WARNING: Note this chapter includes references to physical and emotional trauma resulting from a shooting. Characters deal with death, profound grief, loss, and mental anguish.
AN: Hey guys, just wanted to quickly address the warnings. Thomas is a genuine character death in this story. Sorry, Thomas fans (myself included)! It won't all be doom and gloom, but the above warning will be present for all chapters going forward.
…
Waking with a start, Donna is immediately hit by the chemical smell of the sterile room, triggering her cloudy memories and pain in her chest and side. She struggles to recall why she's alone in a hospital bed, then remembers: this isn't Presbyterian in New York; it's Jefferson Private Clinic in Philadelphia. She was shot, and there's nobody here for her because people died.
Thomas is dead.
She steels herself against the harsh jolt. Every morning for the past nine days has been the same, her confusion melting away like ice in her veins.
In a couple of weeks, once her wounds fully heal, she won't be returning to her old life; she'll remain in Philadelphia, hidden behind an alias for months, years—maybe indefinitely.
To the world, her friends, and her family, Donna Paulsen died in a gang shootout.
A ghostly sensation, as if someone just crossed over her grave, shivers down her spine, her body trembling at the likelihood of the possibility. They're bound to have a funeral, people grieving over ashes that aren't hers. For all she knows, the memorial is happening at this very moment.
Yesterday, a grief counselor tried to prepare her for what to expect emotionally, and she already hates the fucking woman who sat beside her, giving her permission to feel. Denial, grief, bargaining—she doesn't need a textbook diagnosis. She's never denied her emotions their freedom.
Her boyfriend was murdered in front of her. Of course it's okay to cry, scream, or rage. What she can't stand is the emptiness, the stillness of the room, and the silence of the clinic that draws her depression into a void and feeds her exponentially growing guilt. The counselor had nothing useful to say about that—no wise words of wisdom to assure her that she made the right choice entering witness protection. Not even a fake guarantee that testifying in a closed courtroom will bring Thomas' killer to justice.
Her fingers clench the bedsheets, leaky tears clinging to her lashes as she painfully sits up in the narrow bed.
She could have chosen differently and been just as safe in New York, with Harvey and Louis glued to her side despite her protests. With their support, the emotional scars would eventually heal.
The urge to contact Harvey is born from a desperate need to hear his voice, but it's also a pragmatic response. He'd safely get the word out to the people she loves that she's okay, and he'd find a way to give them hope. She even fantasizes that they wouldn't need words—he'd hear her breathing, and they'd both just know that everything's going to be okay.
A quiet sob pulls at her stitches.
The FBI has already safeguarded against the burning impulse to call him. Until she undergoes an official psychiatric evaluation, she has no access to her phone or the internet, only a tablet paired with the hospital's patient intranet. There's no way for her to void the confidentiality clauses and other legal obligations she signed.
Clutching her bandaged side, she reaches for the call button before her tears unleash with a force that does physical damage. The nurses have been slowly weaning her off pain medication, but everything hurts, and all she wants to do is sleep.
When she's strong enough to stand on her own two feet, maybe then the emptiness won't be so crippling.
If it keeps trying to consume her, maybe she'll let it. That's probably what she deserves.
...::::•°●°•::::...
The persistent banging at Harvey's door battles his raging hangover until he can't bear the brutally obnoxious sound any longer. He presses a palm against his forehead, the pounding headache amplifying with every knock.
Fumbling his way toward the source of the chaos, his hand catches the wall, and he uses the steady structure to guide him.
It's been two months since he took long service leave—or thereabouts, anyway. He hasn't checked his calendar since Donna's funeral, and he doesn't give a shit if his time off is drawing to a close. He has no intention of going back to the firm or dealing with whoever is testing the flimsy boundary of his restraint.
With a throaty growl, he yanks open the door, the irritating noise crashing into silence as Scottie stares at him, her eyes widening.
His shoulder hits the doorframe, and he uses the handle to prop himself up, unashamed by her shock.
Donna would have called him out, told him he looked like shit, and then barged into his apartment.
Fuck, he misses her.
The texts and visits only make everything worse—constant reminders that she's gone and never coming back.
Finally, he snaps, "What do you want?"
The bark carries the smell of booze, but Dana doesn't cower at his disheveled armor. Everyone who cares about him understands that he's grieving, but it's the anger he's projecting that has them all concerned.
It was Samantha who reached out to her first. Despite their strained relationship, the lawyer was alarmed by underground murmurs that Harvey's been recklessly hunting down Donna's murderer.
Looking at him now, his unkempt beard and greasy hair fuels the rumors. Samantha wasn't just handballing when she claimed Harvey wouldn't listen to her. That he still blamed her for being unreachable the night Donna died. He's clearly in a spiral, and according to Samantha, Dana's the only other person with balls big enough to save him from himself.
Determination whittles down her shock, and she responds curtly to his cold welcome. "I have something for you. Information."
Harvey's eyes dart to the folder in her hand, a flicker of begrudging interest breaking through his hazy fog. Letting go of the door, he reaches out, only to be jilted by Scottie jerking the contents back.
"First, you agree to let me help."
"Give me the damn file or leave me the fuck alone!"
"I'm not here to negotiate." Dana challenges his hostility by calling his bluff. It's not just a matter of standing up to him. The documents Samantha gave her could put them all in danger, and Harvey can't be trusted to handle the information alone. "If you want to see this"—she waves the folder—"we do it together. Otherwise, I'm leaving."
His fist grips the doorknob again, clenched tightly as he moves to lock her out. This isn't a goddamn game. His fury erupts like molten lava. He'll find Donna's killer, and when he does, he'll take the Glock 17 in his safe and deal out justice on his own.
Dana uses her boot to jam the door, pain radiating up her calf. The impact registers on his face, and she seizes the split second of vulnerability to attack his armor. "I hope to God, wherever Donna is, she isn't seeing this because she would be so fucking disappointed in you."
"Don't you dare—"
"What? Say her name, tell you the truth?" she continues, her harsh words a last resort. "You've lost yourself without her, Harvey. If she wasn't already dead, this would kill her."
There's acknowledgment in his bloodshot gaze, pain so raw that if she tugs at the loose thread, it might just unravel him completely. She doesn't want to hurt him, but the only way out is through, and her eyes burn with moisture as her voice softens. "I can't make you care… But I spoke to Donna the night she died. She loved you, too, and she wouldn't want this for you."
Something shifts in his demeanor, a tiny crack that ruptures into a large fissure as his throat bobs, the weight of her words clearly affecting him.
The sight breaks her heart, and she whispers shakily, "Don't let what the two of you shared become ugly and bitter memories. You owe her more than that."
He blinks rapidly, his composure crumbling with a weak nod. Dana pushes on the door, her hands reaching to support him as his chest heaves with a single, guttural sob. She takes him in her arms, his silent tears soaking her blouse as she hugs him tightly, crying too.
Donna took a piece of everyone with her, and the horrific way she died left them all without closure. But she has hope that by protecting Harvey, the people who love Donna can find a way to start healing.
That's what Donna would want, and she silently promises to honor the woman's wishes and stand by Harvey, no matter how long it takes before he's ready to begin moving on.