I
The courthouse is packed to capacity on the day of the first trial hearing. Everywhere Donna looks, there are people – a steady stream of spectators, media outlets, and legal professionals surging through the hallways. Reporters call out to her, shoving microphones in her face, a barrage of questions firing off in rapid succession as she pushes through the crowd. It's as if the entire legal world has converged on this one spot, hungry for a glimpse of the showdown between two heavyweights.
Paulsen versus Specter.
The stuff courtroom dramas are made of.
Donna presses forward, her eyes scanning the faces, searching for one in particular. And then she sees him – Harvey, standing off to the side, leaning against the wall, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips as their eyes meet. He looks handsome and self-assured, his tailored black suit fitting him perfectly, accentuating his broad shoulders and trim waist. He pushes off the wall and makes his way toward her, parting the crowd with his confident strides.
They meet in the center of the room, and his eyes roam over her, his gaze full of want and amusement, no doubt relishing how put together she is – dressed in a bespoke, emerald-hued Chanel pants suit and Louboutins, her appearance is meant to convey an image of power and poise, but when his gaze meets hers, Donna's insides feel like they've been liquified by those damn, lustful eyes of his – and then he smirks, god that smirk, and her whole body sings and swoons and yearns and aches.
"You ready?"
She can tell by the look on his face that he already knows the answer. Yes – more than ready. Hungry. Thrilled, actually, for this day to come.
"Can't wait. Kicking your ass is going to be the highlight of my year."
His smile grows wider. He's hungry for it too, apparently, and maybe some other things. And god, if he keeps looking at her like that, she's not going to last a single hour. A full day? Impossible.
"I love it when you trash talk me."
Her brow cocks, her smile turning coy. "Trash talking implies the words won't hold weight in court. Mine will."
He laughs softly, his gaze dropping to her mouth for a split-second, his jaw flexing. It sends a shiver through her. "We'll see about that."
Camera's flash and click around them, dozens of lenses pointed their way. Donna imagines how they must look, Harvey and her, in the center of a crowd of legal spectators, locked in a quiet exchange of whispers, eyes roaming and searching, lips quirked and curving into secret smiles. It doesn't matter that they aren't touching. It doesn't matter that they haven't said anything of note. They are still, in their own way, on display.
"Can we...?" she starts, gesturing toward a less populated hallway. He nods and they slip through the throng, making their way down a long, empty corridor and into a secluded alcove at the end of the hall. She glances around, making sure they're alone, before turning to face him.
She's not sure what to say, or where to start, so she says nothing. Instead, she reaches for him, toward an errant strand of hair that's sticking out. He ducks his head, eyeing her suspiciously, and she quirks a brow.
After a beat, he relaxes, leaning forward slightly, and she reaches up, gently smoothing the strand back into place. His breath comes out in a soft whoosh, his eyes fluttering shut, and she feels his hand on her waist, warm and steady, pulling her closer.
She shouldn't be doing this, she knows. Not here, and probably not anywhere, at least not while she's still engaged to Wes. They're getting careless – too many stolen moments in places they shouldn't be stealing. But she can't seem to help herself. Maybe that says something terrible about her character or maybe something hopeful, she doesn't know which and she's not interested in finding the answers, not right now.
She leans up, her lips brushing the shell of his ear. "I missed you," she whispers, the words slipping out before she can stop them.
He exhales a low, ragged groan, his hand tightening on her waist. "Donna..."
"I know," she says, her cheeks heating with embarrassment. It's too soon. Too much. They're barely even a thing.
But it's true.
She has missed him. They haven't seen each other or spoken properly since her freak-out over her apartment woes a week and a half ago. It's been a torturous ten days of waiting. Ten days without a glimpse of him, without the sound of his voice or his comforting touch. Without the promise that something more is coming. That despite her crazy, fearful heart constantly telling her what a mess she is, he will continue to want her, regardless.
"Don't be too nice to me," he says, his voice low, his breath hot on her skin. "It won't be good for your case."
She smiles, nuzzling in closer, the familiar scent of him filling her nose. "I don't need to worry about that."
"Really?"
"Mmm. I'm pretty sure I can take you."
He snorts, and she feels him shaking his head, his lips curling up into a grin. "So goddamn cocky."
She pulls back to look at him, her hand resting on his chest, his heartbeat thudding beneath her fingertips.
"You like it."
"Yeah." His gaze drops to her mouth. "I do."
She smirks, feeling victorious, but then his head is tilting, and his lips are parting, his nose bumping hers, and oh god, he's going to kiss her, right here, in this courthouse, with the whole world just outside the walls of their private, sequestered corner.
She doesn't stop him, or pull away, or remind him of all the reasons why they shouldn't. She just closes her eyes, and leans in, and lets it happen.
His lips are soft and warm, and the kiss is gentle and unhurried. There's no rush of urgency or passion. Just the slow, languid slide of his tongue against hers, the feel of his fingers splayed on her hips. It's sweet, and intimate, and perfect.
It's also brief.
The sound of approaching footsteps breaks them apart, Donna taking a step back, Harvey running his fingers through his hair. They're both flushed, and breathless, and grinning like idiots.
"We should..." Donna starts, gesturing vaguely toward the sound of chattering people.
"Yeah," he nods, "we should."
He takes a deep breath, and she wonders what he's thinking. If he's thinking the same thing she is, that maybe the other should reconsider, or better yet, listen to common goddamn sense and just walk away. But they're each rooted in place, waiting for the other to speak, or move, or make some decision that will save the other's life. Because there is nowhere for this to go but south, right? No good, or happy, or neat endings to their story?
Because Wes is still a problem. A very real and pressing one. She's still avoiding him – or would be if he was even trying to contact her. Which he isn't. Which is worrying – his radio silence. She can feel the dread rising, can hear the warning bells blaring in the back of her skull – it's too good to be true. Good, right? If Wes isn't calling, isn't begging and pleading for a second – third? – fourth? – chance, he must not care. That makes Donna's decision easier, doesn't it?
So what's bothering her so much?
Nothing.
Everything.
The fact that a too-large piece of her heart – the fraction that's been beaten down, stomped and bruised to a point where it's hardly functional – wishes Wes did want to reconcile with her – or even make her work a bit more to earn her freedom. Was there ever love? Why does the thought of moving on with such a cold ending leave her heartbroken?
She has to stop. It's just a broken fragment of her brain. Trauma response.
Stockholm syndrome.
He's a habit. Even now, her body is conditioned to respond in certain ways. The tension she carries at the sight of his name. The anxiety in the back of her mind wondering when she'll have her world shaken up and rearranged. He's a ghost. His presence is constant – it never leaves. His power over her, their bond, it runs too deeply in her psyche.
She doesn't know what that will mean when she ends it. What it will take out of her, to separate that tangled piece of him that's rooted inside her, to leave behind all they've built over the years, the good memories that will be tainted with a new lens, and to accept the person that she will be when that part of her identity is ripped away.
"Donna..." Harvey starts, breaking through her chaotic musings. His hand is gentle against her jaw. "Where are you?"
Her smile is unsteady as she blinks, meeting his gaze.
"Nowhere."
"Don't lie." It is not a demand, nor an accusation. His voice is too light, his fingers too gentle. And there's worry behind his expression. Genuine concern. Like he doesn't want to pry and take her somewhere uncomfortable, yet he still cares too much to ignore the turmoil in her mind.
He knows it's Wes.
"Has he..."
"No." She is sure of this answer. She can see Harvey is relieved and feels the need to reassure him. "He's still giving me a lot of space." Too much. So much that she feels sick thinking about it. What it could be leading towards. "He hasn't tried anything. No calls. I think he must know that we're finished..."
But is it that simple? And will it last?
"Okay. But, if he tries anything –"
"I will let you know." Donna's fingers curl around the knot of his tie as she speaks, tugging the length of it until her hand presses against the solidity of his chest. "Promise."
His lips purse at her reply, not quite skeptical but certainly questioning her honesty as she steps back and he lets his hand fall. Donna aches at the absence of his touch. It feels too brief – and the distance between them has already grown, and god, they are doomed to repeat this dance, again and again, pulling away, always at the point that something good is in their reach, as though their bodies know and have internalized their own destruction, and the pain that will come at each other's hands.
The crowd draws nearer, voices rising as they get closer, and Harvey straightens his tie and gives her a nod before slipping into the corridor beyond. Donna waits a beat before following a step behind.
"So," he says after a long moment, glancing back at her, "how's your opening statement?"
"Strong. If juror number four doesn't burst into tears by the end of it, I'll be shocked."
"I knew I shouldn't have let you have Four."
"I gave you Eight. The way she was looking at your ass during selection, it should've been a fair trade."
His mouth curves into a smug grin. "Don't be jealous. It's unbecoming."
"She does have great skin for seventy-two."
"I'll make a note in my calendar to call her when you get tired of me."
She laughs, a soft, breathy chuckle. It's an absurd idea, her growing tired of him. It's not in the realm of possibility. Not for her. She thinks she could go her whole life, every day of her existence, and never tire of him. Of this.
They turn a corner, the sound of the crowd growing louder. "What about your opening?" she asks.
"Riveting. I'll probably bring down the house. But I'll be sure to keep it in check so I don't embarrass you too much."
She snorts, rolling her eyes as his smile broadens and he moves forward, a swagger in his step. He pauses when the throng of people comes into view and he's looking at her again. "The apartment..." He hesitates. "Did they...? Have you...?"
"I got the keys last week." The relief is evident in his posture. And in his gaze – that softening that speaks to something more tender than the usual cockiness she finds behind those rich, brown eyes. "I've been sleeping on a blow-up mattress in my giant empty bedroom like some kind of deranged teenager, drinking cheap wine, dancing around, watching the moon rise over Manhattan from my balcony..." she laughs at the absurdity of her own behavior "...feeling very fancy."
Harvey's smile in return is blinding. It lights up his entire face in that familiar way of his, that boyishly exuberant way – that makes him seem much younger – and her heart constricts at the thought that she might never get used to it, that it might have the power to disarm and devastate her every time she's lucky enough to bear witness.
"That's...good."
He looks like he wants to say more, to push further, to probe, and she wonders what he's thinking, if he's imagining what it might be like to visit her, to dance with her, to share wine and a bed, if he's daring to venture into the possibility of something more.
But there isn't time. The courtroom doors open, and the noise of the crowd spills out into the corridor. Harvey's attention is drawn away from her, his expression turning serious, his jaw clenching. She watches him retreat into himself, his walls going up as he prepares for battle. She does the same, steeling herself for what's to come.
"Well..." she starts, taking a deep, steadying breath. "I'll see you in there, I guess."
She turns to walk away, but he catches her arm, stopping her. "I don't have an opening."
"What?" She frowns, confused. "What do you mean?"
"I'm going to wing it, and I need you to go first."
She stares at him for a long moment, her eyes wide, her lips parted in shock. "You...what...are you insane?"
He shrugs. "Probably. But we both know the courtroom is where you excel, and you have the better argument, and the better...well...everything. So, I need to shake things up. Do something unorthodox."
She's still staring at him, trying to process his words. Trying to comprehend the madness of it all. "Fine," she says, finally. "I'll go first if the judge will allow it. But Harvey, this is..." She trails off, shaking her head, her lips curving into a smile. She can't help it. It's just so reckless, and stupid, and Harvey. And it's going to be a disaster. But she'll be lying if she says it isn't just a little thrilling.
He smiles back, a cocky, self-assured grin. "Yeah," he says. "I know."
He opens the door, and she follows him inside. The courtroom is packed, the gallery filled with people, the jury box full.
Harvey walks ahead, making his way to the front of the courtroom, while she hangs back, taking in the scene, marveling at the magnitude of the moment. This is it – the culmination of months of preparation, weeks of intense work, days spent trawling through records and scrutinizing every detail, weighing each decision. All the sweat and the tears, the late nights and early mornings, the carefully worded notes, the relentless perfectionism – it has all led up to this.
Donna takes a seat next to Samantha, who is already settled in at counsel's table, her laptop open, her head bent in concentration as she reviews the files and evidence in preparation. George Wolcott is on Samantha's other side, his face a stoic mask, his hands folded in his lap, his posture stiff and formal. He cast Donna a sideways glance, glaring, before turning his attention back to the front of the courtroom. Donna doesn't take it personally; the man's whole life is on the line. He's stressed. He's terrified. He's...
Actually, he's just an asshole. A guilty asshole, who should be kissing her feet for getting him this far, instead of giving her the side-eye like a petulant child. She's the one who's done all the heavy lifting, and all he's done is sit there, looking smug, and acting like he's untouchable. The fact that she got Reed's testimony thrown out is a miracle and that alone should be earning her his goddamn respect. But no. She's still just the woman he's forced to work with. The woman who has to prove her worth over and over again, to him and every other entitled prick out there who assumes she's just a pretty face.
She doesn't need his approval, or his gratitude, or even his acknowledgment. But she does need him to keep his cool, to keep his mouth shut, and to let her and Samantha do their jobs. So she leans over to him, whispers, "George," and she sees his jaw clench. Good. Let him be annoyed. "The jury is watching. I know you've sat through more legal proceedings than most people see in five lifetimes, but here in court, we can't lose them in the first inning because you can't muster a shred of humanity." She shoots him a pointed look. "And maybe try to look like you trust me. Just a little."
Donna isn't surprised when Wolcott turns and meets her gaze head-on, a hard, cold glint in his eye, but he's silent and his shoulders ease back slightly. She turns away from him, back to the front of the courtroom, where the judge is taking the bench.
"All rise," the bailiff calls, and the courtroom stands, a collective rustling of clothes and shuffling of feet. "The court is now in session, the Honorable Judge Kramer presiding."
"You may be seated," the judge says, looking out over the sea of people. He's a large man, with a shock of white hair and a neatly trimmed beard, his eyes sharp behind a pair of thick-framed glasses. He runs through the formalities, the introductions, the housekeeping. The case is called, the charges read. And when the judge asks for opening statements, Harvey makes the request for Donna to present first. The gallery erupts in murmurs, the judge's eyes narrowing in suspicion. He looks to Donna for confirmation, and she simply shrugs.
"Obviously, Mr. Specter is ill-prepared, Your Honor," Donna says, a hint of humor in her voice. "I'd hate to waste this court's time by waiting for him to get his act together. So, if it's all the same to you, I can proceed and allow Mr. Specter the extra time he apparently needs to pull himself together."
A chuckle runs through the courtroom, and the judge tries his best to remain stoic, but his lips tug up slightly at the corners. Harvey rolls his eyes from his spot at the prosecutor's table, shaking his head slightly in amusement.
"Very well, Miss Paulsen," the judge says, granting Donna permission.
As Donna stands and moves toward the center of the room, a hush falls over the courtroom, everyone straining to catch a glimpse of her, their eyes wide and expectant. They want her to dazzle. To entertain and amuse and amaze.
She won't disappoint.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," Donna starts, her voice warm, a smile gracing her lips. "Imagine, for a moment, that you're looking up at the night sky. What do you see? Stars, perhaps. The moon. But there's something else up there, isn't there? Something that connects us all, that makes our modern world possible. Satellites.
"These marvels of human ingenuity orbit our planet silently, invisibly, facilitating the very fabric of our interconnected lives. Your cell phones, your GPS, the weather forecast you checked this morning – all made possible by the technology floating miles above our heads.
"Now, imagine the people behind these wonders. The dreamers, the innovators, the men and women who dare to reach beyond the confines of our atmosphere and push the boundaries of what's possible. That's who Wolcott Aerospace is. That's who we're here to defend today.
"The prosecution would have you believe that Wolcott Aerospace is nothing more than a faceless corporation, driven by greed, willing to defraud the government – and by extension, you, the American people – out of millions of dollars. They'll paint a picture of corporate malfeasance so egregious, so calculated, that it would make your blood boil.
"It's a compelling story. It's dramatic. It's infuriating.
"There's just one problem.
"It isn't true."
Donna pauses, letting her words hang in the air. She scans the jurors' faces, watching as her message lands, as the seed of doubt is planted. She knows she has them, knows she's captured their attention. Now, she has to keep it. She continues, pacing slowly before them, her words flowing easily, confidently.
"What the prosecution won't tell you is the real story of Wolcott Aerospace. They won't tell you about the thousands of employees who pour their hearts and souls into their work every single day. They won't tell you about the countless technological advancements that have improved lives across the globe. And they certainly won't tell you about the inherent risks and challenges of pioneering cutting-edge aerospace technology.
"Because progress is not a straight line. Innovation is not a guarantee. For every successful launch, for every breakthrough, there are failures. There are setbacks. There are projects that don't pan out as hoped. This isn't fraud. This is the reality of pushing the boundaries of human achievement.
"The prosecution will present you with numbers. Cold, hard figures that, when taken out of context, paint a damning picture. They'll bring forth witnesses who will spin tales of corporate conspiracy and intentional deception.
"You'll hear about the "Prometheus Project" – a satellite initiative that, yes, ultimately failed to achieve its lofty goals. The prosecution will claim this project was nothing more than a cash grab, a way to bilk the government out of millions. But what they won't tell you is the story of the hundreds of engineers who worked tirelessly on this project, the technological advancements it spurred despite its ultimate failure, and the invaluable lessons learned that paved the way for future successes.
"Over the course of this trial, we will show you that Wolcott Aerospace acted not with malice or greed, but with the audacity to dream big, to reach for the stars – quite literally. We will demonstrate that the company's actions were not those of a criminal enterprise, but of a pioneering force in aerospace technology, navigating the turbulent waters of progress.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this case is about more than just one company. It's about our collective future. It's about our ability as a society to take risks, to push boundaries, to strive for greatness even in the face of potential failure.
"The prosecution wants you to see fraud where there is only ambition. They want you to see deceit where there is only the messy, complex reality of technological innovation.
"But I have faith in you. I believe that you will see through the prosecution's simplistic narrative. I trust that you will recognize the importance of companies like Wolcott Aerospace in driving our society forward.
"Because when you look up at that night sky, I want you to see more than just stars. I want you to see possibility. I want you to see the future. And I want you to know that Wolcott Aerospace, despite the challenges, despite the setbacks, despite the allegations we face today, is working tirelessly to bring that future to life.
"Thank you."
A hush settles over the courtroom, her words lingering like the soft, solemn notes at the end of a poignant melody. Juror four dabs at her eyes subtly, moved. Donna can sense it in each and every person present – the shift from skepticism to thoughtfulness, to a genuine consideration of the weight of the words that she's laid out before them.
She casts a brief, sidelong glance in Harvey's direction, curious about his reaction. He is leaning back in his chair, his head tilted to the side, considering her with a mix of admiration, amusement, and challenge. His eyes, though—dark and gleaming, the light dancing in the depths—hint at something more. They bore into hers, and suddenly, she's back there – there – the snow falling all around them on that sidewalk in Montana. His heart in his damn eyes.
She turns away before she can fully succumb, breaking his gaze.
The silence stretches on until finally Judge Kramer speaks.
"Thank you, Miss Paulsen. I will give Mr. Specter a chance to make his own statement, assuming he has one prepared now."
Harvey stands, making his way to the front of the courtroom. As he passes by, their hands briefly find each other's—a light, reassuring brush of fingertips that's there and gone so quickly, she'd almost think she'd imagined it, if it weren't for the subtle smirk that dances across his features as he strides forward.
Harvey takes his position in front of the jury, hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks as he regards the twelve individuals who will decide the fate of Wolcott Aerospace.
"Well," he starts, his voice easy and casual, his demeanor relaxed. "Let me be the first to admit that the argument Miss Paulsen put forward is...dramatic, romantic, and most of all..." He turns his head and meets her eyes, holding them for a beat before continuing. "...very, very pretty."
Donna snorts out loud. She can feel the jury's gaze snap to hers in surprise and delight at her reaction to him, at the obvious rapport between two attorneys who are on the opposite sides of this trial. The judge even looks a little bemused.
"I mean, she had us all dreaming about a better world. About progress. About innovation. We're a little bit in love, aren't we, with this woman and her narrative?" There is a tittering of laughter and a few nods from the jury. A murmur that travels throughout the courtroom like a wave.
"I'm not here to be pretty. I won't distract you with a smoke show of fancy metaphors and grandiose claims. 'Reach for the stars'?" He shakes his head and lets his lips curl, just the corners. Like he's trying desperately not to laugh in court at his opponent's antics. "What is this? A Hallmark card? The defense would have you believe that's what this case is about – romantic notions and noble dreams, the relentless pursuit of a better tomorrow.
"It's a beautiful story. Inspiring, even.
"But let me tell you what this case is really about.
"This case is about lies. It's about greed. It's about a multi-billion dollar corporation that looked you – the hardworking American taxpayer – straight in the eye and picked your pocket.
"Wolcott Aerospace isn't reaching for the stars. They're reaching into your wallets."
There are rumbles from the audience at that remark, and Wolcott's face flushes. Donna shoots him a look, warning him not to react.
The jurors lean in, their eyes narrowing slightly as Harvey continues, his words cutting through the fog of sentiment that Donna's speech had left.
"Over the next few weeks, we're going to take you on a journey. Not to the stars, but deep into the ugly underbelly of corporate fraud. We're going to show you, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that Wolcott Aerospace systematically defrauded the government – and by extension, you – out of millions upon millions of dollars.
"You're going to hear a lot about something called "The Prometheus Project." The defense will try to paint it as a noble failure, a risk that didn't pay off but pushed the boundaries of what's possible. They'll tell you that's just the price of innovation.
"What they won't tell you is that Wolcott knew – they knew – from the very beginning that Prometheus was doomed to fail. They pursued it anyway. Why? Because as long as that money kept flowing in, as long as they could keep billing the government for a project they knew would never succeed, their executives could keep lining their pockets.
"This isn't speculation. This isn't conjecture. We have the evidence. We have the paper trail. And most importantly, we have the testimony.
"Ladies and gentlemen, make no mistake. This case isn't about stifling innovation. It's not about punishing failure. It's about holding those in power accountable. It's about saying enough is enough.
"Because if we let Wolcott Aerospace get away with this, what's next? Where does it end? How many more companies will decide that the law doesn't apply to them, that they can treat your tax dollars like their personal piggy bank?
"The defense will appeal to your sense of wonder, to your belief in progress and possibility. But I appeal to your sense of justice. To your belief in right and wrong. To the fundamental idea that no one – no matter how wealthy, no matter how powerful – is above the law.
"Wolcott Aerospace broke that law. They broke your trust. They took your money and squandered it on projects they knew would fail, all to keep their gravy train running.
"Today, we start holding them accountable. Today, we say no more. Today, we bring Wolcott Aerospace back down to earth."
As she watches him speak, a strange mix of emotions swirl through Donna: awe at the sheer mastery of his craft – at how effortlessly he's dismantled her argument; amusement at his blatant mockery of her grandeur – of her flair and the romance of her language; a tinge of resentment at being made to appear the villain in the eyes of the jury.
And most of all, pure adrenalin. Her entire being is vibrating with energy and focus, and a kind of exhilaration and terror at knowing that she's finally doing this - she's here, in court, facing down the man she knows to be the best.
And god is she grateful to have him on her opposing side. Because, she's certain now, he's going to bring out the absolute best version of her.
This is the challenge that she's been waiting for. The moment where everything she's learned and practiced and studied coalesces into a single, defining instant. They will battle for control of the story, for every syllable of language, every thought they can mold, shape, and embed in the mind of their jury. It's the most exquisite game of power and domination and, on occasion, seduction that two minds can play.
And she's playing it. With him. On this, the grandest of stages.
As Harvey concludes his speech, the jury sits up a bit straighter, their gazes more critical. The spell she'd weaved is shattered. In its place is a rational skepticism. A distrust. A readiness to see the evidence, to hear the testimony. A readiness, perhaps, to condemn.
But as Donna looks at Harvey – her mind already whirling with strategies and counter-arguments – there is a smile on her lips. It's a smile born from a deep well of respect.
Harvey takes his seat, and their eyes lock. There's a moment of understanding, a silent communication that passes between them. No more playing nice. The gloves are off, and from now on, it's a bare-knuckle fight to the finish.
She inclines her head slightly, an almost imperceptible nod of respect. He returns the gesture, his eyes glinting with the challenge. It's not animosity. It's not dislike. It's the ultimate recognition – of equals, of peers.
Of those who have finally found their match.
II
"Wow, that was..." Mike trails off, shaking his head in admiration as the courtroom begins to clear. "I was worried the two of you would hold back because of your..." he gestures vaguely, "thing. But that was a bloodbath. I thought the judge was going to have to pause proceedings just to mop up the carnage."
Harvey ignores him, his focus fixed on the defense table where Donna is collecting her files and notes, Samantha and Wolcott in deep conversation beside her. She looks up, as if sensing his gaze, their eyes meeting for a moment across the courtroom. She gives a small nod, acknowledging him, and he can't help the smile that creeps onto his lips.
"The way she tore apart the Berkman documents...I mean, Jesus," Mike continues, his enthusiasm unabated. "And the way you twisted the meaning of those emails...it's like the two of you were on fire, throwing gasoline at each other."
"Is there a point to this rambling or are you just admiring our technique?" Harvey finally breaks his gaze away from Donna to glance at Mike, his expression a mixture of mild annoyance and smug satisfaction.
"Just saying, it was...intense. But also, brilliant. Both of you. And..."
"And?" Harvey prompts
"And I'm sorry. For what I said the other day. About how you should recluse yourself because of..." He clears his throat, his voice taking on a slightly strained quality, "...your feelings. It's obvious you can handle yourself."
Harvey raises an eyebrow, surprised by the apology. He's still annoyed with Mike for the way he questioned his integrity, but seeing him eat his own words is satisfying. And Mike's right – he is handling it. Whatever feelings he might have, whatever tension there might be, he won't let it distract him. He's here for one reason and one reason alone – to do his goddamn job. And he intends to do it well. Even if that means tearing down his...
He stops, the label he's searching for elusive. What is Donna to him? They aren't dating – Jesus, that would be an utter shitshow considering the circumstances. 'Friends with Benefits' doesn't cut it, doesn't capture the depth of what they've shared. But the term 'lovers,' so often steeped in romantic sentiment, falls flat. There's no other way to describe it, really. They just are what they are.
An ache flutters in Harvey's chest at the thought of that obscure, uncertain thing between them. The absence of definition allows hope to flourish, however foolish and misguided.
"You should be sorry," he tells Mike, and stands from the prosecution's chair. "You can make it up to me by reviewing all our statements and checking if Donna's already started a motion to disallow that last witness. It's bullshit and we need to get ahead of it if we can."
The courtroom is almost empty now, the gallery cleared, the bailiffs waiting patiently for the lawyers to leave. He glances over at Donna again, unable to stop himself. Her head is bowed as she reads from her papers, her hair falling forward like a curtain of red-gold, shielding her face.
"I'll go get started," Mike says after a few moments, his voice hesitant, as if he's not sure whether to break the silence. "You want to meet back at the office?"
"Fine," Harvey responds, barely hearing him.
Mike lingers for a moment, watching Harvey with a look that's half curiosity, half concern. Then he shakes his head and leaves the courtroom, leaving Harvey alone in the echoing chamber, with nothing but the soft sound of Donna's pen on paper to break the silence.
He finishes gathering his materials and closes his briefcase, snapping the locks shut. Then he hesitates, his gaze flicking once more to the woman at the other end of the room.
Don't, his mind whispers. Just leave. Get some air.
But he's moving towards her before he can fully convince himself to do the wise, smart, safe thing. Of course he is. Why does his mind even bother with that internal monologue?
"So," he says, approaching her table, his tone conversational. "This blow-up mattress in your fancy new apartment..."
Her pen halts on the page and she looks up, her eyes meeting his, an eyebrow lifted at his words.
"I'm assuming it's big enough for two?"
The question hangs in the air for a moment before her lips part in a wide, mischievous grin, the kind that he knows means trouble. She sets down her pen and leans back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other.
"You're not even going to offer to buy me dinner first?" she asks, her tone teasing, a playful glint in her eye. "How scandalous of you, Mr. Specter. What would the jury think if they heard you talking to opposing counsel like this?"
"I think they'd applaud the effort to bridge the divide, Miss Paulsen. I am all about unity, after all."
The grin widens. "And here I was, thinking that you were all about me."
He can't help but match her smile with one of his own, feeling the tug of attraction, the pull of something more profound beneath the surface of their banter.
"Well, that too," he admits, leaning down, bracing his hands on her desk. "But seriously, I'm free tonight if you are."
Donna hums thoughtfully. "Well. I do have a fish tank I've been meaning to fill. You could help with that, I suppose. If you don't mind getting your hands wet."
Her emphasis on the word "wet" is not lost on him, nor is the suggestive smile that accompanies it. He fights the urge to glance around, to make sure no one is eavesdropping, but then decides he doesn't care. Let them watch, let them speculate.
"Just my hands?" he counters, his voice low. "Seems a shame, given all the snorkeling practice I've had, not to fully immerse myself."
A blush spreads across her cheeks and the tip of her tongue flicks out, wetting the seam of her smile, before disappearing, and oh how he wants to lean in, catch it with his own, draw a gasp from those lips. He swallows, hard, and Donna's eyes track the movement, and linger on the stretch of skin above his collar, her teeth sinking into the fullness of her bottom lip and fuck, if that isn't making it hard to keep this appropriate and in line.
She stands, her posture mimicking his own, and leans toward him, the tips of their noses almost brushing.
"You know," she starts, her voice soft, barely more than a whisper, and there are flecks of gold in her irises, her gaze drawing him in, and his heart thrashes and skips and thuds, his breath caught somewhere between lungs and throat. "...as much as I loathe to admit it. I think I might be a Harvey Specter fan. You really are the best at what you do."
For a second, the words don't sink in. They bounce against the wall of his mind. But then his brain seems to shake off its stunned silence and he draws back, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looks at her, unsure if this is part of her banter or a genuine shift in conversation.
"Really?"
"Yes," she insists, her eyes boring into his, earnest and unyielding. "You're going to make a great DA, Harvey."
He huffs a laugh, part amusement and part disbelief, at the thought of her believing in him so completely, despite everything. There are few people in this world whose opinions matter to Harvey, and somehow, this woman before him, infuriating and brilliant, has earned a place among that number.
She smiles back and reaches out to adjust his already impeccably arranged tie, letting her fingers rest briefly on his lapel, the gesture affectionate and professional at the same time, as if knowing that's the most they can get away with in public.
"I'll text you later and we can talk logistics," she murmurs, stepping back. And with one last, long look at him, Donna picks up her files and walks away.
III
Mike arrives back at the DA's office, his head still spinning from what he witnessed in the courtroom. The brutal eloquence of both attorneys' arguments, the way they'd twisted facts and turned narratives on their heads, it was almost like watching a choreographed dance of intellect and aggression. Even the judge, normally as stoic and impassive as a statue, had sat up straighter in his chair, eyes following every twist and feint with interest.
As he moves further down the hallway, his thoughts continue to race. He's been worried, more than a little, about Harvey's state of mind ever since the revelation about his and Donna's...whatever it is. It had seemed insane that he'd risk everything for a crush, but today in the courtroom?
It hadn't looked like insanity at all. It made an awful lot of sense. Watching Donna in action – the fierce, sharp intelligence paired with that mesmerizing stage presence, the subtle but unmistakable sparks flying between her and Harvey as they traded verbal jabs – well, if he had any lingering doubts before about their relationship being a liability to their case, they'd been pretty thoroughly dispelled.
Still lost in thought, it takes Mike a moment to notice the group of secretaries hovering at Cameron Dennis' office door, chattering and whispering like schoolgirls at a slumber party. When he catches sight of what's caught their interest, his steps falter.
Senator Weston Harding.
Mike has only seen him from afar. On billboards and TV and a dozen or more campaign flyers. But he's here – right in front of him – in all his polished, well-dressed glory.
He's standing in front of Cameron's desk, dressed in a dark suit, the fabric rich-looking, and expensive, cut to fit the shape and breadth of his frame with a flattering precision. Even from here, the man oozes charisma and a sense of power.
Cameron leans back in his desk chair, his fingers drumming on the arms, a rhythmic, almost agitated pattern. Mike lingers by the door and strains, trying to listen in, his curiosity getting the better of his discretion, but the glass partition is thick and their voices low, making it impossible.
Weston laughs, the sound deep and resonant. A politician's laugh, designed to disarm. It seems to have little effect on Cameron; his jaw remains tight, and the tapping of his fingertips increases, his impatience showing.
Mike has always admired his boss' restraint when faced with difficult or frustrating circumstances, but the man sitting in the chair does not possess it in the same measure. In contrast, Harding's posture is languid and easy. His hands rest casually in the pockets of his suit trousers and his head cocks slightly in that way of men who have never been challenged, or taught, to doubt themselves. It's a stance that radiates a confidence that borders arrogance, and a calmness that, given the tension in Cameron, feels like a form of provocation.
But it's the man's smile that is his defining feature – a weapon of mass destruction and a work of art. It curves across his lips in a way that is equal parts predatory and compelling. The secretaries titter and bat their eyes. Even some of the other, more stoic, members of the team are gawking at the spectacle – and a spectacle is certainly what he's giving the entire floor.
Mike can't seem to look away from him. Harding's presence in the office is an anomaly; senators don't often venture this deep into the underbelly of bureaucracy, preferring the cleaner air of the capitol or their high-rising offices that look out across the expanse of city and shoreline. His very presence feels disruptive, unbalancing the carefully constructed order, and his interest in whatever matter is being discussed inside that glass office is unsettling.
A young lawyer walks past Mike's spot by the door and pauses. "Jesus," he whispers. "Is that Senator Harding? What's he want with Cameron?"
"Probably something to do with Specter making his fiancée look bad in court today," someone behind Mike speculates. "You know Harvey's going to annihilate her. She's all name recognition. Zero talent."
Mike bristles at the comment – at the insanity of anyone dismissing Donna Paulsen of all fucking people, at the audacity. But then he realizes that few on his floor are as versed with Paulsen's brilliance and capability as he and Harvey are. And he's surprised to realize how defensive that makes him, how ready and eager to protect her.
Cameron finally stands, pushing his chair back and leaning forward, his fists resting squarely on the surface of the desk in a gesture of dominance, and that makes the smile on the senator's face widen. Whatever exchange comes next ends their tête-à-tête, and the senator nods, turns and starts towards the door, passing through, his shoulder grazing Mike's. Mike is left staring at his retreating back and he wonders what the fuck that was all about.
And just when things can't possibly become more surreal – or complicated – Harvey steps out of the elevator and comes face to face with the politician. He halts mid-stride, as does Weston. Mike watches with growing fascination – and concern – at the charged silence that suddenly stretches between them.
Their exchange, if you could call it that, consists of a long, assessing stare. From Harvey: an intense and narrow-eyed gaze, his jaw set in a hard, grim line. From the politician: a quirk of his lips in an unmistakable gesture of derision, his gaze sweeping over Harvey with blatant dismissal, his eyes cold. Neither speaks. But then, neither backs down. Mike can feel the tension rise on the entire floor. Everyone's watching now, wondering if the day could possibly get even more bizarre than a fucking future president just showing up.
Just when Mike thinks fists might start swinging in their hallway – a spectacle he doesn't doubt the entirety of the DA's office would delight in watching – the senator brushes past, and Harvey lets out an audible breath. The elevator arrives just then, and Harding steps in. As it closes behind him, Mike catches a glimpse of the man staring straight at Harvey through the slatted metal of the doors, his face hard. Unforgiving.
It's unnerving – like peering into a chipped façade – as if the veneer of charm and geniality that cloaks Weston Harding in that moment has peeled back for just one, solitary, terrifying instant to reveal something far darker at its core.
Mike walks to where Harvey is standing, watching Weston's descent in the digital display above the elevators, wondering at the nature and cause of such intense dislike – wondering and knowing and dreading. When the numbers indicate that Harding is finally gone, Mike looks at his colleague and mentor, who stands immobile.
"You wanna tell me what the fuck that was about?" he asks.
Harvey turns, finally acknowledging Mike's presence at his elbow.
"Nothing," he says, and begins to walk in the opposite direction. Mike keeps pace at his side, his stride hurried.
There is nothing. There can be no something. Surely Harvey isn't so reckless or shortsighted as to get involved in any manner with that man's fiancée? His very career, his chance at becoming the DA of New York, would be destroyed. Surely...
"Nothing doesn't have Weston Harding showing up here out of the blue," Mike persists. "What was that look?"
Harvey's stride lengthens. "Drop it."
Mike grabs at the taller man's shoulder to slow him down and looks at him intently. "What did I say about not losing perspective?"
"It's under control."
"Bullshit! If you're letting a lover's quarrel come to work with you, how can anything be 'under control'? Do you understand how insane all of this looks? What's going to happen when word starts getting out that the chief ADA is screwing his opposing counsel?"
"Mike," Harvey says, finally coming to a stop. His words are spoken with an intensity that borders on anger, but they are hushed – a furious whisper. "I will not let my personal life become a distraction, and that is the last time I'm going to remind you to back off and stay out of it. I am fine. Everything," he emphasizes the word, punctuating each syllable, "will be. Fine."
And with that he turns abruptly on his heel, moving in a rapid gait that brooks no argument, and leaves Mike standing there, staring after him as his mind reels and spins with the sudden knowledge and clarity: there's a hell of a lot more at stake in this case than simple legalities and posturing in the press. More than Harvey's relationship status – whatever the fuck that currently is – or his chance to make a career move. Something about all of this, he thinks to himself as he watches his boss enter Cameron's glass box of a chamber and pull up a chair without being asked, feels incredibly...wrong. The pieces are on the move, the dominoes teeter, ready to tumble. It isn't a matter of if, Mike can see that with startling acuity now, it is a matter of when.
Author's Notes: I rewrote this way more times than is probably reasonable for my sanity, and it all looks like gibberish at this point, so I apologize if things are a mess. I didn't want to bore you all with a courtroom drama, but I also didn't want to leave it too vague, and in my desire to strike the balance I may have made it a chaotic mish-mash.
Anyways, as usual, thank you all so much for the feedback. It is always appreciated, and your thoughtful words keep the wheels in motion!
Up next: The seafaring innuendos escalate to...unexpected levels, and Harvey opens up about his own anxiety/past.