Louis is the one who finds her, poking his head into her office with his signature look of concern. He's more cautious than usual, less overzealous, as if he's afraid to spook her. He doesn't say much, just points out that this is the most he's seen her in a while. He meekly asks about Harvey, she gives a nonanswer and at this point of their friendship, Louis has finally learned when not to push. He tells her to go home, reassures her that whatever it is piled up on her desk can wait another twelve hours.
She doesn't argue, not sure she has the strength to anyway.
When she gets home, she finds him on the couch. Asleep with his phone still in hand, his face softened by the flames emanating from the fireplace. For a minute, she just stands there, stealing these moments where she can watch him with a look of peace on his face. She reaches for his shoulder, carefully coaxing him from his sleep.
"I was waiting for you," he murmurs, softening her resolve. A pang of guilt twisting inside her. "I'm sorry," brushing her fingers through his hair. "Go to bed, Harvey."
He nods and she watches as he slowly makes his way to their bedroom.
When she finally slips under her own covers, the weight of the day crashes down on her all at once. Guilt sinking its claws deep into her, forcing her to face everything she's tried to bury all day. Guilt over the jealousy that eats her insides at the thought of Harvey seeking out Scottie's company. Guilt because a thought has wormed its way at the back of her mind and she can't seem to dig it out. Maybe it would have been better if he didn't remember anything or anyone at all. Maybe then her grief would be shared and not something so unbelievably isolating. So agonizing.
She knows she's not the only one hurting, that there are countless memories lost that don't involve her. Yet somehow it feels like she was robbed most. Conceited and unfair but it was her other half that was yanked out of her. Her heart walking around New York City searching for an answer, a home, not in the shape of her.
The darkness swallows her muffled sobs. She cries until she has nothing left to give, until she's so exhausted sleep takes her, pulling her under with everything she can't bear to feel.
They've found their tempo. God knows it's not a carbon copy of the life they shared for years. It's still weird to go to work without him, to come home and share stories about clients of his he no longer remembers. But it's manageable. It works. A massive gap in their timeline and they still work. She does notice him fidgeting at times, like he's bored out of his mind. And she can only imagine what this limbo must be doing to a man as restless as Harvey Specter. He tells her he needs something to do, something that makes him feel like he's moving forward. He suggests boxing and she shuts it down as fast as he poses it. Then she gets his doctors to back her disapproval, "Enough head trauma for you." It frustrates him but it's a hard line she won't let him cross.
So instead, he jogs. A lot.
He asks her to join him one morning and she's an active person. She is. She does pilates and yoga consistently for many years now. But boy does she hate anything resembling running. By the fifth time she asks for a break he asks her what they used to do together instead and she jests, not thinking he'll bite, "Yoga."
He makes a face of disbelief, "Really?" and it sends a giggle bubbling out of her. But he asks her to book a beginner's class for them anyway. She subtly keeps an eye on him the entire time, trying not to laugh when he struggles to twist his body a certain way. But he finds his rhythm eventually and she takes his solitude as a shared small victory. At the end of the session, he turns to her with a grin stretching from ear to ear and a hand raised in the air.
"What are you doing?" her eyes pointing to his suspended arm. "High five?" A mix of disappointment and incredulity on his face, "Do you not do high fives?" She shakes her head in amusement but lets her hand clap against his.
Outside of work, everything almost feels normal. Except, he still sees Scottie. A fact that gnaws at her with a numbing ache. What's she supposed to do? Stop him? Of course not. So she tries to ask about it, about them and their little lunches. Trying not to be overbearing, like she's just curious about his day. Because in truth, she is. But she almost feels like he's being elusive, scant on details. She knows it's probably just paranoia, unfounded insecurity.
She thinks about calling Scottie, ponders how badly that could go. Instead she continues to try and sympathize. Understand that Scottie is one of the few links to his past he has left. Rationalizing that he needs that connection.
Not that it makes it any easier.
One afternoon, she receives a text from Ray updating her about Harvey. He knows she's at work but she told him to be at Mr. Specter's disposal. He says he just wanted to inform her he'll be with Ms. Scott, that they've assured him, she'll be taking him home.
There's something about his wording that feels like a punch in the gut. Taking him home.
She sends Ray her thanks and finds every possible reason to keep herself busy. But the words float along the forefront of her mind, bold and underlined in red. She stares at her laptop screen, her vision unfocused. Somewhere in the distance she hears her name, someone calling her back to earth. "Donna?" Concern etched in her face as she leans against her desk. Sam asks her what's up and she forces a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. She lies through her teeth, something about catching up with all the work she's put off.
Samantha doesn't buy it for a second, "Don't think I haven't noticed how late you've been staying lately." She tells her to go home, freshen up, "Put on something you've been looking for an excuse to wear." Sam winks at her and she appreciates the invitation. She informs her she'll be picking her up and taking her to a new bar she's been eyeing.
At home, she heads straight for the shower, she scrubs her skin harsher than she usually would, hoping the scalding hot water will wash all her thoughts away with the soap suds.
She finds herself in their shared closet for the first time in weeks. She's put aside enough work attire in the guest room, smuggled enough of his shirts to sleep in. She looks at all his unused suits, thinks about the laundry bag she normally drags to the cleaners by week's end. Now the hamper in the corner is filled with casual clothes, sweaters and V necks. All his, hers now somewhere in "her" room. She remembers a silk emerald green halter top she's been saving for some night out, something she wasn't exactly keen on wasting on a work day. She pulls it from its hanger and searches for a skirt to go along with it.
She's meticulous with her things, everything with its own rightful place. And when they moved in together, she reorganized his closet like she did everything in his life. Harvey has his fair share of clothes and so some compromise was made in their shared space. They had their own sides for the most part, but the lines blurred with their drawers. And tonight, something catches her eyes.
Her brows furrow in curiosity as she tugs a scarf aside, revealing the source of the glint. A ring. Not in a box, not tucked away for safekeeping, just here. Lying in wait like it's been forgotten.
Or hidden.
Her mind races, tries to recall if she's ever seen it before. Knows it's all for naught, knows she hasn't and all she's really doing is trying to calm the fast approaching panic rising within her. Is this for her?
Was this for her?
The thought makes her stomach wring, a confusing mix of hope and dread. A shiver runs down her spine, if it is indeed new, could it be for Scottie?
The room feels like it's closing in on her as she tries to make sense of the ring on her palm. But it doesn't. And she knows better than to expect to find any answers tonight. So with trembling hands, she puts it back. Hastily. The same way she found it. Sliding the scarf back over it like she's covering some evidence of a crime.
She can't deal with this now. Not tonight. Tonight she needs to forget. To further lose herself in anything but this.
By the time she leaves home, Harvey still wasn't. She shoots him a short text.
Bar with a friend, will be home late. Tell Scottie I said hi.
The bar is crowded. Noisy and overpowering. She thinks she can't hear her own thoughts and she welcomes the intrusion with open arms. She starts drinking fast, too fast, but Sam doesn't stop her. She tucks away a reminder to thank her for that later. She doesn't ask about Harvey, doesn't pry about her deluge of drinks. They gossip about work, about Nat from accounting's torrid affair with the new IT hire. Sam catches her up with all of Louis' antics she missed during her time off. They talk about anything that keeps Donna from wanting to go straight home and throw that damn ring in the Hudson.
But as the alcohol loosens her tongue, she relinquishes control over some of the very many things she's been bottling up. The words spill out and before you know it she tells Sam about Scottie, and she thinks she hates that there's venom in the way she says her name– but she also decides that right now, she can't bring herself to care.
She's not sure how much she's saying or how coherent she is, but a knot in her chest loosens and it's nice to let someone else carry that knowledge for a while. Sam listens, her expression softening with concern, but she doesn't push. She lets her vent. She thinks she likes Sam a lot. Thinks she's grateful to have her around at such a surreal period in her life.
There's a guy, she supposes he's probably attractive. Tall and interested. He hits on her and for a moment, she entertains him. It's just for a couple of free drinks, nothing more. But she still hates herself for enjoying the attention, for finally feeling a spark of something other than pain.
She looks up and Harvey's at the door, she thinks he looks surprised. She thinks he looks sickeningly good looking, thinks she wants to drag him to bed and let him taste the vodka on her tongue. She hears him and Sam? Yeah, maybe Sam. She hears them mutter some exchange, she doesn't bother to decipher what. Harvey has his arms around her and god does he smell so good. He guides her to her room, holding her with a gentleness that eats at her.
"I got hit on tonight," she makes a confession she has no way of stopping. "Maybe I liked it. I don't know. Does that make me a terrible person?" She scoffs, her question is rhetorical but she knows she's prodding for some response, some sign. Anything.
He doesn't answer. He just stares at her with a look she can't name. She hauls herself up as best she can and leans in closer. "Do you…" she leers at him, pushing herself even closer. Searching for something she knows probably isn't there to begin with. When she speaks, she smells the alcohol on her breath and wonders not if, but how much she'll regret this come morning. "Are you jealous?"
She feels him reach for something behind her, she thinks of pulling him in bed with her. Just to hold. She misses how perfectly they fit each other. He adjusts her pillow and tries to tuck her in. Her vision is hazy and her judgment just as, but she thinks there's an answer in his silence.
There's a pounding in her skull, a hostile hammering that's splitting her brain into two. For the first time ever, she's grateful not to be in Harvey's see through master bedroom, but even with the blinds drawn, some morning light seeps in to blind her. A groan escapes her as she pulls the sheets over her head, but it does nothing to drown out the clanging in the kitchen.
She's been here before, but it's been a while. All of last night's sins demanding penance. Punishment. And boy is she paying for it. A hangover kicking her ass so bad, reminding her of every shot. Every cocktail she shouldn't have had. She blindly reaches for her silk robe, wrapping it around her as she drags herself out of bed and onto the source of the noise.
"Look what the cat dragged in," his voice dripping with amusement. She can barely muster the energy to glare at him, but she still tries. She knows her hair's mussed, eyes blurry, a spitting image of her in her teens. It's too early for this. All she wants is to crawl back into bed but she knows she can't. She drank irresponsibly and must now face the consequences.
The counter's covered with breakfast. Toast, eggs, even bowls of yoghurt with blueberries and drizzled with what she thinks is honey. The works.
She takes a quick bite of some toast, more out of obligation than anything else. "Yeah no," pushing down the dry piece of bread. "I don't have time to eat today."
He raises an eyebrow, disbelief written all over his face. "Harvey, I'm already late for work. I traded my eating time for an extra hour in bed." He's not pleased with her defense, she thinks she might have even seen his jaw clench, but he doesn't force it. Instead, he turns around, picks up the blender, and pours her some concoction of who knows what. "Drink some of this." He explains it's his hangover cure, perfected in college.
She takes the cup from him, eyeing it with obvious suspicion before taking a sip, bleugh. "What the hell did you put in this?" He just laughs at her. "You don't wanna know." She makes a face and he gestures to drink up.
By the time she's dressed and ready to go, the aftertaste of his little lab experiment is nearly gone. He walks her to the door like he's afraid her hangover requires some assistance balancing in her four inch heels. "I'm picking you up for lunch at one," he announces, firmly. His tone leaving no room for bargaining. "Don't bother arguing, it's happening."
She almost protests, but one look at him, standing there with that determined set to his jaw, that assertiveness, and all she can think about is how much she wants to pin him against the door and have her way with him. A day off work lost in the comfort of being with him.
But she doesn't. "One o'clock," she parrots.
"Sharp," he reaffirms.
She thinks she wants to feel the scruff on his neck against hers.
And he's there, perfectly on time. Back against the car door, waiting for her. He opens it with that irresistible smile she knows too well. He tells Ray to take them to some Italian bistro they've never been to before. She tries not to think about who else he's taken there recently. He orders their starters and doesn't bother asking if she has time for it. He gets her her usual and his lack of ceremony causes her heart to skip a beat. She realizes he's picking up details about her too. She appreciates it more than she can say.
Somewhere between the prosciutto and the aperol he asks her about the night before. Her justification comes too quickly, almost sounding rehearsed. "It's nothing Harvey. I drank too much and ate too little. Rookie mistake." He doesn't let up, asks her if there's any reason she drank too much on a weekday. She should be annoyed, irritated by his sudden interest in her inner workings. But something about his curiosity is refreshing. It's not that he never asked about her, he did, it's just that it was mostly about her past, about how she came to be the woman she is today, the one "he" fell in love with. So, yeah. Maybe this prying is something she can get on board with. She makes up some excuse about work taking a toll on her. It's a half-truth he'll have to deal with because this is neither the place nor the time to open that can of worms.
He asks if she thinks she can manage to come home early today. "Harvey, I can't. I already left work early yesterday."
"You did?" Confusion flashing across his face.
She nods, changing the topic, steering their conversation elsewhere. He doesn't let it go, "I'm making us dinner. You're going home early." He tries to pass it off as a demand but she knows him too well. Easily hearing the layer of fear in his voice, afraid of her rejection. Her head tilts on its own accord, watching him with a careful gaze. If she didn't know better, she could easily convince herself he's back to his old self.
Not even the clingy Harvey she lived with but a version even more familiar. Bossy and used-to-getting-what-he-wants Senior Partner Specter. She thinks about letting him in on their true dynamic, how he was her boss on paper for the longest time but she's really the one calling the shots.
"You're awfully demanding today." She wants to argue, tell him she doesn't need coddling. But there's something in his gaze that stills her. A quiet insistence, a need to take care of her, to do something, anything, for her in a way he hasn't been able to since the accident. So, she surrenders. "Fine, but I'm not leaving before 4."
"Deal." He looks so proud of himself.
When she comes home later, the apartment smells like butter and herbs. She finds him in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, focused on the meal he's preparing. He glances up as she makes her arrival known, says his hello like he's relieved she really did come home like she said she would. It dawns on her that it's the first time they'll be sharing dinner this week. "Go take a shower. I'll finish up here."
The steam curls around her as she tries to wash away the exhaustion of the night before. Her mind straying to the man just several feet away. She knows she's been pushing him away lately, well aware that doing so is probably doing more harm than good for either of them. But there's hardly anything she's been allowed for just herself lately. She hopes she's at least allowed a couple days of selfishness. A couple nights only thinking about her wellbeing.
She nearly chokes on the running water when she snorts. Her wellbeing.
Great. Now she's lying to herself too.
There's a sharp clatter, the sound of something heavy slamming against the floor. Her heart leaps into her throat, panic surging through her veins. She barely washes the shampoo off her eyes before she's out of the shower, heedlessly wrapping herself in her robe as she rushes out. Fear wrapping its grimy hands around her throat in a vice grip.
She finds him in the kitchen, standing over the oven, a baking dish shattered on the floor. Her eyes swiftly scan his entirety. His hand is red, probably from where it brushed against some hot surface.
She tastes the salt on her lips before she feels it cascading down her cheeks. She's furious, positively seething.
She's terrified.
Her breath hitches, her chest heaving as she presses the heel of her hand against her sternum. She tries to hold herself together but she's spilling out of her tight control. She's sobbing and she doesn't know when that started. She hears him saying something she can't piece together at the moment. Maybe he asks her what's wrong and that only infuriates her further. He's found himself in front of her and she reaches forward if only to hit his chest. Weakly. She doesn't know if she has any fight left in her. She cries and her ducts don't fail to sustain the tears. It's all too much. She feels her legs weakening and all she can do is cling to him, burying her face in his chest. She tells him she's mad at him. Expresses just how much. Furious at him for scaring her, terrified that she almost lost him. "I thought I lost you."
He says her name, gentle. Maybe filled with fear too. "I'm here. I'm okay. I'm so sorry." He says it again, apologizes fervently. She sobs into him, her hands gripping his shirt as if letting go would mean losing even more of him.
"I was so scared," she chokes out, her voice muffled against his tear stained shirt.
When her legs finally give out, he's right there to catch her. Holding her tightly as they sink to the floor. "I'm here," he whispers into her hair.
"I'm right here, Donna," holding her like he's afraid she'll shatter if his grip loosens. "I'm not going anywhere."
He holds her close, waiting for her sobs to subside. Keeping her nestled in his warmth, her face still pressed against his chest, tucked beneath his chin. She feels his thumb drawing small circles on the back of her hand. They stay like that for a while, until her breathing slows. He gently lifts her up, guiding her to the sofa. Her eyes follow his movements as he retrieves a glass of water in the kitchen and hands it to her without a word.
He kneels by the other end of the couch, rummaging through the cabinet. She hears the soft crackle of vinyl as the tender swelling of violins fill the room. A hand extending an invitation. Just trust me. Let me have this one thing.
She hesitates for a moment, but she takes it. That's all she seems to do these days, taking whatever she can get.
They sway gently if barely moving at all. Her head rests on his shoulder and the air is thick with something unsaid, a tension hovering between them like a secret. "I'm sorry for ruining dinner."
She sniffles softly, pushing for a smile. She tells him it's okay, "Not like I was dying to eat whatever you were burning in there anyway."
He laughs at first, but then she feels his lips brush against her temple as he speaks, asking her to let him in. He tells her maybe it's just in his head, maybe he doesn't know her as well as he should but maybe she's been keeping herself in more than just her thoughts, that maybe she's been distant lately. He asks her if there's any truth to his doubts and she pulls away. Just enough to scan his face, so she's able to count the lines by his eyes, discern the purse in his lips. She thinks there's worry there and she wants to wipe it all away.
There are a million things running through her mind, a number of things she wants to tell him but decides against. She thinks that's weird. She likes to think keeping things from each other was never them. Except, if she closes her eyes, she can still hear the click of the door trailing an imprudent I love you.
But that was before. Before they finally decided to throw all caution in the wind and risk lifelong happiness together.
She knows it'll probably scare the hell out of his 25 year old brain, but she wants to tell him she loves him. Because for too long it's been rattling inside her with nowhere to go, a declaration that comes from her but belongs to him. She wants to say it because maybe something kept in the dark rots and decays. She wants to tell him she loves him because she's not sure he's aware.
But most importantly, she wants to say I love you simply because it's true.
She thinks maybe if she lets it slip without a moment's thought it wouldn't hurt as much not to hear it in return, but then she remembers Scottie. Scottie whose appeal must be fresh in his mind. Scottie who's returned as a recurring character in their– or maybe just his– life. And now there's a ring, one she's never seen before. Shiny, dainty, probably-an-engagement ring that is definitely not her size. A quick memory of Scottie's fingers flashes against the lids of her eyes and she almost brings a hand up to rub it away. She knows better than to push herself off a rabbit hole with no sight of an end.
She blames it on work, says she wasn't lying this afternoon when he asked the first time around. But she also tells him it's the accident and his mom. She lumps it as everything lately but leaves out Scottie, the ring, and the brewing jealousy she's doing her best not to acknowledge. The insecurity behind all the sudden late nights in the office.
He tells her he's sorry and she quickly shakes her head no. Refusing to let him take any blame for this unfortunate position they've found themselves in. She locks her eyes with his, ensuring he sees the sincerity behind hers. His eyes look like he's studying her and she thinks maybe they're trying to find each other. Searching for a less than comfortable point to meet. She realizes they've stopped moving and she amends that, allowing the mellow song to carry them.
"This isn't new," she declares.
She tells him they used to do this. Dance. How when she'd get too stressed or distant, he'd notice. "You'd pull me into your office and make me dance with you," she tells him most times it's only for a few minutes, other times a couple songs. But they used to dance even before they started dating. They'd dance in the office when it's late and deserted, their only company left is a shared tumbler of scotch.
And when they got together, he'd ask her to dance just because.
"We'd come home from work and you'd pull me in." Drink me in.
He's listening, really listening, the way he always used to. She thinks it's nice to know he's always been this way, attentive. Caring. "What was our song?".
"Blue in Green," she affirms. "You used to put on Miles Davis' Kind of Blue."
His smile widens, but there's a glint of something else in his eyes. "Well, I'd put that album on now if you hadn't scratched it." Her mind races back to that night years ago, the record slipping out of her grasp and landing on its side before settling on the floor. She narrows her eyes, prepared with her carefully practiced retort. A hand loose from where it rested on his nape, a finger now directly between the small gap between their faces, "That was an accident! You can't blame me–"
But the words die in her throat as his remark fully sinks in. "How do you know that?"
She's staring up at him with wide eyes, her heart stuttering in her chest as the realization hits her like a freight train. Her breath picks up and she notices the rising of his chest mirrors its change of pace. "You remember?" Her voice trembles as her arms find their way around his waist, pulling him closer. He doesn't say anything but she feels his hold on her tighten, his body warm against hers. He's quiet but there's something in the way his breathing deepens that tells her he knows this is important. That this is just as significant to him as it is to her.
He steps back and forces her to look at him, "I remember." There's an uncertainty in his statement, one she thinks he's hoping she'll validate. A question mark he's hoping she'll reshape to resolution.
Their eyes meet and she wonders if he feels it too. How the air feels charged with something, how her eyes follow his as it flickers to her lips. For a heartbeat she thinks –no, she knows– he's going to kiss her.
But the moment slips just as quickly as that vinyl once had. He hesitates, his brow furrowing almost microscopically, but she catches it. As if something is holding him back. The disappointment settles in her chest. She lets out a breath she didn't realize she was holding and rests her temple back against the sharp angle of his jaw. She wants to tell him everything. She wonders if everything rests on something as simple as an I love you. She wants to ask him if she can sleep in their bed tonight, but the words won't come. So she just holds him tighter, keeping his heart close to hers. If she can't say it with words, maybe he'll feel it anyway.
"You remember," a prayer.
A plea that this small piece of him that's come back to her won't slip away.
this one's a tad long, i hope that's okay :)
i like to think the song they were slow dancing to was misty by sarah vaughan.
as always, i'm always more than happy to hear your thoughts 3 thanks for making it this far!
