndrome, probably a number of things, except she's Donna, and the only person in the world who would feel bad for putting him in this position and not be worried about herself right now. "This was not your fault," he says seriously, pressing his palms gently over her shoulders. For one, because he's fighting the urge to never let her go again, but also because he needs her to stop and listen to him. "What happened? Are you hurt? What did he do?"
"Nothing." She shakes her head, trying to put on a brave face. As far as kidnapping goes, she's physically fine, and she leans against his hand with a shrug. "He locked me in a room. I was a little bored, but he left me alone."
She smiles weakly, but the moisture brimming in her gaze tells him everything. He can see how scared she was, sitting there by herself with nothing else to do but wait and think, and he pulls her closer, wrapping his arms around her and tucking her into his chest, the burning need to apologise trapped in his throat. He promised he wouldn't let anything happen to her, and he failed.
"It's not your fault, either." She sniffs, the words muffled against his shirt, but she doesn't try to pull away yet. The room was cold. And he isn't. If anything, he's overheated, probably from adrenaline, because she can hear his heart beating faster than she's sure is normal. But he feels warm and safe, and this is where she put her faith while she was picturing him livid as hell, pacing around his office coming up with a plan to find her. She hopes her rescue didn't mean sacrificing the case, that he has something else up his sleeve and didn't just throw the trial away, but she's afraid to ask because one answer makes her a liability, and it also means he didn't think twice about putting himself in danger. Which, as glances over his shoulder—finding no one else in their vicinity, leads her to believe that's exactly what he did.
He gently pulls back but doesn't put anywhere near a respectable amount of distance between them, needing her in his orbit. He doesn't think that's going to change anytime soon because he's still too wired, like he was up all night chugging down cups of coffee, and he shifts his palm to her lower back to steady himself as much as her. "Come on. I'm taking you home."
She doesn't move with his soft push, the thought of going home foreign amongst the other ideas swirling around in her mind. He should be in attack mode, not retreating, and they should be heading into the office not hiding away. "What about—"
"What about, nothing, Donna." He stops her protest from forming. If the worst she suffered was a scare, then he's beyond relieved. But surviving shark-infested waters unscathed doesn't mean diving straight back in. The people who took her played him—the man—and won. He doesn't give a shit about losing, not when he could have lost a whole lot more. "Backing off keeps you safe."
The finality in his voice is disarming, and she breathes in, getting her answer, a mixture of emotions tugging and weaving through her fluttering chest. She doesn't know what to say in return. Thank you for caring seems inadequate under the thrall of his concern and don't throw this away for me is equally useless in the face of his resolve. But despite what he thinks, it's not over yet, though in the here and now she can accept it is. So, she follows his lead, piles into a waiting cab and doesn't mention anything when he slides into the backseat with her, his hand resting over hers the entire journey—which ends at his apartment—because he was observant enough to realize she doesn't have a handbag, the Chanel and her keys a casualty in the whole ordeal of being held captive. She's going to have to process those ramifications later, but for now she lets him lead her up inside, watching intently as he shrugs out of his jacket, asking her what she needs.
It feels surreal to be standing in his place at 2pm on a Tuesday, especially after everything she's been through, and she's itchy all over, grime and filth clinging to her skin as she folds her arms around her stomach, asking to use his shower with a limp smile.
He doesn't hesitate, leading her through to his ensuite, but a twinge of panic sparks in his chest the second she's out of his sight, and he absently wonders if it's too early in the day to pour himself a scotch, deciding that it is, but he finds the decanter anyway, filling a glass to steady his nerves.
The tumbler lifts with a tremble, and the burn, ironically, sobers him up, but he forfeits a second finger, going in search of a more acceptable drink to calm himself down.
By the time she emerges, dressed in the clothes he left on the bed, his adrenaline is humming lowly and no longer raging through his veins. The tea he made them is sitting on the coffee table, and he glances up from where he's now anchored in his leather chair. "Feel better?"
She curls up on the seat opposite him, reaching for the mug and mustering her energy to push what happened out of her mind. "Next time you get on someone's bad side, make it the manager of a five-star hotel."
He knows she's kidding, but just the suggestion of her being in trouble again sends fear tingling down through his spine, making his back arch up, and he wishes he hadn't replaced his drink with something non-alcoholic.
"Harvey?"
Her voice is a gentle warning, lulling him away from too many what-ifs, and he scrubs his face with a heavy sigh. Like it or not, she's a target for anyone with a vendetta against him, and there's nothing he can do about. He can't just not care. Over the years, at their lowest points and on his worst days, he tried, and all the effort left him with was a gaping hole worse than whatever anger and hurt he thought was propelling him. But he refuses to buy into the notion he can't keep her safe, even if today proved otherwise.
Her mug clatter sans coaster on the table as she pulls herself up.
She knows what she went through. Lived it, breathed it, kept herself strong, because in the face of uncertainty, she knew Harvey wouldn't give up. So, she didn't either. Maybe she is a liability, but if that's true, then she also needs to be his strength, just like he's hers. "You're not dropping this case."
She kneels beside his chair, more vulnerable than he's ever seen her, in his t-shirt and slacks, paler than usual. But even without her designer clothes and fixed hair, there's a fire of confidence burning brightly in her gaze, and he can't help thinking if she were Mike right now, he would be putting on his armour and getting ready for a fight. But she isn't. And he knows that, because when he had the chance to fall on his sword for Mike, he was prepared to, but with Donna, there was no choice. "I have to." He doesn't care if the admission makes him pathetic or she thinks less of him. He can't risk her and he won't.
She tilts her head, and with one question already answered, she finds the courage to force out the other. "Why?"
He pulls his gaze away, backed into a new corner for the second time today, but he can't help feeling like he willingly edged his way into this one. They could have gone into the office, or he could have organized a lock-smith and gotten her safely back inside her own apartment. But he didn't. He brought her here, blocking off all routes to an exit, and maybe he's tired of busting his way out through brick walls because, instead of being defensive or ambivalent, he throws a flare, trying to tell her, in some screwed up way, he needs her help to find his way out. "You know why."
She stills, her heart stuttering at the same three words that once catapulted them into a spiral of I love yous and both of them leaving. He's either trying to express he wants her to go, which seems unlikely given the sacrifice he made to find her, or he's trying to find a path to how he loves her and isn't quite there yet.
Taking a gamble, she reaches for his hand, circling her thumb over his knuckles, her breath hitching at the red-raw skin, realizing he must have lashed out at some point before reaching her. The injury makes her silently wonder if he's in shock, if pressing him is in some way taking advantage, but he pulls her up before the thought fully takes hold, snaking his arms around her waist and drawing her into his lap, his head coming to rest against her chest with a ragged inhale. She feathers her fingers through his hair, the fleeting worry she might be too heavy passing as he clutches onto her like he's drowning and she's the only thing keeping him above water. It's the first time she thinks he could have been right to walk away from the case, because she can handle risking herself but she never wants to lose this; the moment that's playing out between them, mingled breaths and desperate contact that doesn't need words to be binding.
Her fresh scent is intoxicating, different to his own sweaty musk from too many laps of fearful pacing—the only way he kept himself sane while she was missing—and he inhales deeply, lifting his gaze when she tilts his chin with the lightest of touches. She doesn't have to say anything. With one gentle but firm look, she reaches right in and unlocks the door to his armour, parading it in front of him with a challenging gait because this is what she does and who they are. When he's on the verge of can't, she's there, determined he can. She pushes him towards the ledge and lets him lean over it, because standing at the height of everything falling apart is how he gains perspective, and she knows that about him. Then right before the foundation beneath his feet crumbles, she pulls him back.
He isn't going to drop the case because she's the one asking him not to, and if there were any way he could choose to say 'no' to her, he would, but just like falling on his sword, there is no choice. She's here, pressed in his arms, telling him that they can do this, and if he's ever had faith in anything before, it's her and it's them and it's now. "Okay."
Her thumb slips from his chin to his jaw, her smile proud as his muscles twitch beneath her nails, and probably, they should talk about how she's in his lap and they're touching, and didn't they used to have boundaries? Because, if they did, they're starting to blur into a new reality, where being with him like this feels like they've always been here like this and complicated never felt so easy. "Harvey."
He picks up on the slight hesitation in her voice, and, yeah, he should tell her what she's wondering, confirm that somewhere between waking up this morning and now he stopped running away from his feelings and started sprinting towards them. He shouldn't smile gently at her confused little pout, and he should definitely say something profound before he kisses her, but he falls short, breathing out what he can. "Stay here with me… until the case is over." It's not a demand, but he really isn't asking either, and when she nods, a grin spilling onto her lips, he knows she's able to read between the lines; that stay with him here doesn't mean on his couch or as a friend, it means in his bed and in his arms, where she'll never have to ask love me how again. "Good."
He folds his smile over her mouth, and she smirks at the taste of scotch before the rest of him invades her senses and she's lost in a sea of his hands and lips and his body claiming hers, and she knows, deep down in every bone and crevice that they're never going to be each other's weaknesses again, only each other's strengths.