There was a cruelty in his question he wasn't able to place until the woman before him abruptly stopped speaking. Maybe it was his blunt innocence or the mere unexpectedness of such a query, but she almost seemed hurt. Jaded by something she clearly has long left behind. His glass dangles in his hand, hanging limply, swirling its amber contents. He thinks he sees the gears in her mind doing the same thing. Did we ever take the next step?
He's not sure he's ever seen her so quiet, he almost wants to annoy her about it. How he's finally found a way to render Dana Scott speechless. But whatever it is that slipped through her steel exterior is quickly rectified. She leans back, as if her cool demeanor hadn't wavered. Her lips curve in a curt smile, "You really don't remember do you?"
He shakes his head, feeling strangely guilty, like he knows he's wronged her just by asking. She sighs and crosses her arms, like she's protecting herself from him. From the memories. She tells him about their on-again, off-again dynamic. Their arrangement whenever either of them were in town, the prelude to each of their heated head to heads. She tells him about how they'd danced around the idea of something serious, going as far as leaving London and moving in with him, in his apartment. Yes, the same one you live in now.
He watched as she spoke, noting how carefully she chose her words, like he hurt her in a way her pride refuses to rehash. He thinks maybe she was far more explicit in recounting his crimes at one point but maybe she's taking this opportunity to win back her dignity. There was something about the way she avoided his gaze for a millisecond too long, how her voice kind of sounded like she'd rehearsed this version of their story so many times before. He wonders how much she's leaving out, wonders how much of it Donna already knows.
"Why do you think it didn't work out?" He knew they were too busy, too high on their ambitions when they were in law school to enter any type of commitment. At least, that's what he told himself. But some part of him also knew they worked well together, liked each other's company enough to see some type of future together. He asks her partly because he's genuinely curious, but also just because he's trying to understand who he used to be, or had become.
Scottie gives him a long, almost pitying look. He's unsure if it's for him, for her, or for who they could have been. A look of someone who had, maybe, resigned herself to the truth a long time ago. Back then she wasn't sure if Harvey Specter was simply a man with one foot always out the door or if it was because she'd push him into something serious, an attempt at a real relationship when he clearly hadn't been ready. But the truth was something simpler, one so glaring, so brazenly in her face yet so difficult to confront. Then a smile creeps in. It feels patronizing, like he's so foolish. So naive.
"There's no competing with Donna."
There never was and she thinks anyone's a fool, including him, if they think there ever will be.
The words land with a dull thud and he found himself momentarily lost in thought. It was eerie, the pull she had over him, the way her name seemed to shift the air around him. He wondered if Donna knew just how much space she occupied in his life even when they weren't in the same room.
He gives Scottie an apologetic look, testing the waters. Checking if a verbal one was warranted. He knows she probably deserves one from him but he doesn't know if it'll only cut her deeper. Before the idea even takes full form, she deftly steers them back to the task at hand. She picks up where they left off, recounting an old case. A high-profile merger. Giving him just enough details to set the scene, she asks, "How would you handle it?"
He takes a moment to process it, choosing a strategy. "I'd push them to settle early," he decides. "Before the press gets involved. Leverage the bad publicity. Get a deal before it gets too messy."
She nods, maybe like she's proud of him. "That's a good angle. But what you actually decided to do was wait. Let them stew in it. Stayed patient, which let's be honest, was never your strongest suit." That earns her a chuckle from him, "Then you hit them when they were desperate."
They compared his answers with his actual ones, and more often than not, he found himself giving a similar response. It was weird, to say the least, hearing about his old self, sporting instincts he hasn't honed yet. Sometimes it felt like he was learning about another person entirely, other times it felt like he was on the verge of remembering it all.
At some point he asks her another question, hoping it's lighter than his previous one. "Why are you helping me, Scottie?" It's been over two weeks of them meeting up for lunch nearly everyday, of her squeezing him into her undoubtedly tight schedule, even if at times, for just half an hour during or after work. "I mean, it seems to me I wasn't exactly the greatest boyfriend ever. Or even a great one." Her eyes bounce between his left and right. "Sounds like I was kind of dick."
She just shrugs, but her smile is softer now. Kinder. "I mean, you were a dick," her eyes rolling. "But I care about you. I always have." The honesty in her answer touches him more than he'd ever admit to her and there was a time where he might have even leaned into whatever chemistry still lingered between them, but the urge isn't there. He tries to look for it, curious about its absence, but it never surfaces and he doesn't force it.
She explains it's the least she can do to help him get back to who he is but then pauses, the next sentence seemingly more difficult to get out. "And maybe… maybe I feel like I owe it to Donna too."
He was grateful for her help, even if he didn't quite know how to express it, but he can't help but notice this was the second time her answer concluded with that name. He wonders how much of his relationship with Scottie, or with anyone, was entangled with Donna.
Scottie's voice snaps him out of his thoughts, "Last one. It's getting late and believe it or not, I do have a life." Matthews v. Marquez. Another merger, but one that almost fell through over a corporate espionage scandal. She lays down the facts and details of the case and he listens eagerly, respecting the time and energy she's granting him. But then he sees the screen of his phone light up, the sender of the text not somebody he can get himself to ignore.
Bar with a friend, will be home late. Tell Scottie I said hi.
The words felt odd in a way he couldn't place.
"Everything okay?"
"Uh, yeah. Donna says hi." He almost doesn't catch it when Scottie's eyes narrow, but then she raises one brow slightly. Nothing dramatic, but something noteworthy. "What?"
"Nothing," returning to the papers in front of her, voice light but not convincing.
"What is it?"
"It's nothing Harvey, tell her I said hi back. Now, would you push this to trial?"
He wasn't a stranger to an empty apartment these days. Save for the weekends, he pretty much had a lot of time to waste away by himself. The texts would come in as he sat on the couch, waiting for a sound at the door, some sign of her return. Tied up at work, I'm sorry. Don't wait up. The words sat heavy in his hand, even heavier in his chest. He thinks it's not dissimilar to a papercut he never would have noticed had it not been sprayed by something packing heat. People stayed late at work all the time, he himself not someone you can send home unless he's confident everything's been settled the way he liked it. He knew she'd taken a lot of time off taking care of him, knew it was bound to catch up to her at some point. He reasons his absence probably doesn't help, figures she's bearing the weight of that too.
She'd told him about the cases, the people, reciting their names like old friends, hoping to jog something loose in his memory. But he couldn't help but worry there was something else bothering her, couldn't help but worry he'd done something to push her away. A whisper telling him to keep an eye on the clock, to send texts he wasn't sure she'd read.
When she came home late, her footsteps soft and careful, as though she didn't want to wake him, it wasn't anger that stirred him. It was concern. He'll tell her he got her some of that pizza with the yellow tomatoes she liked, that it was on the countertop and she should reheat some before going to bed. She'll walk him to his door, squeeze his arm goodnight. Sorry I couldn't join you for dinner.
He hears the door, the clumsy rattling of the doorknob. He follows the noise, thinks he hears people arguing behind the door. He's not home! He's out. Out, out, out. When he swings it open, it's her. Arm slung around a tall blonde, he figures she matches Donna's descriptions of Samantha Wheeler. She looks almost as shocked at the sight of him as he is at her. "Are you okay?" His hands are around her waist before Samantha even has the chance to explain what's going on. She says Donna had too much to drink, clearly. He takes her from her friend and he passes on his thanks. She looks at him like she has more to say, like she's looking for her friend but is faced with him. She turns to leave, "I'll see you around."
Once inside, Donna fumbles to get rid of her heels and he sits her on one of the arm chairs and helps her out of them. He looks up to her and asks if she's okay. Though it was obvious she wasn't. "Why? Something about me hinting I'm not?" She's slurring, one word eating the next. He takes her to bed and she mumbles something that stops him in his tracks. Her words wove through him, lodging itself in his chest. A twinge, sharp yet persistent. He knew the feeling, but putting a name to it felt dangerous. He knows he can but he's not sure if he should. Then she voices his suspicions out loud.
He doesn't answer but he does let the question simmer. Accepts it's probably going to keep him up.
He leaves her room only to search for his phone and to send a text, canceling his plans for the next day. Something important came up. His legs carry him back to her room. She's under the covers but still in her work clothes. He knows that fact's going to bug her in the morning, if it doesn't play second fiddle to her hangover. He sits on the small empty spot on the side of her bed and he realizes tonight's been the closest they've been in a while. Maybe the closest ever since his accident. He reaches out, brushing a strand away from her face, careful not to wake her.
His heart swells. She looks so peaceful. Still, he can't shake away his curiosity. Why she'd gotten so drunk on a work night, why she'd let herself slip like this when he knows by now just how much her job means to her, how unbelievably responsible she is.
Sleep eludes him like water to oil.
The apology is out of his lips before he has the chance to swipe his attention away from the mess he's created on the marble tiles. But he looks up and she's stood there, frozen, her hands trembling, eyes wide, like her world had collapsed not from a dish, but from something so deep within her. Suddenly the pain radiating from his hands couldn't be further from his list of concerns. His eyes follow her tears as they leave their trails down her face, he thinks he feels them scorching his own skin.
What does he do?
He's never been the best at cradling anyone's feelings, much less a woman in tears. He has no reference for this level of raw, unfiltered emotion from her. All he has is instinct, and God, he isn't sure it would suffice. She's spiraling, her voice cracking as she struggles to string together anything fully coherent. She's not pointing blame, not even addressing the fragments of ceramic in front of her, no, she's furious at him for something else entirely. He realizes quickly what a mistake it is to even bring up the baking dish.
"It's not about the damn dish, Harvey!" Her teeth clenched, cheeks bright red, crooked twin lines between her brows.
Of course it wasn't about his cooking accident. It never was. He could see it in the way she's unraveling in front of him, how she held it together for so long. That this small catastrophe is just the final pull of the thread. She's on the warpath for how inexplicably frightened she is at the thought of losing him, of how close she was to that fate. Angry at him for an accident she says she knows wasn't his fault.
His heart, already aching, feels like it might break entirely. He closes the gap between them and wraps her tightly in his embrace. Her arms are folded against his chest but it still manages a weak resistance. Her failing strikes feeling less like an attempt to punish him for his mistake and more like she's convincing herself he's really there. Tangible and solid, upright and not scattered into a million pieces on their kitchen floor, or the middle of the interstate.
He thinks he's not well versed in mending emotional turmoils but he's always been good at swaying situations in his favor. Maybe this isn't so different, maybe he can fix this. Her. Them.
I thought I lost you.
Words felt useless, futile, but he needed her to calm down, needed her to know she wasn't alone in whatever this was. He starts with her name and hopes it ropes her back into him. He's right here and he's okay.
He's holding her so tight he's afraid he's hurting her, she feels so delicate in his arms and he fears he'll crush her bones. But the idea of letting her go is one he has no plans of entertaining. Even if he doesn't understand everything that led to this, even if he doesn't have all the memories of the years that built up to this, he knew her. Some part of him clung onto her for more than a decade and made sure she never left his side, and that was enough. It had to be.
He promises her he's right here, that he's not going anywhere, but he knows she doesn't believe him. Not at this very moment, not when she's unsure he even understands the gravity of his statement. Because honestly, he's not sure either. But he knows it's true. Knows it's a promise he has every intention of keeping. He tries to brush away the slight panic brought on by the finality of his claims, how unsettled he is by his determination to piece her back together, this woman he hardly knew but somehow also knew he can't be without. It's an odd feeling, strange and new.
He tells her they'll figure it out. He isn't sure if he really was providing her any comfort or just trying to convince himself he could do this. Be the man she needs. Because the truth is, he was terrified too. There's a desperation in the way she's holding onto him and it scares the hell out of him that he doesn't know what it'll take to ebb her pain.
I've got you. I do.
He thinks his voice sounds just as small as hers and it ticks him off. He needs to do better by her, needs to be the stronger one now when she's been holding the fort these last couple weeks. He strokes her hair gently, his lips instinctively planting a gentle kiss on the crown of her head as he continues to spew promises he's unsure she even hears.
At the end of their evening, when he's sure she's settled in her room, he walks himself to the balcony and makes sure the door behind him is shut. It's late. Too late. But Scottie picks up, and he releases a breath he didn't know he was holding. She alerts him she charges extra for after school hours, but he doesn't waste time before asking her if he can get some advice, prompting her to ask if everything's okay. He tells her he didn't know who else to ask and a silence stretches between them for a minute before he gets himself to elaborate further.
"Is this about Donna?"
His sigh is answer enough. He tries, best as he can, to tell her about the distance that's been preying at them lately. How late Donna's been staying at work, how he's almost sure she's been avoiding him. She asks him when it started, when he began to take notice. "I don't know? 2 weeks? Maybe more?" The next thing he hears is her scoff, loud and intentional. "I could hit you right now."
"What?"
"So, she's been hiding herself in the office ever since we started meeting? Does she know what we've been up to, Harvey?" He thinks maybe he's connecting the dots too but couldn't afford to be wrong.
"I don't kn–"
"What do you mean you don't know?!" Her delivery laced with cynicism, almost shouting now.
"She doesn't really pry. She just asks how my day went or our lunch, then moves on."
"God, you can be so dense," He reiterates his question, asks what he's missing. "She's not prying because she doesn't want to seem insecure. But trust me, Harvey, she's thinking it. Donna, as strong as she is, is still dating you." Notorious for your commitment issues, she doesn't say. "Sure, she knows you're as loyal as they come but your situation isn't exactly anything reassuring. You don't remember her." He opened his mouth to say something, although he's not sure what. "Yeah, she's been away but so have you." Ahh.
"She knows what we were to each other, knows our history, and knowing how you trusted her with everything, I'm sure she also knows exactly what we were up to in law school. Which in case you've also forgotten, is as far as your current memory goes." The scolding is out of her mouth in rapid succession, he feels like he's on the receiving end of the brutal litigation of someone whose facts are miles from straight. "She's wondering why you're spending so much time with me, your ex."
He looks back at all the times she asked about his day outs with Scottie, trying to figure out if there was anything there he missed or didn't want to see. Confronting himself about his hypocrisy before Scottie has a chance to point it out. "Why are you even being so secretive about this? Donna's smart. She's not going to sit around and wonder forever. You keep being suspicious about our meetings and she's going to think there's more going on than just your free legal review." He thinks he hears her trying to catch her breath as the last phrase finds its way to his end of the line. Lets her (him really) have a minute to process all the cards laid out. "I just," he starts.
"I don't want to give her false hope," he admits quietly, like he's ashamed. He closes his eyes and he tries to find a way to tell her about their evening. How he'd held her in his arms, how they'd danced chest to chest to a love song. How he'd remembered a tiny detail that might just mean everything to Donna.
He tells her how he'd fallen short when it mattered most. "I couldn't kiss her."
She asks him why not, not a hint of judgment in her tone. Just curiosity. And maybe sadness. He tells her he doesn't know. Except he does. He does know. But the truth's too tangled in the mess of his mind to pull out cleanly. "I mean I do, but–"
Scottie presses and he finds himself looking distantly, like he'll find his courage a couple blocks over. Hidden behind a curtain in a faraway building, living in a home with no cracks. No craters to fill. He wonders what rendition of divine comedy he's starring in, which Greek tragedy. Where he's on the hunt for his missing parts, searching earth, hell, and heaven for his memories so he can save that one fair maiden from all the sorrow he leaves in his path. He wonders if anyone takes joy in the sick truth that she's the sole guardian of the one thing that can save her from all this torment, but has no way of surrendering it to him.
He knows the irony isn't lost on either of them. The memories he's trying to reclaim, every piece of who they are together, it all lives in her.
"I'm scared," he finally admits. "I'm scared of hurting her. Ruining us." He feels his heart clamoring, "What if I do something wrong? What if she's only waiting for the old me and I don't even know if he'll ever come back?"
Scottie's answer doesn't come fast enough and he's so terrified she'll confirm all his fears, he considers throwing his phone over the railing. "Harvey, she's with you now. Not the guy you used to be, not the guy you're afraid you won't live up to. You." She tells him she gets it, he's afraid of overstepping some line because he's afraid he'll mess it up. That if he kisses her and it's not perfect, he might hurt her more than he already has.
She assures him it won't. That's not how this works. She tells him he's rushing, that he's glossing over the fact that he'd remembered something. Not just anything but something related to him and Donna and he hadn't even realized it. Clues him in the very real possibility that he not recognizing that Miles Davis tidbit was a memory probably, maybe, means there are other memories floating around his everyday life. And also, he's trying his best and he shouldn't discount him for that. Or at least not her. All the hours she's also put in. He thinks he hears her smile.
Okay, so he's trying. From now on, he's not just trying to remember who he is but also trying to be a person who deserved this life with Donna until those memories come back. Because one thing is becoming clearer. Whatever this is, whatever he's trying to rebuild, it doesn't work without Donna. And he knew, if there was even a chance of snapping out of this trance, he owed it to himself not to screw this up.
He can't wake up one day with all his memories back only to find out he's lost her.
He knows now that losing her might just be worse than losing his memories. It would be losing everything.
He continued what he was already doing: taking care of her in his little ways. It wasn't dramatic, no grand gestures or sweeping declarations, but there was a new layer of intention. Inching closer to her, allowing his touches to linger longer than he's ever allowed, to let themselves be without worrying too much. Like he was reminding her he was already there, always was, still is.
He wasn't really watching. He let her choose the movie, promised her he'll pay attention to this one through gritted teeth and pretend reluctance, still defending his aversion to romcoms. She's catching on, he thinks. Or maybe she sees through his charade because she's already been given access to his softer side, probably knows about his secret Oprah binges. He thinks she's allowing him some sense of privacy to his inner thoughts, when technically she knows him from inside out.
When technically, she's seen his future.
Is his future.
The movie flickers on the screen but his eyes keep drifting to her. To the way her shoulders sat too still, to the line of her profile lit by the dim television. He really is trying to make true of his promise, but all he catches are a few lines here and there. This was practically routine, ending their day with a movie. He's at his end and she at hers, as they always are. There's a bowl of popcorn passed between the two of them, sitting idly on his lap until she wiggles her fingers in his direction to signal her cravings. This is routine and yet it feels unnatural. He wonders if it's always felt this way and he's only now allowing himself to see through the mist. Or not the mist, but maybe all the other times he was too conscious, too on his toes. Too convinced or too busy convincing himself something wasn't right about this whole situation with Donna. Because it's not entirely a lie, maybe not even at all. He's scattered in the dark, blindly grasping for parts of him— uncertain if he's searching for sharp edges or gathering dust. He thinks his mind might not remember the taste of her lips the night of their first kiss or how relieved he must have felt when he first garnered the guts to tell her he loved her, but he knows the bowl of popcorn is out of place.
He knows that if he looks at the middle seat of the couch, he'll find it sinking deeper than either ends. His legs feel weird hanging off the seat. Weird is not the word. The word's exhausted. Like it's desperately clinging to a routine that's long been retired. His lap felt too empty, the bowl on it too light. He knows whatever's supposed to be invading his space is warmer, heavier. Knows his fingers are meant to be sifting through silky red locks not kernels of buttery popcorn.
Donna had been slipping away, and he hadn't even noticed how far she'd gone until she was gasping for air.
His hands feel restless, his index finger nicking through the crevice between the skin and nail of his thumb. Why is he even fighting against it? He knows what to do with them and it's almost frightening. He lays his arms open, a wordless invitation but he hopes she understands what he's offering her. His eyes looking at her with a plea, asking her to take it. There was a beat of hesitation, uncertainty in her expression. Then, slowly, quietly, she moved closer. Her cheek nuzzling against his shoulder, her legs tucking themselves half over his lap, where he knew they belonged.
She mentions Mike and Rachel were visiting, that she'll be joining them for dinner tomorrow evening. That the invitation of course extends to him, if he's ready. And he nods. He thinks she feels his yes before she hears it come out of his mouth. When she pulls away to look him in the eye he finds his hold on her shoulder tighten, realizing he doesn't like losing her warmth. "Really?" Her eyes are green, speckled with gold. He's never taken the time to appreciate them and he detests that. They're big and sparkling, reflecting the ember of the fireplace. He wonders if he's ever managed to say no to her.
The credits roll and she makes no effort to untangle herself from him, he realizes then she's fallen asleep. Her head buried deeper in his neck than he'd realized. He wonders if her hand resting on the center of his chest felt the way his heart was beating. Slow and steady in the nearness of her. He imagines taking her to the theater one day, a play instead of their usual movie nights on the couch. Wonders how she might feel about going on an official date.
When morning came and he felt her stir, he impulsively tightened his arms around her. It wasn't much, just a gentle squeeze, a silent request for more time. A couple minutes of this solitude after the week they've had. Just a little bit more of her here, safe with him. And when they do finally get up, there's a lightness between them, something he hadn't felt in weeks. A smile that radiated gentle affection not just on her lips, but her eyes, the glow of her skin.
By the time they met up with Mike and Rachel that evening, he felt a newfound sliver of optimism. The awkwardness between him and their guests is immediate though. Mike standing just a little too stiff, Rachel not very different. Like they're clearly thrilled to see Donna but unsure how to approach her counterpart. Like he's her date to some high school reunion.
But then Donna laughed, a real, unguarded laugh that spilled out of some quip Mike made and he felt the tension on his shoulders unknot. He looks over at her and she seems brighter, like she'd slipped back into a life she's been missing for too long. Because maybe she has. The weight she'd been carrying seemed to lift as she talked and caught up with them. He realized just how much she needed this, how much she needed them.
Mike started recounting stories, telling him about that one fateful day when their paths had crossed. He found himself leaning in, more curious about the man talking than the story he's selling. He already knew pieces from Donna but Mike makes them sound like legends, two men at the top of their game. And he couldn't help but smile, he takes pride in having made it to the top, but he thinks knowing he'd helped someone else climb with him comes with a sense of accomplishment he didn't know he needed. He listens to Mike talk and he understands more and more why he might have been keen to take him under his wing.
But despite the easy connection forming between him, Mike and Rachel, he constantly found his gaze drifting to Donna. She seems more at ease tonight than she had in weeks and it pleases something inside him, settles some qualm. And when he thoughtlessly named the defendants of the case Mike was defending, he doesn't miss the succession of surprise, relief, and gratitude in her eyes.
Somewhere in their dinner, he reaches for her hand on the table. It was instinctual. But the way his fingers threaded through hers, holding onto her like she was his lifeline, that was something new. Or maybe it was something old. Something that's belonged to them for much longer than his memories go.
When they say their goodbyes, Mike extends a hand, offering a handshake. The awkwardness resurfacing for a second, but he just shakes his head and pulls him into a hug. He thinks he feels him relax into it, something unsaid between them. "We missed you." His eyes shift to Rachel, whose arms wouldn't let go of Donna either, noticing the obvious melancholy she tries to suppress. He doesn't miss the gloss in her eyes, or the way she exchanges a look with Donna.
And as they wait for their car, he weaves his hands back into Donna's. Properly this time, interlacing their fingers and clasping them tight. For the first time in a long while, he feels like maybe, just maybe, he isn't as lost as he thought he was.
first of all, i'd like to thank everybody for their lovely reviews here on ff! i'm not the best at navigating this site and i'm not sure how to reply to each of you guys but know that i read your comments and am so incredibly touched by them.
also, thank you so much for being patient with me, i know my updates take while. life just gets a little hectic sometimes, you know how it is.
thanks for sticking around! as always, i'd love to hear your thoughts
