A/N: Once again, the flashback can be skipped. CW: Implied domestic violence


I

Ten Years Ago

He never stays the night.

It's a rule that had been clear from the beginning, a firm line in the sand with no room for discussion. Donna had agreed to the condition without hesitation, seeing it for the inevitable truth it was; Weston Harding is not the sort of man who allows himself to be pinned down. She knows his duty comes first, always, and anything or anyone that threatens to be too entangling of his focus simply isn't allowed. She wishes it could be different, and sometimes the selfish, stubborn part of her wants to ask him to stay, despite knowing that she doesn't have the right.

But that doesn't change the fact that it hurts. She hates that their relationship is little more than shadows and half-truths, that she doesn't have the right to get to know him, to crawl inside his mind and settle down between his thoughts like some kind of invasive burrowing creature. She won't allow herself to ask the questions that ring through her head when he's quiet, won't allow herself to admit to her curiosity about his past. She doesn't dare reach out a hand and touch the parts of him that are kept dark and private, locked away behind closed doors. She wonders if he even cares for her the way she does for him, or if this is just a means of blowing off steam for him, a diversion from the pressures and stresses of his job.

After, when the room is dark and silent but for their shallow breathing, Donna lies beside Weston with her head on his shoulder and her fingertips brushing lightly across his chest, counting his heartbeats. It's a comforting habit she's developed over the past several months, a way to reassure herself that he's still with her, a way to check that he hasn't somehow been whisked away into the night during these all-too-brief moments they get together. He lets her do it, though he teases her for it, with a tenderness that reminds her of why she continues to endure the pangs that come with this unconventional and secretive thing they've gotten into the habit of doing.

Tonight is different, though.

Tonight, as she rests in his arms, Donna feels his fingers tracing slow, lazy circles on her back, sliding through the wisps of red hair that curl damply at the nape of her neck, as if he's searching for something, trying to speak to her without the use of words.

"What is it?" she asks, rising up onto her elbows so that she can peer into his eyes. They seem to shine in the moonlight like an animal's, and for a moment she thinks she sees a flash of trepidation on his face.

"I just—" He hesitates, clearing his throat, as if the words are difficult to get out. "I feel like I keep hurting you. I know you deserve better, Donna. And I wish I could give you more."

Donna's first instinct is to deny it, to assure him that she's fine and that she knew what she was getting herself into from the very start. But the sadness and guilt on his face are so sincere that she finds the words dying on her lips.

He's always so careful around her, so guarded, that she's not sure what to say, or how to tell him that, as much as he keeps her at a distance, she chooses him every time, that she wouldn't change anything, that she would keep choosing him even knowing what little happiness she'll get out of it.

Instead, she traces her thumb over his brow, smoothing out the furrow there, letting her hand come to rest against his cheek. The shadow of stubble is rough beneath her palm. Her eyes search his face, taking in the weariness in his eyes, the crease between his brows. She knows how hard he works, what tremendous pressure he's under, the weight of the countless responsibilities that fall on his shoulders. Her voice is little more than a whisper when she finally speaks.

"When was the last time someone took care of you, Wes?"

The question seems to catch him off guard, and his body tenses beneath hers. For a moment, she thinks he might pull away, as he's done so many times before, retreating behind his walls, the mask of easy charm falling back into place.

But instead, he stays, his fingers continuing to dance across her back. He shrugs dismissively. "I don't need that. I can manage just fine on my own."

"Everyone needs someone."

A rueful smile touches his lips. "Some people aren't made for that. Some of us have to settle for solitude."

There's a melancholy note in his voice that reaches her soul and she can't help it. She traces her fingertip along the curve of his jaw, tipping his chin and making him meet her eyes. "But if you were? If, like everyone else in the world, you had the option of having someone to share your life with, would you choose to be alone?"

His expression is soft, vulnerable, as his eyes drift closed. She watches him gather himself, as if to argue with her, as if to continue refusing to expose a piece of himself.

When his eyes flutter open again, it's with a sigh, as if he's made the decision to concede to her whims, for once. To peel back a layer for her. "I don't know any different. Even as a child, my parents weren't very..." he searches for the right word "...tactile. It's not who I am. I'm not meant to be loved."

Donna's heart breaks at his declaration. He's so good, so kind, and she can't imagine what a childhood devoid of love was like for him. Who was there for him when he got hurt? Who cared for him when he was sick, praised him when he succeeded, consoled him when he failed? How could such coldness produce a man as wonderful as the one who lies before her? He should have been cherished, she thinks fiercely. He deserves to be cherished.

She cups his face with both hands, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to his lips, then another, and another. "Wes," she whispers.

"Mm."

"I love you."

Her words are met with silence. A still, motionless silence, like the ground after a heavy snow, lifeless and cold. She studies him carefully, hoping, waiting for a reaction, any reaction, but instead, there is nothing, his face placid, as if he didn't hear her at all.

An unfamiliar desperation settles in her, twisting in her chest. She stares down at him, biting her lip, willing him to say something. The longer he keeps silent, the more frantic she becomes. A string of anxious fears fills her mind: she's said the wrong thing; she's ruined things between them; he'll leave her forever. The thoughts coalesce into a terrible ball of dread, threatening to suffocate her, and she can't handle it.

"Please say something," she says, tears welling in her eyes, "or I might just go completely insane."

Slowly, he sits up, drawing her with him. His hands come to rest on her waist, his thumbs rubbing small circles on her sides, as if reassuring her with his touch. There's a tortured look in his eyes and he presses his lips together tightly, swallowing hard before speaking. His voice is low, the words halting.

"Donna...you're...you're so young. I'm going to hurt you, no matter how hard I try not to. And I'm doing it every day we do this. This isn't going to end well."

She shakes her head, panic constricting her throat, her heart pounding in her chest. He's slipping away from her, she can feel it. He's ending it. Why is he ending it? Is it because she told him she loves him? Because she made her feelings too clear, somehow? Oh god, she should never have said anything...

"You don't know that. We could–"

He cuts her off gently. "Hey. Please listen. You don't know me. Not really."

"I know what matters. I know enough."

He laughs bitterly. "You have no idea." He exhales roughly and looks at her, resignation written on his face. "It's not going to happen, Donna. I'm sorry."

He withdraws from her then, physically and emotionally, a visible wall around him.

"What are you saying?"

"We're done."

A sharp pang pierces her chest. "What do you mean, done?"

"This is it."

"This is it," she repeats. She can't feel anything.

"It's over." He flinches, as if this is just as difficult for him.

Tears fill her eyes, a million objections and pleas crowding her mind. "But..."

He stands and begins gathering his clothing.

She can't think, can't speak. Her mind is clouded with confusion, the implications of his words still sinking in. She watches him dress, numbness washing over her. The shirt goes on first, hiding the muscled chest she'd just been caressing. The boxer briefs come next, a shield to hide the parts of him she'd just taken comfort in, just kissed, just taken inside her. One by one, each garment marks the distance growing between them, the distance that is only getting wider with each passing second.

"Wes," she pleads, reaching out a hand, wanting nothing more than to take the words back, to undo her foolish confession, to go back to five minutes ago when it was just the two of them, in their own tiny, temporary universe, but he is already gone, replaced with the immutable Senator Harding, the man who is larger than life itself, the man who is above her, miles and miles above her, so high and bright and burning hot that she'd long since accepted she'd be cold and alone and longing for him until the end of her days.

He shakes his head and she can see the resolve in his eyes, can see that no matter what she says, no matter how she begs or what excuses she gives him, it won't make any difference. She tries anyway.

"Stay."

It's only a single word, a whispered request, but it feels like everything hangs in the balance of his decision, like her whole future is hinged on what he chooses to do now. She takes a shuddering breath and forces herself to meet his gaze, to hold it, to plead with him silently, to make him see how much this means to her.

"Please stay," she whispers again.

She sees a battle of emotions play across his face, the faint flicker of doubt, the hard line of resignation, the glint of stubborn refusal. His expression softens for a brief moment, a muscle in his jaw twitches, then he releases a sigh of defeat. Slowly, reluctantly, he drops his hands from his belt, letting the strip of leather fall open and relaxed against his hips. His body sags and he leans back against the door, running a hand through his hair in that way he does when he's tired or frustrated or both.

"Okay," he says softly.

She knows it's not much. It's barely anything, really. It's not a commitment to something more, it's not even a promise to keep the door open to the possibility.

But it's also not a refusal, not a shut-down.

And that's something.

So, like always, she will take what she can get.

For as long as she can keep it.

II

The night is cool and quiet when Samantha exits the bar, Rachel slumped between her and Mike, and Donna feigning sobriety ahead of them as they stumble onto the street. It's past midnight, and there's only one cab waiting. Samantha slides in first, holding the door for the others. Donna pushes Rachel into the car, and then crawls in next to her, laughing as they both collapse on the seat. Samantha stares at her. Even at this distance, the scent of Harvey's cologne clings to her skin, a cloud of lingering musk. If anyone else notices, they don't say anything.

Mike closes the door, and pats the roof before waving them off, and then the three women are speeding away from the bar. Rachel slides against Donna, her eyes drifting shut, head falling to Donna's shoulder, while Samantha keeps her gaze fixed ahead. Out of the corner of her eye, Sam can see Donna glancing in her direction, but she ignores her. She's still in overdrive. Thinking. Considering. A sharp realization, cutting through the dense fog of her intoxication: Donna and Specter hooked-up, in one way or another. And she still doesn't know what to do with the information.

Samantha should have seen this coming; the way Harvey had wrapped around Donna at the pool table, helping her line up her shots and whispering into her ear. It had seemed so intimate, so charged and inappropriately friendly that Samantha felt the need to distract Mike to prevent any rumors from reaching Weston.

Then, the way they left the bar together, only for Donna to return some time later, alone, her hair slightly disheveled and her lipstick a touch smeared. Of course, Samantha hadn't asked. It isn't her business. Donna is a grown woman who can handle herself, but if Weston found out, if he even thought...

"I love you," Rachel mutters, snuggling in closer to Donna, throwing her arms around the redhead. "God, Donna. So much. You're so pretty and smart. And you have such great boobs... Don't tell Wes I said that." She giggles into Donna's shoulder. "But he gets it. He's smart, too."

Donna lifts a hand and strokes her fingers through Rachel's hair, seemingly unfazed by the proclamation. "Shh, Rach. Go to sleep."

"You," Rachel continues, lifting her head from Donna's shoulder, pointing a wavering finger at Samantha. "I like you. You're cool." Her finger swings over towards Donna, knocking an errant strand of hair into her face. "But I looove you."

Donna laughs softly, leaning her head against the window. "I know."

"No, like, really, really, love you. Love the hell outta you."

"Love you too, Rach."

Rachel slumps against her shoulder, breath expelling in a long, ragged sigh. Her eyes are closed again, and she's babbling something unintelligible, lips moving but no sound coming out.

Donna looks up, meeting Samantha's eyes in the rearview mirror. Samantha holds her gaze. She doesn't say anything. She just stares, her eyes searching Donna's face, looking for answers to questions she isn't sure how to ask. She reminds herself that they're colleagues and nothing more. That whatever mess is going on with Donna's life is none of her damn business. She hardly even knows the woman.

But her mind keeps going back to the bruises she'd seen along Donna's throat, the faded yellow-blue discolorations littering her pale, perfect skin. The ones she'd tried to cover up with makeup and her high-collared dress. The kind that someone has to grip you pretty damn hard to leave.

And though she knows it's technically not her concern, she cares too much to leave it alone. She needs to understand what's happening. She needs to know why, because if she's right, that means Donna is probably going to need her help. That this wedding postponement is Donna's not-so-subtle admission that things aren't okay with the senator, no matter how much she may try to convince herself, or the world, otherwise.

Donna seems to recognize what's behind Samantha's stare. For a moment she looks scared, like she's worried Samantha might call her out on it, but Sam just keeps looking. Calm, and steady, and curious. Without pressure. Without judgment. Just silent, knowing concern. And finally, Donna seems to realize it isn't meant as a challenge. Her expression softens, and she bites her bottom lip, nodding at Samantha once before turning her head back to the window and watching the buildings fly by outside.

They reach Rachel's apartment building first, and Samantha and Donna haul the young associate from the cab, Rachel groaning at the disturbance, insisting that she can walk.

"You can barely stand up straight," Samantha tells her. "But sure. Give it a shot."

Rachel manages three steps before falling over, taking Donna with her, both landing in a pile of tangled limbs. Samantha stands above them, watching. Rachel starts laughing first. And then Donna. And then they can't stop, and they're both on their backs on the pavement, their laughter filling the night, tears rolling down their cheeks as they cackle helplessly.

Samantha rolls her eyes and sighs, but she can't help her mouth quirking in amusement as she offers them her hands.

They make their way into Rachel's apartment, and it's the most ridiculous thing in the world. She's sure of it. Three women half carrying, half dragging each other up a set of stairs, Donna falling into a potted plant, Rachel crying, insisting on being left alone while Samantha demands her to go to bed. They eventually get to Rachel's room, and by some miracle, Rachel allows Donna to pull the heels off her feet, and Donna and Samantha drag the duvet over her limp form, both of them sharing a look as they back out of the apartment.

"What a mess," Donna says, but she's smiling, almost giddily, her hair tousled, her mascara smeared under her eyes, and it's the strangest thing. Samantha is pretty sure she's never seen Donna look anything less than flawless, but there's something so alluring about how carefree and happy she looks in this moment. And she doesn't understand it. But something in her chest clenches as she stares back at the woman.

"Rachel or...?"

"Us. The night. All of it." Donna lets out a long sigh and leans against the wall behind her, closing her eyes. "God, this feels so good. I needed this. More than I thought I did." She turns her head, smiling at Samantha. "Thank you."

"For dragging your drunk ass upstairs? Trust me, it wasn't a hardship."

"No," Donna shakes her head, still grinning, looking infuriatingly beautiful. "I mean, yes. But also for taking me out. For reminding me what life is supposed to feel like." Donna pushes away from the wall, walking backwards down the hall, facing Samantha. "Seriously, Sam. It's been..." She swallows, her brow wrinkling, eyes sad for a moment.

Samantha stares at her, watching the smile fade. This is what she does. She pretends she's okay, and then, out of nowhere, when she's smiling the widest, it hits her, and she comes crashing down. But it's brief and subtle. Like the movement of clouds. No more than a shadow that passes over her face, and then it's gone.

But it isn't gone. Not really.

"It's just been hard lately," she continues, swallowing again, seeming to force the smile back. "And I haven't really had...friends. In a while. So thank you. Again."

Something catches in Samantha's throat. Something like a protest, or a declaration, or maybe just an acknowledgment that Donna's words fill her with warmth and more than a little sadness for the woman in front of her. She does her best not to wince, not to give too much away, but she nods once. Gently. Shifting slightly in discomfort. "Sure."

Donna smiles, a touch knowingly, like she can hear all the things Samantha hasn't said, or maybe isn't even aware of. But before Sam can question it, or worse, respond, Donna's turning away from her, strolling nonchalantly down the hall and towards the elevator, her steps somewhat unsteady, heels dangling from her hand. Eventually, Samantha follows.

They reach the idling cab, and Donna is still smiling, still glowing, her eyes still twinkling as she slides into the backseat, and Samantha wonders if it's more than the alcohol and the release of being stressed out and working too much, wonders if whatever happened between Donna and Specter, if that's got something to do with it, too.

The drive to Donna's apartment passes quickly and silently. They're not sober by any means, but they're a little less sloppy, the effects of their evening out having gone from pure drunkenness to a bit of happy tiredness. And it's peaceful. Easy.

As the cab slows to a stop in front of the penthouse apartments, Donna stirs beside her.

"Want to come up?" she asks. "Have a nightcap?"

Neither of them needs another drink, but Samantha sees the invitation for what it is. A request not to be left alone just yet. And there's something genuine in Donna's eyes that tugs at her. A vulnerability she can't deny. And doesn't really want to. So she nods.

"If you insist."

"I do."

Samantha pays the driver and then follows Donna inside. The apartment is big, open, and modern. Wood floors. High ceilings. Clean, contemporary decor. Samantha follows Donna into the kitchen, taking in the space around her. It feels expensive, but impersonal. Unlived in. Donna tosses her heels aside. They land haphazardly against the wall near the breakfast bar. It's a strangely chaotic contrast to the rest of the space, which is immaculate. The gesture seems almost rebellious. A small act of defiance.

Donna moves to the fridge and pulls out two bottles of water, handing one to Samantha, who thanks her as she takes a long sip.

Samantha stares around the kitchen, unsure what to do with herself. At work, she understands everything. How people tick. Who they are. How they think. But here, in Donna's kitchen, this personal domain...she's out of her element. They aren't friends. They don't have the typical social dynamics or knowledge of how to act around one another in times of relaxation. It's unfamiliar territory for her, this personal small-talk stuff.

"So..." Samantha looks over at Donna. She's leaning against the counter, head tilted, assessing her cooly. "You and Specter?"

Donna's expression gives nothing away. "What about me and Harvey?"

Samantha shrugs, sensing Donna's wariness of the subject. "Nothing. Just making conversation."

Donna doesn't look like she believes her, but she nods anyway, turning her head to the side as she presses her mouth into a thin line. She doesn't say anything, but there's something a little regretful in her expression, a guilty sort of sadness.

Samantha takes another sip of water. She stares at Donna's bare feet, and the sight feels oddly intimate, and suddenly, she feels so stupid. What kind of question is that? The last thing she should be doing is questioning her about this. Harvey. What happened between them…she shouldn't have brought it up. Donna probably thinks Samantha is fishing for information on how to screw with her career or mess up her standing at the firm. That's what their relationship has always been about, after all: dragging the other down, knocking them off balance long enough to get ahead. And that's the dumbest damn thing she could have done, make Donna think this is some kind of attack on her.

"I'm sorry," Samantha blurts out, wincing internally. God, she can't even face this woman. "I didn't mean...I didn't come here to interrogate you or anything. I just...You looked happy. For a minute back there. At Rachel's place. And I guess..." She shakes her head. "You know what? Never mind. Forget I brought it up."

Donna's lips quirk slightly, but she doesn't quite smile. Instead, she pushes off the counter and comes to stand before Samantha.

"I believe you," she says, staring intently, giving Samantha a little nod, as if she senses that Samantha needs the affirmation. That hearing the words aloud might make her feel less stupid. Less insincere. "And I appreciate the gesture."

They stand there for a moment, just looking at each other, sizing each other up, maybe wondering where the other is coming from. If this is some kind of reverse psychology or mind game. Maybe that's the reputation they'll always have, of trying to screw each other over every time one of them steps out of line. Maybe it's too late to change it. Samantha doesn't know.

All she knows is that Donna is standing in front of her, and they're alone, in the quiet calm of her home, and her makeup is still smeared and she's still in her dress, and she looks beautiful and breathtaking and maybe even sad. It isn't anything concrete that Samantha can point to, or even define. But there's something so fragile in her eyes. Something that makes her want to know her. Makes her want to ask if she's okay. But before she gets the chance, Donna is turning around, gathering her hair to one side, exposing her bare neck and shoulders.

She turns her head, glancing back at Samantha. "Do you mind unzipping me?"

The question comes out soft, hesitant. Almost like she isn't sure she wants to ask it. It feels loaded with some kind of meaning Samantha doesn't quite understand, but she walks forward and reaches for the zipper, anyway. Her fingers trail over the ridge of Donna's spine, her knuckles brushing across warm, smooth skin, as she slowly draws it down her back. Donna holds perfectly still, her breathing shallow.

And then Samantha realizes what this is. What it's meant to be. Because midway down, the bruises start. A patchwork of flowering color, purple and dark green over red and gold hues; the traces of a life gone wrong, hidden in places no one can see. Her stomach churns with the sudden urge to scream and strangle someone all at the same time. Samantha doesn't like losing control. Not on the outside. So she remains silent, continuing her slow descent to the end of the zip. And, without moving back, she peels the dress off Donna's shoulders, drawing it down and off her. She helps Donna step out of the expensive fabric, then leaves it neatly folded over the back of a chair. She stares at her. Hard.

The marks are angry and unforgiving, but Donna holds her head high. They run up the length of her spine, marbling her lower back and the curves of her ass, linear like a belt or strap of some kind. There are marks that are old, faded yellow and brown. Some that are barely there, light stains on pale, freckled skin. But there are others that are new, fresh. Black and blue. There's no missing the handprints indenting her hips and ribs. Big palms. Wide spread fingers. Vicious.

Samantha swallows, and there's a hollow, throbbing pain behind her sternum, squeezing her heart.

"Donna," she breathes.

The name breaks the quiet, cracks the silence that hovers between them. Samantha isn't sure how to handle this, where to begin or what to say or if she should even say anything at all.

It's bad.

Dire.

Without realizing it, Samantha has reached out. Her fingers lightly sweep across Donna's lower back, touching a particularly vicious purplish bruise. Donna shudders, though she can't be hurting her. The contact is barely there. A ghost of a touch. But Donna inhales sharply. She tenses beneath the featherlight contact, then slowly relaxes into it. Accepting it. Maybe even craving it. A tenderness she's been denied for who knows how long.

"Thank you," Donna whispers, and then she's turning around and slipping past Samantha, disappearing down the hall, leaving Samantha alone, reeling, staring into the space she's just left, her brain going numb as she tries to comprehend what she's just seen.

Samantha stands there, heart pounding, eyes burning, fists clenching, for how long, she isn't sure. She feels sick, like she can't breathe, like her chest is too tight, like she might explode. How can someone do that? To a person they claim to love? To anyone?

She knows abuse, growing up in foster care gives you a direct window into humanity's most destructive, toxic, dysfunctional relationships. But somehow, Donna's unassailable beauty, her confident manner, how smart and assertive and strong she is, makes seeing her bruised and broken like this even more sickening. Weston Harding isn't just an asshole and abuser. He's a cockroach.

And god, Samantha wants to kill him.

No. That's not good enough. She wants to ruin him. Tear down everything he's built, his reputation, his career, his goddamn legacy. She wants to destroy him. And she has every intention of doing just that, she just needs a plan. But first she needs to get Donna the hell away from him.

Samantha pushes off the counter, stalking from the kitchen. She takes a breath, swallowing back the rush of emotion threatening to overwhelm her. Get it together. The last thing Donna needs is her falling apart.

Samantha walks through the apartment. She goes straight to Donna's bedroom. The room is big, open, and a little sparse, much like the rest of the apartment. She finds Donna sitting on the edge of the bed, one leg tucked under the other, her head bowed low, shoulders hunched. She isn't crying, but she looks as if she might, her breathing heavy and irregular. Samantha walks over to her, crouching down beside her.

"Look at me." Her voice sounds calm, but she's burning inside. "Just look at me. Okay?"

Slowly, Donna lifts her head and meets Samantha's eyes, and there's something tragic in her gaze, something broken and pained and hopeless.

Samantha swallows, taking a deep breath as she meets Donna's eye. "You know it's not too late, right? You can leave him."

"I can't."

"Yes, you can," Samantha insists. "You can leave. Now. Tonight. Pack a bag. Let me help you get the hell out of here."

"And then what? Where do I go? I have nothing. Everything is in Wes' name. The money, this apartment... My job is tied to him. Jessica will drop me before she ever burns Wes. I'd probably be blacklisted from every firm in New York. He'd completely ruin me – my reputation, my credibility, my character – and even then I'd still be too much of a vulnerability. I know too much about him. He'd never let me walk away."

There's a sort of desperation in the words. A finality. And it terrifies Samantha more than anything else Donna's said or done so far. She wants to shake the woman by her shoulders, make her see sense.

"Donna, you're not–"

"It's not just that either. I love him, Samantha."

"He hurts you," Samantha says, hating herself for speaking the truth aloud. "And you're telling me you love him?"

"You don't understand," she replies, shaking her head. Her tone has shifted, defensive and almost angry. "This isn't something I can just stop. I know it's fucked-up. I know I'm an idiot. God, I know that. But it's not–he's not always–it isn't always–"

Donna seems to struggle for a moment, searching for the right words. The ones that won't sound weak or deluded or self-indulgent. But she can't find them, and she settles on, "Please don't look at me that way. I didn't invite you up here to criticize me."

"No? Then why did you invite me up? Enlighten me."

"I don't know." She runs a hand through her hair, brushing back a loose strand that falls across her face. "Maybe I'm a glutton for punishment."

Her eyes slide away from Samantha. She stares at the floor, but she isn't really looking. She's somewhere else. Somewhere far away. And Samantha doesn't have the first clue how to bring her back from whatever dark place she's gone off to. Wherever it is, Donna's gone there before, and that thought makes Samantha ache in a way she can't explain or place.

"Listen to me," Samantha says, reaching over and taking hold of Donna's face, turning it so they're facing each other again. She runs the pad of her thumb over her cheekbone. "You don't have to commit to leaving him. You should, but if you're not ready, I won't judge you. But you do need to start disentangling yourself from him. Open up your own savings account, put a small percentage of your check into it each month. Something Wes won't notice. And as for the Jessica problem, there are two of us on the Pearson Wheeler Paulsen masthead, and only one of her..."

"The partners–"

"Follow the power. If you beat Specter and retain Wolcott, we're the majority."

Donna studies Samantha's face, those green-brown eyes swirling with so many things. Doubt. Guilt. Fear. And finally, hope. It's faint, almost imperceptible, but it's there, peeking out from beneath the turmoil, that will to survive, that determination to not let herself be destroyed, worn down, ground into the dirt. She takes a deep breath.

"You would betray Jessica for me?"

Samantha hesitates. Jessica has supported her rise at Pearson Wheeler Paulsen since her early days as an associate. She taught her, fought for her, empowered her to succeed when others wanted to fail her. She loves Jessica like the mother she never had. But if Jessica is a puppet to Weston Harding...

Samantha understands then what she has to do. It might not be as extreme as outright mutiny but Jessica would likely see it as treason. It is the ultimate betrayal, but she can't help how she feels. The only loyalty she will be honoring is the bond forged the moment she stepped into Donna's apartment and laid eyes on her bruises and battered skin.

Samantha nods. "Yes."

"Why?" Donna asks softly, eyes uncharacteristically wide and vulnerable, eyebrows lifted, lips parted.

She really is beautiful, Samantha thinks. Even with her makeup smeared and her hair an unkempt mess. Even covered in bruises and broken down. So damaged, and yet so whole. The answer should be simple. Because someone has to. Because no one deserves that kind of abuse. But the truth is, it's more complex than any of that. Because she feels something in her chest every time she looks at her. Because she admires how she can take a hit and pick herself up and keep moving forward. Because she recognizes the darkness she keeps locked inside. And maybe Samantha is selfish. Because it's for her own sake, too. Maybe she wants to pay that feeling in her chest forward. She shrugs.

"Guess I must be a glutton for punishment, too."

Donna lets out a short, nervous laugh.

"There's one more thing," Samantha continues. "Whatever's going on with your and Specter...it needs to end. You need to win this case if the partners are going to take you seriously, and –"

"I know," Donna interrupts, releasing a small sigh. "I know."

"Good." Samantha inhales deeply. She stands up, but before she can leave, Donna grabs hold of her wrist.

"Stay." Donna says, and it's like the floodgates of her composure have opened. Her expression crumbles, and her voice cracks, and she looks so desperate, so terrified, like she's utterly lost without her. Like she needs a friend, and not for just a night, or for this week or this month, or the next, but indefinitely. She needs someone. And Sam recognizes that look because it's one she's felt too many times herself. Her heart squeezes in her chest.

"Okay," Samantha breathes, and there is relief in Donna's eyes. A gratitude that gives her goosebumps. And before she knows it, she's climbing into bed beside her, and Donna's curled against her side, her head on Samantha's chest, and she feels so heavy and frail and real and warm against her, her tears wetting her neck. She's wracked with soft sobs and jagged gasps and shaking breaths. And then suddenly, she's asleep, but Samantha doesn't move, she just lies there in the dark, listening to the sound of Donna's breathing, thinking of all the ways she is going to ruin Weston Harding, until dawn begins to break in the distance.

III

She has blood on her scrubs. Not a lot, but it's there, smeared across the front of her chest like rust, stark against the blue cotton. A few dark flecks dot the white lab coat she wears over the top, which isn't unusual, at least not after riding a gurney in from the flight deck, a gunshot wound victim beneath her, compressing a wound she knew was a lost cause. The girl died within minutes, anyway, and Avery just kind of stepped away, went through the motions to get herself decontaminated. She's sure there's probably a body bag headed to the morgue with a teenager's name scrawled across the outside. More paperwork. More photos. One more life cut short.

Death doesn't usually bother her, but today, for whatever reason, it's hanging on. A black cloud. She gets to Harvey's apartment and lets herself in using the key he gave her after a year of dating. No, not dating. What they're doing isn't dating; she's not some starry-eyed romantic to delude herself into thinking it is. They have casual sex on the regular. Harvey is charming and attentive and generous in bed. That's what they have. And Avery gets it, doesn't mind. At the end of the day, she doesn't have the emotional capacity for anything more. She's also not a cuddler, prefers a good "thanks for the fuck" and "see ya around"to romantic candlelit dinners and over-share pillow talk.

But tonight, she would welcome something more substantial. Some company to take her mind off the girl, shot through the chest by her boyfriend and left to die in a parking lot. Someone to fuck the memories out, if not make them better, to distract her from the futility of it. Harvey isn't here, and that's fine, that's nothing new. She peels off her scrubs and lab coat, adding the pile to the laundry basket next to the washer and dryer. She could put them in now and be a decent human being, but they both enjoy their encounters better when she leaves clothes behind, and he ends up doing her laundry with his. It's efficient and intimate in the strangest of ways, and she likes it.

She opts to grab his navy-blue Harvard crewneck sweatshirt off the back of the couch. She tugs it over her head, and her first breath is the smell of his scent, something woodsy and clean. She inhales deeply and feels something in her settle. She pulls her long dark hair free of the neck hole.

Maybe she loves him a little bit. What does she know? Avery barely understands feelings beyond basic pleasure. Some days, her empathy feels threadbare at best. At worst, she hates people. Unless it's a bleeding heart she's been dropped into the back of an ambulance to save. She'd lay down her life for another person in a moment, but Avery doesn't really know how to deal with the petty bullshit of real life. She'd rather focus on the existential, large scale struggles of humanity. It's easier to look at a whole body and repair damage. It's much harder to reconcile the parts.

She hears him at the door, the jangle of keys, and then the dropping of keys. A muttered curse. More jangling. She sighs and stands from the couch, padding barefoot over to the door, and opens it. He looks up from the lock, shocked to see her standing there. He's drunk, or nearly. She takes in the glassy eyes, the waver in his stance, the frown that creases his forehead.

"Shit. Sorry, Av, I forgot you were here tonight. I meant to... text or..." He trails off and leans into the wall.

"What's wrong with you?" Her anger, her anxiety about her own shitty day spills out. She doesn't mean to be harsh, but it's where she's at.

"Nothing's wrong with me." He's short. "Get out of the way. I gotta..." He pushes away from the wall and nearly falls.

"Jesus, Harvey." She catches him before he hits the floor, barely keeping them both standing, he's so tall. And heavy. "How much did you drink?"

"Way, way too much."

"Come on."

Avery turns the dead bolt on his apartment and leads him to the bathroom, where she strips off his clothes and deposits him in the shower. He's barely responsive, head lolling on his shoulders. Avery's irritated with him, upset for him, worried for him, all at the same time. It's dizzying, the emotional cocktail running through her. She leaves him sitting on the floor of the shower while she gets him a glass of water, a banana, an aspirin. She places it all on the counter for him, runs her hand down his cheek to get his attention.

"Drink this. Eat this." She points at the water and the fruit. He nods. She kisses his temple. There's a smell on him, another woman. It's a slap in the face to her, and one he probably didn't intend.

Just his luck, though, that her dark little inner caveman is close to the surface today, and maybe it's because of the dead sixteen-year-old or her inability to deal with her own muddled feelings for Harvey. But she's jealous, and she's upset, and her ego has suffered a bruising she can't quite stomach.

"Who is she?" Avery tries her best to keep the jealousy out of her voice, with minimal success.

"Huh?" Harvey stares up at her, and she can see his vision trying to catch up to his brain.

"You smell like sex."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"She's..." Harvey blinks hard, head lolling to the side. He sits upright suddenly, steadying himself with a hand on the shower wall. "You don't get to be pissed at me."

"I'm not." She is. She reaches past him and turns on the shower, on full blast and ice cold. He lets out a shriek and tries to scramble away, but there's nowhere for him to go in the small, enclosed space.

"God, what the fuck?"

"Sorry. Just trying to sober you up."

He presses his forehead against the tiled wall. She's never seen him like this, not this kind of drunk. Not sloppy and sad. He's a man who takes pride in having his shit together and tonight he's a mess. She can barely stand to see him in this state, as much as she knows he's only human. He's fallen off the pedestal and she doesn't know if she should step in to help him build it back up or watch him stumble around, trying to find his equilibrium again. Maybe if she had saved that kid, she'd be able to think about taking care of someone else. The guilt is killing her and his vulnerability in the face of her dark mood is making it harder. Avery turns the knob to warm and rinses off his naked body, thinking, even like this, he's absolutely magnificent.

He turns his head so the water pours on his back, running down his body in little rivulets. "I didn't fuck her," he mutters.

"Then tell me what happened."

He doesn't respond, so she strips off his sweatshirt and throws it on the floor behind her, slides down her underwear, and climbs into the shower with him.

"Harvey," she says quietly, sitting down next to him.

He looks at her, pupils still dilated, the water starting to clear the haze in his eyes, but his face remains closed off, empty of his usual sly grins and little smiles. His dark brown eyes are dull, unseeing. A wounded thing. She knows the look well enough. She is that look.

"What happened?" she tries again, pulling her knees to her chest.

"Donna," he says. The senator's fiancée. She doesn't know what she expected. The name and the look on his face are a clear enough answer to her earlier question. He crossed his hard-drawn line, messing with a woman engaged to another man. He broke his rule, and did it with a woman who has the biggest consequence imaginable. The goddamn idiot.

Avery twists the hot water knob and lets steam fill the bathroom. She leans against the back wall, legs folded to the side. "Is it over?"

"Don't know. Probably."

"Her fault?"

"Who the fuck can say?"

"You."

"Why does it matter?"

The pain in his voice, the raw ache she sees in his eyes, makes her turn away, fixing her stare at the far corner of the tiled wall. "I guess it doesn't. Cheating is cheating. Doesn't matter who's to blame."

"Don't."

"Don't what? Be mad at you? My condolences to you and your cock, but Jesus, Harvey, I told you to be careful with this woman."

"No. You told me to get her out of my system. And I did. Tonight. Now I'm over it. Over her. The itch is scratched."

Avery rolls her eyes. "You sound like a crack addict. And don't lie to me. You're not over her. If that were the case, you wouldn't be nearly comatose on your bathroom floor."

Harvey's jaw flexes, eyes fixed on the wall in front of him. She's pushing him, she knows, maybe harder than she needs to, but stupidity and impulsiveness are two things she just can't abide, not with herself, not with those she loves. He was stupid, and she won't pretend otherwise.

"Avery."

"You should've walked away, Harvey. From whatever's going on with you two. But you didn't. You just buried your head in the sand, and you made some choices that, frankly, I think are indefensible."

"I know that, okay?" His voice gets louder, a flash of anger snapping through him. Good. Let him feel it.

"I shouldn't even be telling you this..." she continues.

He snorts, a wry smile making its way to his face. "Go ahead and tell me anyway. Tell me I'm a piece of shit. Tell me I'm fucking everything up. Tell me—"

"Stop being so dramatic. Calm down and dry yourself off so I can get you into bed."

She stands up, puts her hand out for him. He stares up at her, hesitating. Avery doesn't blame him; she'd hesitate too. "C'mon," she says softly.

She watches his face, the open mask of a man more lost than she's ever seen him. He takes her hand and gets to his feet. Avery shuts the water off and steps out, grabbing a towel for herself and then wrapping it around him. He lets her lead him to his bedroom, not bothering with any of the lights. The autumn moon shines in through his windows, bathing the entire room in pale blue. She sits him on the edge of the bed and kneels, drying his hair with the towel, running her fingers through it, until it's just a spikey wet mess. She tosses the towel to the side and tugs him to his feet again, peeling the blankets back. She helps him in, tucking him in like a child. It's an awkward, uncomfortable feeling, the vulnerability of needing someone else like this, something that can't be shared when the lights are on and both people are equals.

Harvey rolls onto his side, facing the windows. Avery stands next to the bed, unsure what the etiquette is for all of this. She runs her hand over the top of his head, trying to soothe him to sleep.

"Wanna know what the worst part is, Av? Besides all the legal implications or personal crap," Harvey mumbles.

"Sure."

"I don't regret it," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don't regret a goddamn minute of it, and that fucking scares me. Because I don't want to be this guy. This asshole who fucks other men's fiancées, but I just...god, I am."

Avery sits down on the edge of the bed, touching his shoulder. He exhales loudly and looks over at her. She can see the uncertainty and terror in his face. She's not good at this, this kindness, this tenderness, but she loves him – yes, she might as well admit it to herself – and he needs her, and she'll be damned if she fucks this up because she can't empathize well enough to take care of him.

"Listen." She chooses her words carefully, trying to ease the pain she can see carved into every inch of his face. "You're not that guy. Whatever it is you have with her. It isn't wrong or bad. If she's that important to you..."

"She's not," he says quickly. "I hate her."

Avery gives a small smile at his stubborn refusal to allow Donna to mean anything. Even like this, falling apart, he can't bring himself to acknowledge it. It breaks her heart a little more.

"Alright," Avery says. She runs her fingers through his hair, fixing the chaos she had created. He closes his eyes and breathes evenly, like he's a thousand miles away. "These things happen, Harvey. To all of us. Things spin out of control before we can catch up to what we know better in our hearts. The trick is to control the situation going forward."

He lets out a hollow laugh. "And how do I do that?"

"Stay away from her," she says quietly. "Whatever this was between you two, whatever it is, it's over. You can't afford the fallout. Neither of you."

"I know."

"Good."

She leans over him, pressing her lips against his. The scent of her, Donna, lingers on his skin, a reminder she doesn't need but has, nonetheless.

"I'm sorry." He whispers the words against her mouth.

"It's okay. I'm fine. We're fine."

He shakes his head. "No. I should've called. I'm a dick."

"Yes, you are," she says, smirking a little. She pulls back to look at him, a little shocked to see his eyes glassy, a sheen of tears threatening to spill over. They stare at each other for a moment, both a little lost in the moment, caught on the edge of something neither is willing to acknowledge.

She lies down next to him. "Sleep it off," she says. She's there, in case he wants her. In case he needs her. A placeholder for the woman who isn't here and isn't his.


A/N: I know this isn't the chapter everyone was looking forward to (that will be the next one). But I had to set some things in motion for where this is all headed. And before you all freak out, just because these two idiots know they need to stay away from each other, doesn't mean they're going to stay away from each other.

I wasn't going to comment on this, but I'll say it once here and won't touch it again. I know a few of you are frustrated and a bit impatient for how things are progressing on the Donna/Wes front. I'm just trying to make this realistic, even if it is fiction, and realistically domestic abuse victims have a hard time leaving the cycle of violence. The abuser, in this case, is also in a unique and powerful position. I know we'd all like to get to the Darvey happily-ever-after faster, but I'm not willing to cut corners on such a heavy topic to get there. But I will get there, and there will be lots of sexy and fluffy Darvey moments along the way. You just gotta trust me.

As always, if you're so inclined, comments and reviews mean the world to me. And I'm always interested to hear your thoughts. So much love to everyone for reading along and sticking with me. I'll shut up now. - Kelly