I
Donna stares at her phone, the message from Harvey staring back at her. He's on his way. Here. Now. At this hour. She takes a deep breath, trying to calm the sudden flutter in her chest. What was she thinking, inviting him over like this? She should've told him to come to the office in the morning, like a normal, functioning adult. Not offered to give him the files herself tonight. It was a spur of the moment, impulsive thing to say. But he'd just pushed her too far with his smartass comments. With that tone in his text messages that seemed so damn familiar and friendly and flirty and –
Shit.
She sets her phone aside on her desk, pushing it far out of reach as if that might undo the past several minutes and all of their reckless implications.
She tries to reason with herself. To think rationally. He's just coming for his files, that's all. They'll meet, exchange their hostilities as they usually do, and go their separate ways. Easy. Simple. Just like any other lawyer-lawyer meeting. Nothing to be concerned about. Not if she plays this the way she should: professional and detached. No flirting. No games. No jokes.
She goes back to work, trying to concentrate on the task at hand – a motion she's preparing to dismiss one of Harvey's witnesses, but her mind won't stop racing with the idea of him and the possibility of what might transpire once he's here. Her heart pounds a little faster at the thought of seeing him again, at the possibility that this late night rendezvous might not be just about a few files. It makes her palms sweat and her fingers shake. It's a feeling she doesn't welcome, or understand, and yet she does nothing to stop it. Nothing to keep him from coming. Nothing at all.
"I got those affidavits for the Zenith merger."
Samantha's voice startles her out of her thoughts. Donna looks up and watches as Sam moves toward her, stopping to drop a stack of folders on her desk. "Everything alright?" she asks.
"Fine. Just finishing up a few things." She gestures vaguely at the papers strewn across her desk. "You heading out?"
Samantha nods. "Yeah, thought I'd grab a drink at that new place down the street." She pauses, studying Donna's face, then asks, "You want to join? Unwind a bit before you call it a night?"
"Oh." The invitation is unexpected, but it's the expression on Samantha's face that has Donna curious. There is a gentleness in the offer, an unfamiliar softness, almost like concern. Like Samantha is asking more than a simple question of whether Donna would like to join her for drinks, like she's trying to say something else entirely.
"Thanks, but I can't," Donna says, trying not to dwell too long on the meaning behind the invitation. "Harvey's on his way over to pick up some files."
Samantha's eyebrows shoot up, a smirk forming on her lips. "Harvey? At this hour? Maybe I should stick around and chaperone."
Donna rolls her eyes. "We're both adults. I think we can manage a file exchange without too much bloodshed."
Samantha moves around Donna's desk to perch herself on the corner, crossing her arms over her chest. She takes a moment before replying, as if she's carefully considering her next words. When she finally speaks, her tone is matter of fact, without the usual derision: "It's not the bloodshed I'm worried about."
Donna arches a brow at Samantha. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Samantha shrugs, her smirk deepening. "You really want me to say it?"
"No. No, I really don't. Because as hot as you seem to think this rivalry is, that's all it is. I wouldn't..." She trails off. It feels foolish to even say the words out loud, that she could ever be unfaithful, or even interested. Especially now. But there's an understanding in Samantha's eyes that unsettles her, something knowing and...worried? Is she worried about her? Or is she simply trying to keep things as professional as possible, knowing how important this case is to both of them? "I'm engaged, Sam."
"So all those gossip blogs saying Senator Harding's fiancée's got cold feet..."
"Are just rumors. I'm marrying Wes."
"Okay."
The answer comes quick. Too quick, in a tone too dismissive to be genuine. But Samantha doesn't press further. She just sits there, staring at her as if she's waiting for Donna to admit something.
Donna turns away, feeling the sudden, inexplicable need to put space between them. She picks up one of her abandoned notes, flipping through the pages, her mind reeling with what exactly she could've possibly given away to warrant Samantha's probing questions.
"Those gossip blogs do love to drag you, don't they?" Samantha says eventually. "Painting Wes as the dutiful, perfect man, while you're the cunt throwing his kindness in his face. Typical."
"Yeah," Donna says. "The press will never tire of making me the villain in Wes's story."
"His story, huh?"
The observation catches Donna off guard.
"You've got cold feet," Samantha says flatly. "Denying it isn't going to change that fact."
She speaks as though she is certain and knows more than she should, a tone that is oddly accusing, not judgmental or necessarily patronizing. Just cutting and dissonant.
Donna feels her temper rise. "I'm not denying it," she says coolly. "And why are you so interested in my personal life all of a sudden? All these years we've been working together and now suddenly I'm a concern of yours?"
Samantha doesn't look bothered in the slightest by Donna's annoyance. She just watches her with careful scrutiny; her cool perception feels intimate and claustrophobic and completely intrusive. She can almost see her mind working, piecing things together. And suddenly Donna is self-conscious of every detail: the faint shadow along her neckline, the way she shifts uncomfortably in her seat, her body aching from last night, how her hands are just the slightest bit clammy. It all feels so obvious to her now. The cracks, the damage, the unspoken trauma of her life. And she feels sick to her stomach.
Samantha is silent for another beat. Then, so softly it could be considered gentleness if it were anyone else, "It's getting less subtle, Donna."
The words send a chill through her, but Donna wills herself not to flinch, to hold Samantha's gaze, her expression impassive and neutral. She won't let what this moment has become unravel her. She can't.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Samantha doesn't reply. Instead, she reaches out, brushing the hair away from Donna's neck, her fingers skimming along the edge of Donna's collar, pulling the material aside and exposing the bruise hidden beneath the concealer. Her thumb strokes gently over the mark and Donna stiffens, fighting the urge to pull away.
"You're always perfect," she says quietly. "Always in control. But every now and then, I get the sense there's something else going on beneath that poised exterior. Something you want to keep hidden." She cups her jaw, her expression softening. "It's not my place to say anything about your relationship. I know that. But if something's wrong, you know you can talk to me, right? I'm on your side."
There is something achingly vulnerable about the way Samantha is looking at her in that moment, her gaze searching, as if she's desperate for her to understand something. But all Donna can see is a flash of pity in her eyes, and the implication that her fiancé is an abuser. Wes. The man she loves. Her future. All the things he has sacrificed and done for her, only to be reduced to some kind of monster. And it's her fault, because she let things slip.
Donna swallows hard against the sudden lump in her throat. She places her hand over Samantha's and gently pulls it away from her face.
"I know," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "I appreciate that."
"But?"
"But nothing. I'm fine. Wes is fine." Donna flashes her a practiced smile. "It's just a little bit of kink, Sam. After ten years with someone, you find ways to keep it exciting. Sometimes we just get carried away."
Samantha's eyes search hers, as if weighing her words against some inner logic. But she doesn't reply, her expression still soft and curious, her eyes full of something Donna doesn't want to put a name to. So Donna lets it hang between them, hoping, maybe foolishly, that she'll leave it be. That they'll move on and never speak of this moment again.
Donna sighs and squeezes Samantha's hand. "I'm good, Sam. Really."
The two women stare at one another. A beat passes and then another. The moment goes on. Finally, Samantha nods, slipping her hand away from Donna's. "Okay."
The response is soft, almost placating, as if she is giving Donna permission to end the conversation, even if she doesn't believe her. A reluctant dismissal. One that feels far from the closure Donna had wanted, but she'll take it. She has to.
"I should get going." Samantha rises from her position on the desk, and offers Donna a tight lipped smile, as if it is taking a great effort on her part to hold back. To stay quiet. Donna returns it, and tries not to think about what is going through Samantha's mind.
She waits until Samantha is at the door before speaking. "Thanks for the invitation. I'm sorry I can't go tonight."
She watches Samantha pause at the doorway, her head half turned, not quite looking back at her. "Yeah," she says. "Me too."
Samantha disappears without another word and Donna leans back in her chair, staring at the space she'd just occupied. The moment seems to hang in the air around her. She wonders if this is it, the point when things become irreparable. She can hear Wes's voice in her head, chastising her for the lapse, the loss of control, the betrayal.
The dull ache between her legs from the night before throbs, and her fingers find the mark Samantha revealed, lightly stroking over it, remembering Wes' hand at her throat, wondering how tightly he'd squeeze if he ever suspected that she'd spoken of last night to another soul, however vague it might have been. The idea sends a wave of anxiety through her. But she can't think about that. Not now, with Harvey on his way.
Her hand stills. She pulls the collar of her dress higher against her neck, covering the bruise once more, and gets back to work.
II
When he steps out of the cab in front of Pearson Wheeler Paulsen, Harvey feels an uncharacteristic wave of hesitation come over him.
What is he doing? Coming here, in the middle of the night, because she told him to? It's fucking stupid, really. There's no way for this to go anywhere but south, and he should just walk away before things get more out of control than they already are. He's in enough trouble with Donna as it is, he doesn't need to add any more fuel to that fire, no matter how intriguing and unrelenting it seems to burn.
Harvey runs a hand through his hair and takes a deep breath, glancing up at the towering building. The offices are dark, only the lights on the upper floors glowing in the evening shadows. The air is humid and stale, the remnants of an afternoon downpour. There are no pedestrians, no passersby to give him a distraction or reason to turn away. His eyes wander over the building again. And he finds himself thinking that if this were any other woman, any other opponent, he would've let it go at this point. He'd have sent someone else to retrieve the files. But instead, here he is, walking into her building at half-past nine on a Wednesday night, for documents he doesn't give two shits about.
The security guard at the front desk eyes Harvey's attire curiously – a black button up, sleeves rolled to his elbows and no suit jacket or tie – before sliding him a visitors badge. "Floor fifty. She's expecting you."
He rides up in silence, watching his reflection in the elevator's mirrored doors. He took a quick shower before heading out, but he still looks like shit, like he didn't get nearly enough sleep the night before, and he definitely smells like whiskey and sex. And his hair...He frowns, reaching up to comb through it with his fingers again, but it doesn't really help, only makes it worse, and now it looks like he's been pulling on it and –
Who the hell cares what his hair looks like? It's just another meeting, he tells himself. Nothing more. Just get the files and get out.
He can handle this. He can handle her. He is in control.
He's out of control. He knows it. He's fucking stupid.
The moment Harvey enters her firm's office space, he feels his pulse begin to quicken, anticipation rippling through him as he steps further inside. It's dark, the only light coming from a few dim desk lamps and a solitary conference room down the hall. He suddenly feels self-conscious, aware that he doesn't quite know where he's going.
He walks past empty office cubicles and conference rooms, a sea of darkened monitors and forgotten coffee mugs, searching for signs of life. But the office is eerily still. And it isn't until he passes a large glass wall with a single light glowing inside that he knows he's found her.
She's sitting behind a wide, modern desk, her gaze on the laptop screen in front of her, typing away at something. It's so surreal, so intimate and private, to see her in her environment without all the pretense and posturing that is so common to their exchanges. She's relaxed, unguarded, unaware. He lingers on that sight of her for a long moment before she finally looks up, and it's clear from her startled expression that she had no idea that he'd been standing there.
Donna stares at him, her face illuminated in the light from her laptop screen, and Harvey thinks, not for the first time, how beautiful she is. And for the briefest moment, her eyes soften as though she is thinking something similar. But then it's gone, and her face turns stoic, that sharpness he's grown accustomed to creeping in around the corners.
"You're here," she says, a statement more than a question, her voice quiet.
"You wanted me here," he says.
She gives him a slow smile. "Did I?"
"Don't you?"
He returns her smile. He can't help himself. It's almost too easy between them, when it should be harder than this. And maybe that's what draws him to her the most – the way it seems almost effortless.
She rises to her feet, pushing her chair back from her desk, and Harvey's eyes rake down her body, lingering on her long, bare legs, exposed by the black dress she's wearing. He shouldn't be looking, he knows that. It's entirely unprofessional, to ogle his opposing counsel like this, and she is technically engaged, and this whole thing is fucked up in a dozen different ways, but...
God, the things he'd like to do to her...
Harvey forces himself to drag his gaze back to her face, those dark hazel eyes meeting his. She doesn't smile, but there's a glimmer in her eyes that tells him she knows exactly what he's thinking. She arches an eyebrow as if to say, do you have to be so obvious? and Harvey just shrugs in response.
She moves around to the front of the desk, her gaze traveling slowly over him, taking him in as though she is assessing his strengths and weaknesses. He can almost hear the gears turning in that beautiful head of hers; can almost see her calculating every possibility. He likes watching her do that – strategize, plan her moves. There's a beautiful logic to it, something he finds sexy. He wants to know what she's thinking, what moves she's considering. And the longer he stands here, looking at her, the less he can imagine turning and leaving.
"The files," he says, and the words sound stupid, and ridiculous, and like something he's just throwing out to keep himself from doing something else. Like closing the space between them, pressing her up against that desk, and doing all those things to her he can't stop thinking about.
She meets his eyes and holds them for a beat. There's something in her expression that he can't quite read – amusement, maybe, and a hint of something darker. But before he can figure out what it is, she's moving away, stepping around him, heading toward the door. "Come on," she says. "I don't want to spend more time with you than I have to."
Harvey can't help but smirk at her words. "That makes two of us, then." He follows her out, not bothering to look at anything, only watching her. The sway of her hips as she walks, her red hair cascading down her back, the soft, exposed skin of her lower legs, and he thinks about all the ways this woman is trying to ruin him, and all the ways she's succeeding. That he should not fucking be here. But here he is. And it feels inevitable.
She leads him to the other end of the floor to a glass conference room, the door open. Inside he finds stacks and stacks of boxes, the room a mess of papers, binders, and file folders, organized into haphazard piles around a large table in the center.
Donna stands in the doorway, looking up at him. "Here it is." She sweeps an arm at the space around them, as if it's the grandest spectacle.
Harvey frowns. "What the hell is this?"
"Your files," she says simply. "The ones you subpoenaed."
He takes in the disaster in front of him, the stacks of documents overflowing onto the table and the floor, the binders, the folders... he has no idea where to start. Or how he is supposed to get it all back to the DA's office tonight. He'd need a goddamn U-Haul truck to transport all of it, let alone several dozen assistants to help sort it and make sure none of it gets lost in the process.
He turns his gaze to her, feeling his annoyance grow at the amusement he sees on her face, that sparkle in her eyes that tells him she's enjoying this far more than she should.
"Are you serious?"
"Completely serious. You wanted Wolcott's personal files and all work-related correspondences. Well, here they are."
"This is ridiculous. There's no way all of this is relevant."
"That's not for me to decide." She shrugs. "You asked for everything, so I'm giving you everything. If you don't want it, I'd be more than happy to give it all back."
"And how the hell do you expect me to get this out of here? Carry it down in boxes and then stuff it all in my trunk? I'm a lawyer, not a goddamn courier."
Donna leans back against the doorframe, a challenge in her gaze as she looks at him. "No," she says, her eyes narrowing, "you're just an entitled asshole. One who doesn't seem to have any issues pushing the boundaries when he feels like it. But now that I'm doing it, you don't seem to care for the taste of it so much."
It's an accusation, a dig at the late night text and his arrival at her office, and his cockiness. And while he wants to deny it, to throw the accusation back in her face, the way he usually would with anyone else...he finds himself strangely speechless. Because it's true. He is the one pushing boundaries tonight, testing the limits. He's the one who wanted more, wanted to see her again, despite knowing better.
So instead of responding with a smartass remark, he gives her an almost imperceptible nod of admission, conceding that he might, in fact, be a hypocrite and an asshole. But just as he's about to take it back, to blame it on his impatience to get what he came for, he notices a small quirk in her lip. And he's pissed off all over again.
"What happened to 'no bullshit'?" he asks. "We had a deal."
"This isn't bullshit. This is me doing my job. You sent a subpoena, I'm complying. It's not my fault you forgot your qualifiers." She pushes off the doorframe and steps closer, the space between them dwindling. He watches as she cocks her head to the side, studying him. "And as for our deal, unless it's in writing, I won't be held to it."
"So, that's how we're doing this then?" he says, matching her step for step until she's right in front of him. He looks down at her, a familiar wave of anger bubbling to the surface at the arrogance in her expression. "We're back to playing games?"
"I'm just here to win, Harvey. With rules. Without them. It doesn't matter to me how we do this, I'm still going to take you down."
Harvey's gaze travels slowly over her face, taking in her cool, collected expression and her posture that betrays nothing but confidence, and he is filled with the urge to wipe that smug look right off her face, to see her composure crack. "I think," he says, lowering his voice, "that you're overestimating how far you're going to get. You're smart, I'll admit that much, but this..." He sweeps his eyes over the conference room, gesturing to all the files. "...this is a rookie move, Donna."
"A rookie move you fell for," she reminds him, her gaze still steady on his, unrelenting.
Harvey swallows, feeling the frustration and anger build inside him. He's so damn tired of feeling off his game with this woman, of not knowing how to get to her, how to make her react to him. "I didn't come here to get screwed with."
"Then why did you come here, Harvey?" she asks. And that question, her words, hit him right where it hurts most – his pride. He's losing control. His composure is slipping and he's losing the game, losing the case, losing himself in this woman he is so determined to hate. And he feels the sudden urge to hit something, to break something, to just make some goddamn sense out of it all.
Harvey steps closer. There is so little space between them now, and he can see the shift in her, the slightest change in her breathing. He expects her to step back, but she doesn't. She holds her ground. She meets his gaze.
He leans in, his lips at her ear. "It's only going to get messier from here," he murmurs, his voice low, threatening. "If you keep testing my limits. If you keep pushing me. I can guarantee you won't like the results." He pulls away, searching her face for signs of anger or fear. But there is none, only a glimmer in her eye that tells him he is only digging himself into a deeper hole, a hole she'll be only too happy to bury him in. "So, unless you want your firm to become the subject of the very same investigation I'm launching against your client, I suggest you cut the shit."
There's a beat of silence before Donna replies. And when she does, her voice is cold and even. "Are you done?"
His heart pounds in his chest. He should stop himself. He should walk away, get a cab, and leave, because this is going nowhere fast. He doesn't even have any files, not a goddamn folder in hand to show for the trip, just his own frustration and the fact that she has won yet another round of whatever fucked-up game they're playing. But he can't. He just...
Harvey lets out a deep, unsteady breath, then shakes his head. "Not even close."
It's her expression that does it. The look of unchecked satisfaction, the hint of triumph. And he's so sick and tired of feeling as if he is the only one out of his mind, so damn frustrated with this whole situation he's gotten himself in, with her. It pushes him over the edge, his restraint breaking, shattering into a million little pieces.
Before he knows what he's doing, before he can think better of it, his mouth is on hers, his hand wrapping around her waist. And for one glorious, devastating moment, everything seems to come undone. The world seems to spin on its axis. He is lost. Utterly lost in the feeling of her soft lips, the smell of her skin, the way her body feels beneath his hand. His pulse pounds, and he thinks she'll push him away, she has to push him away, because this is insanity, he has completely lost his fucking mind...
But she doesn't. Her body relaxes into his touch and there's the softest sound from the back of her throat, the sound of a gasp and a sigh at the same time, and the last thread of Harvey's control snaps. He's not even thinking when he pulls her close, his free hand coming to cup her jaw, his fingers weaving into her hair as he kisses her again and again, tasting the sweet flavor of her tongue on his. She's kissing him back just as urgently, and his heart is racing and he feels himself harden as she presses against him, and she feels so damn good in his arms.
And he forgets all about the fact that this is insane, and stupid, and not at all the kind of guy he is. He can't remember any reason at all why he shouldn't be kissing her right now. And even if he did, it wouldn't be enough to stop him.
He pulls her closer, his fingers digging into her hip. She sucks in a sharp breath, wincing, and Harvey immediately freezes, pulling back just enough to look into her eyes.
"Sorry. I –"
She pushes him back roughly and Harvey stumbles, caught off guard by the force of it. He doesn't get far before he feels the sting of a slap across his face and he whips his head back around to her, shocked. Donna is breathing hard, her eyes wild and dark as she looks at him, a flush creeping up her neck.
"You need to leave."
Harvey swallows. His chest aches and he feels sick to his stomach, but he's still so turned on he can barely think straight, still reeling from her lips on his. He reaches a hand out, an instinctive, unthinking move.
"Donna."
She steps away, shaking her head. "You can come back tomorrow and collect the files. My team can help you transport them if you want, but I'm done for tonight. This," she sweeps a hand between them, "whatever the hell this is...is not happening again. I don't want it. I'm not interested. Now get out."
She walks past him without another glance and Harvey turns, watching her stride down the hall. His anger is back, coursing through him, his fingers still tingling where he touched her, his pulse pounding, and his face stinging from her slap.
Jesus.
He'd done what he'd told himself he wouldn't – kissed her. Kissed another man's fiancée.
And he hadn't regretted it until she had slapped him across his goddamn face. And even that had made his cock twitch.
What the hell is wrong with him?
And more importantly, what the hell is he supposed to do now?
Harvey exhales sharply. There's a knot in his chest that's slowly beginning to unfurl, the reality of the situation settling over him. This is a mess, and he can't believe he's in the middle of it, that he was so reckless and careless, so out of control, so lost in her that he forgot who he is, and who she is, and all the lines between them.
And it's a tragedy, because for all the ways he feels sick to his stomach, a part of him, a big part, regrets nothing, feels only the need to finish what he started, consequences be damned.
And that, more than anything, terrifies the hell out of him.
He lets out a shaky breath. He has to leave. Get out of here. Find some hole in the wall and hide himself away for the night, with a glass or three of something strong enough to numb the memory of the way he just felt.
Harvey walks to the elevator without glancing back once. The last thing he needs to see is Donna returning to her office and her work, as though she never lost that composure in the first place, as though his kiss was nothing. And the last thing she needs to see is the effect she still has on him, the way his hand trembles as he presses the button, the way his jaw is clenched so hard it hurts.
As soon as the elevator door opens, he steps inside. He stares at himself in the mirrored doors, the imprint of her hand still on his cheek, his lips still red and swollen, and his eyes still wild and dark and not quite sane. He has the urge to punch the wall, to release this frustration, but he knows the only way he'll ever have a shot at making this stop, making it go away, is to keep it together. He needs to be in control again. He needs to be himself again. He needs to be able to breathe. And to do that, he needs to put as much space between him and this situation, and her, as possible.
So instead of punching the wall, he just leans back and closes his eyes, waiting for the elevator to carry him out.
A/N: Well, I never said this was a slow burn...at least not sexually. Thanks for reading! Next chapter, maybe it's Donna's turn to spiral?