I
By the time Donna makes it to the firm, the rain is falling in earnest, fat drops that splash against the pavement, staining the concrete with dark blotches. The sky is a low, leaden ceiling, pressing down on the city. Donna ducks into the building, carrying a small fish bowl carefully, trying not to slosh water onto her heels. The cichlid inside darts back and forth, clearly unsettled by the movement.
"I know," she murmurs to him. "But I couldn't leave you alone all day, could I?" She smiles down at the little fish, trying to project some measure of calm, even though her own heart is racing. "We'll set you up here somewhere. Get a little piece of home at the office." The cichlid seems unconvinced, hiding among the pebbles in the corner. She hopes he'll settle down once she gets him to her desk, somewhere safe and quiet. She hopes they both will.
The security guard gives her a sympathetic look as she passes through. "Ms. Paulsen. Saw the news – is the Senator okay?"
"He's fine, Chris. Thank you for asking."
It's the first of many such exchanges. The elevator ride is a blur of concerned faces, gentle inquires, and a few pointed comments about "those extremists" that make Donna's stomach churn. By the time she reaches the 50th floor, she's perfected her response: a brave smile, a gracious nod, a quiet assurance that yes, Weston is doing well, and no, they don't need anything, but thank you for asking.
Upstairs, the office is a hive of activity, abuzz with the news. It seems everyone is talking about the attack on Senator Harding, speculating about the details, and expressing outrage at the perpetrator. Donna moves through the space like a ghost, the small fishbowl tucked under one arm. She can feel eyes on her as she walks, the weight of their gazes heavy on her shoulders.
Rachel spots Donna first, and her eyes widen as she approaches. "Oh my god," she whispers, pulling Donna into a tight embrace. "I've been calling you since the news broke, but it kept going straight to voicemail. I was so worried." She pulls back, studying Donna's face. "Is Wes okay? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, Rachel." The lie slips out easily, practiced, polished. "Wes' a little banged up, but nothing serious. We're both fine."
She's settled back into the role – his perfect partner, the devoted, loving fiancée, the woman who's been by his side through thick and thin. The woman he's made her, the one she's not supposed to be anymore.
They're halfway to her office when Louis barrels around the corner, his face a mask of theatrical distress. "Donna!" He grabs her shoulders, studying her face intensely. "I haven't slept. I've been up all night sick with worry. Sick. When I saw the news alert, I immediately called my Buddhist monk – you remember Brother Chen? – and we did an emergency meditation session for Weston's healing." He pauses for breath, his eyes darting to the fishbowl in her hand. "What's with the fish?"
"Oh." Donna shifts the bowl on her hip. "It's...um, a long story." She doesn't have the energy for this – the endless questions, the concern, the way everyone seems to be studying her for signs of trauma. Her nerves are frayed, her emotions a tangled knot in her chest. All she wants is to sit in her office, in the quiet, and pretend for a few moments that she isn't the center of a national news story. That her whole life isn't spiraling out of control.
Louis is still talking, his words coming in a torrent. Donna tunes back in just in time to hear him say, "...I've also contacted your security team. They're reviewing the arrangements for the upcoming fundraiser. We're adding three more guards and implementing a full cavity search protocol for all attendees."
"Louis, that's really not—"
"AND!" His voice rises an octave. "I've drafted a strongly worded letter to the FBI demanding a full investigation. I mean, this is obviously the work of radical extremists. Or possibly the Russians. I'm thinking both. Radical Russian extremists." He nods to himself, his brow furrowed in righteous fury. "And don't even get me started on the press. Those vultures have been circling all morning. I've had Gretchen fielding calls left and right."
Donna's head is spinning. This is exactly what she feared—her personal life turned into a media circus, her pain and confusion on display for public consumption. And now Louis is in full crisis mode, and Rachel is looking at her like she's a ticking time bomb, and the entire office is probably listening in, eager for more gossip. It's too much.
"Louis," she interrupts, her voice sharp. "There's no need for the added security, or the Russian conspiracies, or the angry letter-writing. Wes is okay. This was an isolated incident, and there's no reason to believe that it's part of a larger threat." She takes a deep breath, trying to regain some semblance of control. "What we really need to focus on is cichlid care. I need to know how often to feed this guy, what kind of temperature to keep his water at, that sort of thing."
Louis stares at her for a long moment, his eyes flicking between her and the fish. "Cichlid care," he repeats slowly.
"Yes. Cichlid care."
He blinks, then shakes his head. "Right. Cichlid care." He's still looking at her like she's sprouted a second head, but he rallies quickly. "You know, I used to have a saltwater tank. Won an award for my seahorse breeding program. Got a blue ribbon and everything."
"You...bred seahorses?"
"Yes! I'm something of an underwater midwife. Delivered over 500 babies in a single night once. It was magical." He's warming to the topic now, his eyes lighting up. "So, cichlids. I'm a bit rusty, but I think they're carnivorous. You'll need to give him live food. Daphnia works well – that's like brine shrimp – or bloodworms."
"Bloodworms?"
Louis nods enthusiastically. "Oh yeah. They're a staple. You just plop them in and watch the carnage." He mimes dropping something into the water and making little explosion noises. Donna stares at him, incredulous.
Rachel is watching this exchange with a mixture of amusement and concern. "Donna, are you sure everything is okay?" she asks gently.
No. No, nothing is okay. My life is falling apart, my ex-fiancé – that's still publicly my fiancé – was stabbed by my lover in what the world thinks was an assassination attempt, and I'm carrying around a goddamn fish in a bowl like some kind of deranged aquarium enthusiast. I'm pretty sure I'm having a nervous breakdown.
But she can't say any of that, so instead, she just forces a smile. "I'm fine. Just a little frazzled after...everything." She waves a hand vaguely. "I'm just trying to keep my head straight. Figure out the practicalities. You know?"
Rachel doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't press further. Instead, she turns her attention to the fish. "He's cute. What's his name?"
"Lysander," Donna says without missing a beat. She has no idea where the name came from—it just pops into her head, fully formed. Maybe it's the Shakespearean romance of it all, the way it tastes like midnight forests and moonlit escapes, or maybe it's just that the fish, darting between the castle and the plastic plants, reminds her of someone who refuses to stay where he's put. Either way, there's something fitting about naming a creature that lives in glass after a man who shattered every rule he was meant to follow. She feels a strange kinship with Lysander, the fish. With the one who can't be contained, the one who won't stop moving even though the walls of his world are right there for him to see. Maybe she's always been like him – a woman with a tiny, fragile life in her hands, trying to build a home in a hostile environment. Trying to keep her heart safe in a place that was never meant for her.
"He needs a filter," she murmurs to herself, staring at the fish. She can't look at Rachel, or Louis, or any of the curious faces that have turned towards them, drawn by the drama and the spectacle. "And a heater. Something to help him feel at home."
Louis clears his throat awkwardly. "I'm sure we can find a filter. And a heater." He glances at Rachel, who gives him a helpless shrug. "In the meantime, why don't you set him up in your office? Get him settled in."
Donna nods, grateful for the escape. She turns on her heel, hurrying away from the crowded hallway and the prying eyes, clutching the fishbowl to her chest like a lifeline.
Samantha's waiting in her office, perched on the edge of her desk. The moment the door closes behind Donna, Samantha's expression shifts from professional concern to sharp focus.
"Tell me," she says.
Donna sets the fish bowl down carefully on her credenza, watching the cichlid investigate its new surroundings. Her hands are shaking slightly. "Harvey," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "Last night. The intruder that attacked Wes. It was Harvey."
The words hang in the air between them. Samantha's eyes widen, but her expression remains steady, analytical. "Wes knows, then? About the two of you?" she asks, her tone deceptively even, but her fingers curl around the edge of the desk, betraying the tension beneath her cool exterior.
Donna nods jerkily. "He figured it out. Weeks ago." She swallows hard, remembering the way Wes had watched her, his eyes burning into hers. The accusation, the hurt. And then, the resignation. The acceptance. "He knew and he never said anything. He just let me—"
The words die in her throat. She doesn't know how to describe what she's feeling – the guilt, the confusion, the sense of betrayal that somehow cuts both ways. Wes had known about her affair with Harvey and said nothing. He'd given her space, time, freedom. And then, when Harvey had showed up at their home, uninvited, unwelcome, he'd confronted him. Fought him. Got injured by him. And even still, he'd kept the truth from the public.
She doesn't know if it's for his own sake or hers. Whether the lie is a gift, or a punishment.
"He's...not pressing charges. Said that he provoked Harvey, that they fought. He's using the story to his advantage."
"Smart man." Samantha's voice is low, thoughtful, but her gaze is sharp as she watches the fish swim circles in his bowl. "Being cheated on makes him look weak. Being attacked by a supposed radical makes him look like a hero." She pauses. "But the fact that he's protecting Specter is interesting. I would have expected him to go after Harvey with everything he's got. Instead, he's giving him a pass? Why?"
"I don't know." It's the truth. Donna has been turning the question over in her mind all morning, and she can't make sense of it. Why would Wes let Harvey off the hook? It doesn't fit with the man she's grown to know. But then, nothing about this situation makes sense. The attack, the cover-up, the way Wes is suddenly so willing to let her go. It's like the world has turned upside down and she's still scrambling to find her footing.
"And you're sure he's not going to change his mind?" Samantha asks. "If the press catches wind of the truth, this could blow up in everyone's faces."
"He knows that. He's not an idiot. I think...I think he's trying to protect himself as much as he's protecting Harvey."
The door opens before Samantha can respond. Rachel appears, her expression tense. "Donna? George Wolcott is here. He's with Jessica, and he's...not happy. The DA's office has frozen his assets."
"Shit," Donna mutters. She straightens her spine, smooths down her dress. "How bad?"
"Bad enough that Jessica called me in to warn you before—"
But it's too late. Wolcott bursts through the door, Jessica close behind him, her expression carefully neutral. Wolcott is red-faced and sweating, his expensive suit wrinkled, tie askew. He looks like a man on the edge.
"You promised me this wouldn't happen!" he shouts, jabbing a finger in Donna's direction. "You assured me the investigation wouldn't get this far!"
"Mr. Wolcott." Donna keeps her voice steady, professional. "I understand you're upset–"
"Upset?" Wolcott spits the word. "I'm ruined. My reputation is in tatters, my business is in shambles, and now I can't even access my own funds. I trusted you – trusted this firm – with everything, and now the DA's office is treating me like some common criminal! This is your goddamn fault! Instead of taking my case seriously, you're out there playing nurse to your politician boyfriend. How convenient for you that he was attacked and suddenly you can forget all about your clients – your job. You're a disgrace! A showpiece! I don't want you anywhere near my case. I want my files. I'm going to find a real lawyer!"
Something snaps inside Donna. Maybe it's the events of the past twenty-four hours, or maybe it's just that she's finally, finally had enough of men who think they can speak to her this way – that they can belittle her, dismiss her, and treat her like a prop in their own personal dramas. Whatever the reason, she feels a surge of anger, hot and fierce, rising up inside her. It's like the floodgates have opened, unleashing a torrent of emotions that have been building for months, years, a lifetime. It's a tidal wave that sweeps away any last vestiges of restraint or decorum, leaving only raw, unfiltered fury in its wake. Without thinking, she slaps Wolcott across the face. The sound of her palm connecting with his cheek echoes through the room, sharp and decisive, as shocking as a gunshot. Time seems to stretch and distort in the aftermath of her actions, the office falling silent as the weight of what she's done settles over the group.
Wolcott stares at her, his expression a mixture of shock and disbelief. His hand comes up to touch his cheek, as if he can't quite believe what just happened.
"You think you're being treated like a criminal?" Donna says, her voice low and dangerous. "Maybe it's because you are one. And maybe the reason why you're so goddamn angry is because you're scared. Because you know you're nothing but a crook. A liar and fraud. You made this mess. You and your shady dealings and your willingness to put profit above everything else. So don't you dare try to put this on me. I have spent the last four months of my life trying to save your ass from prison. I have worked day and night, putting up with your bullshit, your temper tantrums, your goddamn entitlement. And what did I get in return? Nothing but contempt and disrespect. And now you want a real lawyer?" Her lips twist into a bitter smile. "There's the fucking door, George. Go find one."
Silence hangs in the room for a long moment. Wolcott stares at Donna, his expression unreadable, his cheek still reddened from the slap. Samantha watches, her eyes wide, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. Jessica stands beside the man, her face a mask of cool professionalism, but her eyes betray a flicker of satisfaction. Rachel is the only one who seems genuinely shocked, her hand pressed to her mouth, her eyes darting between Donna and Wolcott.
George looks at Jessica. "You're going to let her get away with that?" His tone is incredulous, betrayed.
Jessica meets his gaze evenly, her expression impassive. "Donna speaks for the firm," she says simply.
He turns back to Donna, his mouth a thin line of fury. "You can't lose me. I'm this firm's biggest client."
Donna shrugs. "I can find a bigger client by the end of the week. There's no shortage of rich, entitled assholes out there. But there is a shortage of lawyers good enough to keep guilty, arrogant men like you out of prison."
The words hang in the air, sharp as knives. Wolcott takes a step back. His shoulders slump, and he seems to deflate before their eyes. "Can you fix this?" His voice is softer now, the bravado gone. "Get the DA to unfreeze my assets? Get my case back on track?"
Donna's face is expressionless. She studies Wolcott, taking in the lines of fatigue and stress on his face, the way his eyes seem to plead with her, even as his jaw remains stubbornly set. For a moment, she considers. She thinks of the late nights and early mornings, the endless hours poring over documents, the countless arguments and negotiations. She thinks of her career, of everything she's worked so hard to achieve, of the reputation she's built. And then she thinks of Wes, of Harvey, of the tangled web of relationships and secrets and lies that she's found herself ensnared in. She thinks of the way Wolcott has spoken to her, the way he's treated her, like her skills, her expertise, her intelligence mean nothing in the face of her gender and relationship status. She thinks of the way she's allowed herself to be pushed aside, to be used and manipulated and discarded.
"I'll have your assets back by the end of the day," she says. "But if you ever – ever – speak to me like that again, you will find yourself without representation. Do you understand?"
Wolcott hesitates. "Fine," he grits out.
"Good. And for the record, my hourly fee is doubling." Donna's eyes flash. She's done being underestimated, done being disrespected, done playing nice. She's taking back control, one way or another. "If I have to put up with your bullshit, I deserve hazard pay."
Wolcott's jaw clenches, he looks at Samantha and Jessica, searching for an ally.
"Shame she's not tripling it," Samantha says with a smirk, leaning back against Donna's desk.
"And I would've just dropped your ass," Jessica adds. "Consider yourself lucky, George."
Wolcott's eyes are dark with anger, but he says nothing. He turns on his heel and storms out of the office, the door slamming shut behind him. In the silence that follows, Donna takes a deep, shaky breath. She can feel the adrenaline coursing through her veins, making her heart pound in her chest. She meets Jessica's gaze, waiting for the disapproval, the reprimand, the consequences of her actions.
"I'd like to speak with Donna alone," Jessica says. "The rest of you can go."
Rachel and Samantha exchange glances before filing out of the room, the door clicking shut behind them.
"Look, Jessica, I'm sorry—" Donna begins, but Jessica holds up a hand, cutting her off.
"Weston called me this morning," she says. "He told me you're leaving him."
Donna blinks, caught off guard. "He...what?"
"He has me drafting the separation agreement," she continues. "It's very generous. Half of his assets, the condo in Manhattan, the estate in the Hamptons. He's even offered you continued use of his private plane and driver, and alimony payments for the next three years."
Donna's throat tightens, tears welling up in her eyes. He's actually doing it. He's letting her go. She feels a rush of relief, mixed with a strange, bittersweet sadness. She thinks of all the years they spent together, the plans they made, the future they imagined. It all seems so far away now, like a dream that she's finally waking up from. The tears spill over, rolling down her cheeks. She swipes at them angrily, embarrassed by her own emotions. "Sorry," she mumbles. "It's been an eventful morning."
Jessica watches her for a long moment, her expression unreadable. "I'm not going to ask what happened between you two," she says finally. "It's none of my business. But I will tell you this: I've known Weston Harding a long time. And I've never seen him give up anything without a fight. Not a bill, not a negotiation, and certainly not a person."
The words sink in slowly. Donna's chest constricts, a knot of dread forming in her stomach. "Maybe he's just...ready to move on," she whispers. "Maybe it's time."
"On the cusp of the presidential election, his campaign surging in the polls? That's a hell of a time to decide you're ready to move on." Jessica raises an eyebrow. "You know him better than that. And if I were you, I'd be careful."
Donna stares at her. Is that a threat? She knows where Jessica's allegiances lie. She knows that she and Wes are friends, and that Jessica's loyalty runs deep. "You think I'm making a mistake," she says slowly. "You think I should stay with him."
"I think you haven't exactly thought this through," Jessica replies. "I think you're emotional, and you're angry, and you're making decisions based on that, rather than logic or strategy. And that can be dangerous."
Donna's anger flares. "You think I don't know what I'm doing? You think I haven't spent years trying to make this work? Trying to be the perfect partner, the perfect future First Lady? You have no idea what it's been like, living in his shadow. Living with the constant fear that one wrong move, one slip-up, could destroy his career. Do you know what that does to a person? How it eats away at you, until there's nothing left but doubt and self-loathing?"
Jessica says nothing. She just watches, her expression cool and impassive. It infuriates Donna even more.
"You want to talk about strategy? Fine. Let's talk about strategy. I'm leaving Wes. I'm going to do what's best for me, for once in my goddamn life. And if he wants to fight me on that, if he wants to use his power and influence to try and stop me, then so be it. I'm done." She takes a step closer, her eyes blazing. "And if you want to stand in my way, if you want to throw your weight behind Wes and protect his interests, then that's your choice. But I promise you, I will not go down without a fight."
The room falls silent. Donna's chest heaves, her breath coming hard and fast. Jessica regards her for a long moment, her gaze appraising. "Alright," she says finally. "If that's how you want to play it."
She turns to leave, but pauses at the door. "Oh, and Donna? Next time you slap a client, make sure I'm not in the room. It's hard to pretend I'm not on your side when I'm fighting the urge to applaud." Her eyes flash with something that looks suspiciously like admiration. Then she's gone, the door clicking shut behind her.
II
Harvey's excuse for working from home had been flimsy at best—something about a migraine and needing quiet to review depositions—but he couldn't risk showing up at the DA looking like a boxer on the wrong end of a knockout punch. Not when Weston Harding's "attempted assassination" was splashed across every news channel in the country. So here he is, hunkered down in his apartment, trying to focus on work, but the words on his laptop swim in and out, blurred by the constant throbbing in his head.
His ribcage feels like it's been kicked in. Each breath is a sharp reminder of last night's violence, but it's nothing compared to the ache in his chest when he remembers Donna standing beside Weston this morning, all grace and poise, playing her part in the charade of his campaign. The way she'd smiled, and murmured "Always," while his arm wrapped around her waist in a proprietary embrace that made Harvey's stomach churn with rage and despair.
He pushes his chair away from the table, pacing the length of his living room. Restlessness has seeped into his bones, an itch beneath his skin that he can't scratch. He needs to see her. To hear her voice, and know that whatever happened this morning, she's not slipping back into Weston's web of manipulation and control. That last night, and the intimacy they shared, hadn't been a fleeting delusion on his part.
He knows he's being unreasonable. There are a thousand reasons why she hasn't contacted him yet—the primary, the press, the pretense she needs to maintain for both. Not to mention she's probably pissed as hell at him for losing it on her abusive prick of a fiancé and beating the living shit out of him.
Still, the longer the radio silence stretches, the more his mind spirals into a dark place. A place where Donna regrets their night together, where she's chosen Weston over him after all, and the thought makes his heart clench painfully in his chest.
He picks up his phone, thumb hovering over her name, before tossing it onto the couch in frustration. What would he say? Hey, how's the fiancé that I stabbed? Enjoying being back in the spotlight?
Instead, he turns to the one thing he's been avoiding since this morning – the news coverage. He flips through the channels, watching as pundits dissect every word of Weston's speech, praising his courage, his leadership, his strength in adversity. "This is the kind of man who can lead us out of crisis," one commentator gushes, and Harvey's hand clenches around the remote until his knuckles turn white.
Then there's the footage, looping endlessly – Weston emerging from his brownstone, bruised but unbowed, playing the role of the unflappable leader; Donna at his side, the epitome of the supportive, loving partner. The way they'd looked at each other—the tenderness in their gaze, the gentle press of his lips to her temple—sends a stab of jealousy through Harvey that leaves him reeling. How can she still care for him, after all he's done to her? After everything he's seen?
He shuts off the TV, plunging the room into merciful silence. His head is pounding, his ribs aching in symphony with his heart. He's never felt like this before – consumed, utterly, by another person. Terrified of losing her, yet unable to do a damn thing about it. He's always prided himself on his control, his ability to bend the world to his will with nothing but his wit and determination. But now, faced with the enormity of his feelings for Donna, and the tangled, fraught web of her life, he feels helpless. Powerless. And he hates it.
He glances at the clock – just past 6 pm. He needs to see her. Needs to explain. To make sure she's safe, even if she hates him for what he's done. The fish tank maintenance is as good an excuse as any—he'd promised daily checks, after all. Though he realizes, as he's pulling on his jacket (each movement sending fresh jolts of agony through his bruised body), that he has absolutely no idea what that actually entails.
The cab ride to her apartment is torture. Each bump in the road reverberates through his body. He focuses on breathing—shallow, careful breaths that don't expand his chest too much. The driver keeps glancing at him in the rearview mirror, probably wondering about the bruises on his face. Harvey ignores him. By the time they pull up to Donna's building, he feels like death warmed over. But still, he drags himself out of the car and through the flower shop below her apartment. He picks up a bouquet, because... well, why the hell not? Maybe it'll soften the blow when she inevitably slams the door in his face.
The old florist raises an eyebrow at him. "Got into a fight, didja?"
"You should see the other guy," Harvey says, though the words come out strained. The florist just chuckles and hands him his change.
He stands in front of her door, the flowers clutched in his hand, feeling suddenly foolish. What is he doing here? Showing up unannounced, looking like he's been hit by a bus, bearing flowers that seem trite and inadequate in the face of what's transpired. It's desperate. Needy. Not his style at all.
But then he remembers her soft sighs from last night, the way she'd gasped his name, the way she'd looked at him, and his heart constricts. Fuck it, he thinks, and raises a hand to knock.
He waits, his pulse thrumming in his ears. From inside, he can hear the click of heels on hardwood. A moment later, the door swings open, and there she is, Donna Paulsen, the woman who's turned his world upside down. She's wearing an off-the-shoulder sweater, her hair tumbling down her back in loose waves. Her expression cycles through so many emotions it's like watching a film on fast-forward: worry, relief, understanding, and then, finally, settling on anger. Her eyes narrow dangerously.
"No," she says, already moving to shut the door.
Harvey catches it with his hand, trying not to wince at the movement. "I'm here for the fish," he says, aiming for casual and missing by miles. "Water pH check. Very important for...cichlid health." He has no idea what he's talking about – pH checks? Is that even a fucking thing? – but hopefully, it's enough to get his foot in the door.
Donna stares at him, incredulous. "You can't be serious." Her gaze flicks to the flowers in his hand, then back to his face. The bruises. The cut. Her anger softens, just a fraction. "Harvey, you're—"
"I know," he says quickly, holding out the bouquet like a white flag. "Just let me see the damn fish, and we'll talk."
She stares at him for a long moment. He can see the war playing out behind her eyes—fury versus compassion. Finally, with a sigh that seems to come from the depths of her soul, she opens the door wider, letting him inside. He's barely crossed the threshold before she snatches the flowers from him, disappearing into the kitchen. Harvey hears the sound of running water as she arranges them in a vase.
He drifts towards the aquarium, peering at the black and white fish inside. It seems...fine. Swimming around, being a fish. He has no goddamn idea what he's supposed to do—he hadn't exactly bothered to Google saltwater aquarium maintenance. But then, he reminds himself, he's not really here for the fish.
He lifts the tank lid, dipping his fingers into the water for no real reason other than to look like he knows what the hell he's doing. The water is surprisingly warm, and the cichlid bumps his hand gently with its nose. He pets the top of its head with a finger. The thing is almost – dare he say it – cute.
"Okay, fish whisperer," Donna's voice startles him. She's leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, an unimpressed arch to her brow. "What's the verdict?"
"Uh, it's...good," he says lamely, quickly shutting the lid and stepping away from the tank. "Very healthy."
"Are you sure?" Something in her expression shifts. "Lysander's been...off." Her voice softens slightly. "He's not eating. Just hovering in the corner of the tank. He seems...I don't know. Depressed? Can fish get depressed?"
Harvey blinks. "Lysander?"
"Yeah. The cichlid. I named him. Don't judge me." Her tone is still guarded, but there's a hint of vulnerability in the way she worries her bottom lip. Then her shoulders slump, and she sighs, running a hand through her hair. "It's silly, I know. But after..." She trails off, and the implication hangs in the air between them. After last night, and everything that had happened, the cichlid had become a source of comfort, a distraction from the chaos.
"I think he's mourning," she continues. "Or grieving, or whatever the equivalent is, for a fish. He probably had friends – a community – back at that pet store. We uprooted him from the only home he's ever known." She looks at Harvey, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "And now he's trapped in a glass box, all alone, with no one who understands him."
Harvey tries not to smile – a difficult feat, given the circumstances. Here she is, one of the most brilliant minds he knows, empathizing with a damn fish. The idea is so ludicrous, so endearing, it nearly breaks his heart.
"Hey," he says softly, stepping towards her. He reaches out, cupping her cheek in his palm, his thumb brushing away the tear that escapes down her face. "It's okay. We'll figure something out. Maybe we can get him one of those plastic castles, or a little treasure chest, or something. Make his tank feel more like home."
Donna leans into his touch, closing her eyes briefly, before pulling back, as if remembering she's supposed to be angry with him. She moves away, creating distance between them, her arms once again crossed over her chest. "So," she says, her tone clipped, "you've checked on Lysander. Mission accomplished." A pointed glance at the door.
"The pet store is probably still open," he muses aloud, deliberately ignoring her not-so-subtle suggestion that he leave. "We could head down there now, pick up some stuff for...Lysander." He tries to say the name without a hint of amusement and fails miserably.
Donna rolls her eyes, but there's a ghost of a smile on her lips. "You want to take me fish decoration shopping?"
He shrugs, then immediately regrets it as pain jolts through his ribcage. "Why not? Seems like an important issue. Can't have the poor guy swimming around in an empty tank, feeling lonely. That'd be cruel." The subtext is clear – We're not done here, Donna. I'm not leaving until we talk about this.
Her eyes narrow, her expression torn between irritation and amusement. "You're unbelievable," she says finally, shaking her head. "Fine. Let's go find some decorations for our depressed little cichlid."
Our cichlid, Harvey notes with a flicker of hope. Maybe this is progress. Maybe they're getting somewhere, inching back towards that tentative connection they'd forged last night before everything had gone to hell. He follows her out the door, trying to ignore the way every step sends a fresh wave of pain through his body. This is important, he reminds himself. This is what matters. Not the physical wounds that will heal in time, but the emotional scars he's inflicted, the damage he needs to repair. The trust he has to earn, all over again.
III
The pet store is tucked away between an Italian deli and a nail salon, its front window crowded with cages and terrariums. As they step inside, they're hit with a wall of sound – the squawk of parrots, the rustle of hamsters in their cages, and the soft hum of the aquarium filters. The air is thick with the smells of sawdust and feed pellets.
Donna wanders over to the bird section, cooing at a colorful parrot that seems equally delighted to see her. "Hello, handsome," she says, and the bird tilts its head, eyeing her with beady intelligence. Harvey, meanwhile, finds the kid that sold him the cichlid the previous day, leaning lackadaisically against the counter, thumbing through his phone. The guy barely glances up as he approaches.
"The fish you sold me is depressed," Harvey announces without preamble.
The kid raises an eyebrow. "Depressed?" His tone is flat, disbelieving. "Fish don't get depressed."
"This one does," Harvey insists. "He's sulking. Moping around his tank. Barely eating."
"Did you cycle the tank?"
"What?"
"Cycle the tank," the kid repeats impatiently. "Stabilize the water chemistry? You know, basic aquarium maintenance?"
"Of course I did," Harvey lies, though he's not entirely sure what that entails. It sounds like something to do with pH levels, so he adds, "And I checked the pH levels. They're fine."
A girl with pink hair, wearing a 'Mystic Tides Pet Shop' apron, leans over the counter. "What kind of fish did you get?"
"Cichlid," Harvey mumbles, suddenly feeling out of his depth. "Black and white one."
The kid and the girl exchange a knowing look. "Ah," the kid says, nodding sagely. "The zebra ob. He was mated to that blood red, the one with the white dorsal fin, wasn't he?"
"Um," Harvey replies eloquently. He has no fucking clue.
"You separated them?" There's an accusing edge to the girl's voice.
"Separated who?" Donna appears at his side, having finished her flirtation with the parrot.
"The cichlids," the kid says, rolling his eyes. "You took the male, right? Left the female behind?"
Donna frowns. "There was a female?"
The pink-haired girl nods. "Yeah, they were paired up. We were trying to breed them, actually, but no luck yet. They seemed pretty cozy, though – always swimming together, nesting in the same corner of the tank."
Donna glares daggers at Harvey, a mixture of guilt and annoyance in her eyes. "You bought a fish with a girlfriend and left her in the store?" She turns back to the kid. "Where is she?"
"Uh," the kid looks sheepish, and turns to the pink-haired girl. "Wasn't the blood red the one we had to move to the back room this morning? You know, because the yellow tang tried to eat her?"
The girl nods. "Yeah, she's not in great shape. The zebra you took was the alpha male – he was the one who kept the others off her."
Harvey wants to crawl into one of the terrariums and let the snakes swallow him whole. He can feel Donna's disapproval radiating off her in waves, almost palpable in the cramped pet shop. He clears his throat, trying to salvage the situation. "So, what's the prognosis for the female? Can she be... rehabilitated?" The word feels strange in his mouth, like he's talking about an injured bird, or a criminal serving a prison sentence, not a damn fish.
"She should recover," the pink-haired girl says, though her tone is cautious. "As long as there's no permanent damage. But honestly, her best chance is to be reunited with the dominant male in a stable tank environment. They'll look out for each other."
Harvey glances at Donna. She's chewing on her lower lip, deep in thought, her eyes fixed on something in the distance. Then, without looking at him, she says quietly, "Get her."
He hesitates, unsure if he heard her correctly. "Seriously?"
"Yes, seriously," Donna snaps, turning to him with a ferocity that makes him take a step back. "Lysander needs his partner. And we," she jabs a finger at his chest, hard enough to make him wince, "are not the reason these fish don't get their goddamn happily ever after. Understand?"
"Understood," Harvey says quickly, holding up his hands in surrender. The pink-haired girl smirks, and the kid shakes his head, muttering something about yuppies under his breath. But Harvey doesn't care; all that matters is the determined set of Donna's jaw, the fire in her eyes. This is important to her, and that makes it important to him, too.
The girl, whose nametag reads 'Stevie', disappears into the back room, returning a few minutes later with a small tank containing the female cichlid. The poor fish looks battered, her scales dull, a tear in her dorsal fin. Stevie sets the tank on the counter, gently netting the cichlid and transferring her into a plastic bag filled with water.
"We can give her to you for a discount," Stevie offers.
"Why? Because she's a little damaged and traumatized, she's not worth as much?" Donna asks icily.
Stevie falters, glancing at the kid for help. "Uh...we just thought..."
"I'll pay full price," Donna says firmly, reaching for her purse. "No discounts."
Harvey can't help but watch her as she interacts with the store employees – her passion, her empathy, the way she fights for what she believes in, even if it's just a goddamn fish. And he's reminded all over again of why he can't seem to quell the riotous emotions that swell within him whenever she's near. Why he's willing to go toe-to-toe with a presidential candidate to defend her, to take on whatever darkness lurks in her past. Why he's standing in a cramped, noisy pet shop, buying aquarium decorations, instead of doing literally anything else. It's because of her, and the way she makes him feel like he's sixteen again, fumbling his way through his first real crush.
As the kid and the girl busy themselves with gathering the necessary supplies – a filter, a heater, and various decorations that Donna insisted upon ("She's been traumatized, Harvey, the least we can do is give her a castle to hide in"), Harvey sidles up beside her, nudging her shoulder with his own. "Hey," he says softly, his voice barely audible over the sound of squawking birds, "about last night..."
"Harvey," she sighs, cutting him off. "Not now. I can't...not here." Her voice is tired, worn thin, like she's carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. And maybe she is, at least a portion of it, given everything she's dealing with right now. Her expression is distant, pained, and he can tell she's miles away, lost in her own head, probably thinking about Wes, about the press conference this morning, about the trial, and a thousand other things that have nothing to do with him, or them.
"I just wanted to say I'm sorry," he pushes on, needing to get the words out, even if they fall on deaf ears. "For the way things went down. For...well, a lot of things." He's not apologizing for what happened with Wes – not that, never that. He'd stab the bastard again if given half the chance. But he is sorry for the pain it's caused her, the position it's put her in, the stress and worry that seem to be eating away at her.
Donna nods, a curt, quick movement of her head, but doesn't look at him. She turns away, wandering back over to the birds. The colorful parrot greets her with a squawk.
The rest of the shopping expedition passes in relative silence. Donna picks out a few more decorations for the tank – a plastic shipwreck, a little ceramic treasure chest, and a small cluster of brightly colored corals. As they wait at the counter for Stevie and the kid to ring them up, Donna leans in close, her breath warm against his ear.
"Thanks," she murmurs, so softly he almost misses it. "For doing this. For being here." Her hand brushes against his, just the lightest touch, but it's enough to make his heart stutter in his chest.
He doesn't reply, just gives her a small smile, because really, what can he say? That he'd do anything for her, follow her to the ends of the earth, buy a thousand fish if it would take that haunted look out of her eyes, just for a moment. Instead, he busies himself with loading their purchases into a bag, pretending he's not completely and utterly smitten, that his heart isn't doing some ridiculous tap dance every time she looks at him.
III
Donna cradles the plastic bag containing the injured cichlid, careful not to jostle her as they walk the hallway to her apartment. She's acutely aware of Harvey behind her, his footsteps heavy, his breathing labored. He's clearly still in pain from last night, and she feels a pang of guilt for dragging him around town when he should be resting. But then again, he'd insisted on tagging along, and she hadn't exactly made it easy for him to back out. Not that he'd complained, not once, despite his obvious discomfort.
She unlocks her door, pushing it open with her hip, stepping into the quiet, dimly lit apartment. The air is cool against her skin, carrying the faint scent of roses from the bouquet Harvey had given her earlier. She'd placed them in a vase on the counter, a bright spot of color in the otherwise muted space. She sets her purse on the table and turns to him. His bruised face is pale, his posture slightly hunched, his movements stiff. He looks like he's been through a war. Which, in a way, he has – a battle fought in her honor, for reasons she can't quite wrap her head around, let alone put into words.
Harvey follows her into the bedroom, depositing the rest of the aquarium paraphernalia by the tank. Lysander, sensing some change in his environment, swims to the front of the glass, watching them with his side-mounted eyes.
Donna kneels on the floor, peering into the plastic bag at the injured fish. Her scales are a deep, rich red, almost burgundy, her body sleek and streamlined. The tear in her dorsal fin is obvious, a jagged line that mars the otherwise smooth arc of her spine. Donna's heart aches at the sight, a mixture of pity and protectiveness welling up inside her. She's been in this fish's shoes – or fins, rather – all too often. Hurt, vulnerable, alone, with no safe haven to retreat to. Except now, she's going to give this fish what she herself is fighting so hard for – a second chance, a fresh start, a place of safety and comfort.
Harvey sits beside her, their knees almost touching. "How are we going to do this?" There's a gentleness in his voice, a tender care that surprises her. This is not the brash, cocky Harvey she's used to. This Harvey is softer, quieter, his guard lowered, his emotions laid bare. She wonders if it's the injuries, the pain, that have stripped him of his usual defenses, or something else, something deeper, something to do with her, with them, with this fragile thing between them that they can't seem to shake.
"We need to acclimate her to the new water," Donna replies, focusing on the task at hand. She can think about the messy, complicated tangle of her feelings later, when there's not an injured fish waiting to be saved. "The temperature will be different, and we don't want to shock her system."
She grabs a large glass bowl from the kitchen, fills it with water from the tank, and gently tips the plastic bag into the bowl. The female cichlid swims around her new, temporary home, exploring the confines. Lysander darts back and forth in his tank, his black and white form a blur against the glass. It's almost as if he knows his mate is close by, and he's desperate to reunite with her.
As they wait for the water temperatures to equalize, Harvey reaches out, his fingertips lightly brushing over the tear in the female's dorsal fin. He doesn't say a word, but Donna can feel the weight of his thoughts, the questions hanging in the air between them. She wants to tell him everything – about Wes, about their relationship, about the bruises hidden beneath her clothes. But the words stick in her throat, tangled up in fear and shame and a deep-seated sense of loyalty that she can't seem to shake.
She glances at the tank, where Lysander is still circling, his movements frantic, agitated. "He really loves her, huh?" Her voice is soft, wistful, a hint of longing in her tone. If only human relationships could be as simple, as straightforward, as the bond between these two fish. No lies, no secrets, no complicated histories. Just two creatures, drawn to each other, seeking solace in the embrace of their shared world.
Harvey tears his gaze away from the injured fish, looking at her with an intensity that makes her breath catch in her throat. "Yeah," he says quietly, his eyes never leaving hers. "He does."
They hold each other's gaze for a long moment, an unspoken conversation passing between them. Then Donna breaks eye contact, looking down at the female cichlid. "We should probably get her into the tank."
She picks up the bowl, carefully pouring its contents into the aquarium. The female cichlid swims hesitantly into her new surroundings, her movements slow, cautious. Lysander rushes to greet her, swirling around her in a dance of welcome. Within seconds, the two fish are entwined, their bodies moving in a graceful ballet of reconciliation.
Donna smiles, a genuine, warm smile that lights up her entire face. She turns to Harvey, intending to say something about the fish, about how glad she is that they're back together, but the words die in her throat as she takes in the expression on his face. He's looking at her like she's the most precious thing in the world, his eyes soft with affection, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. And just like that, she's lost, her heart swelling with a mix of yearning, confusion, and a deep, aching tenderness that threatens to overwhelm her.
Before she can stop herself, she's reaching for him, her fingers tracing the outline of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the sharp line of his cheekbone. The bruises beneath his skin are a vivid reminder of the violence she's inadvertently brought into his life, the danger she's dragged him into, the chaos that seems to follow her wherever she goes. But there's also a strange, fierce beauty in them, a testament to his strength, his loyalty, his willingness to fight for her, to stand by her side despite the risks.
"Does it hurt?" she asks quietly, her thumb gently brushing over a particularly dark bruise on his temple.
His gaze locks onto hers. "I've had worse."
"That's not what I asked."
He sighs, his breath warm against her skin. "It hurts. But not as much as seeing you standing there, beside him, pretending everything's okay."
Her expression tightens, and she draws her hand back, but he catches it in his own, holding it gently. "Don't," he says. "Please. I know you're angry. I know...things are fucked up right now. But I need you to understand that I never meant for any of this to happen."
"Fucked up? You attacked a United States Senator. A presidential candidate." Donna shakes her head, disbelief etched into every line of her face. "And not just any candidate – my goddamn fiancé. Jesus, Harvey...why would you do that?" Her voice cracks on the last word, and she can feel the tears burning behind her eyes, threatening to spill over.
"You know why."
His response – quiet but firm – stops her heart for a moment. Yes, she knows. Of course, she knows. How could she not know, when every part of her aches with the knowledge, when the truth of it all is written in bruises on his skin?
But still, she shakes her head, a vain attempt to deny, to cling to the last shreds of her crumbling reality.
Harvey stares at her, and there is a fierceness in his eyes that almost makes her look away. And for a moment, a single, terrifying moment, she fears he is going to push the issue, force her to acknowledge the truth that hangs between them, heavy and suffocating.
But instead, his expression softens, and the fight seems to leave him. His hand loosens around her wrist, and he lifts her palm to his lips, pressing the most delicate of kisses against her skin. "I'd do it again, too," he murmurs, his words a whisper of defiance, a promise of protection. "A hundred times over, if I had to."
She should be furious, she knows. She should be livid that he would take such rash action, risk so much on her behalf, without a second thought for the consequences or her autonomy. She should push him away, make him see the error of his ways. Make him understand that she's not some fragile, broken thing in need of a knight in shining armor to come and rescue her from the dragon. That she can fight her battles, even the messy ones, and that sometimes the dragon isn't a monster, but a man who can be gentle and cruel and unpredictable and complicated and human, in a way that dragons are not, in a way that makes him both less dangerous and infinitely more terrifying.
She should be all of those things – and yet, she finds that she's simply...tired. Tired of pretending that everything is okay when it's so clearly not. Tired of holding onto the lies, the secrets, the fiction that is her life. She is exhausted from holding it all in.
So instead of pushing him away, instead of insisting that he leave, she leans in closer, her head finding that spot on his shoulder that she's come to know, come to love – that space that is warm and safe and his. And he lets her. He puts his arm around her and draws her near, and they sit like that for a long time, watching the cichlids twine together, Lysander nudging his mate with his head, Donna's heart in her throat.
And finally – finally, finally – in the quiet, in the comfort, in the space between heartbeats, Donna Paulsen breaks. It isn't violent, this breaking; it's not an eruption, but a soft, almost imperceptible cracking – a gentle giving away. Her breathing hitches and she shudders and then, like a river overflowing its banks, her tears flow freely, cascading down her cheeks in hot, silent rivulets.
It's a quiet thing, her grief. A quiet, powerful, devastating thing. And Harvey – the thorn in her side, the pain in her ass, her adversary and confidant, her lover and friend – simply holds her tighter, his chin resting atop her head, and says nothing at all.
IV
They end up naked on the floor. It isn't a conscious decision on either of their parts – there's no seduction or foreplay involved in the movement. The first thing that's stripped is his jacket, Donna helping his limbs through the sleeves, careful not to jostle his sore muscles and bruises too much.
"God, you're a mess." Her voice is quiet, the words aren't an attack. She's just stating the obvious.
Harvey just snorts, not rising to the comment, content instead to watch Donna undo the buttons of his shirt, peeling it away to expose the full extent of his injuries. The bruise has blossomed into an angry purple-red marring the entire side of his ribcage. Donna touches it, her fingertips tracing the line of discoloration along his side, down to his hip, back to the center of his stomach.
"I'm sorry," she murmurs.
"Don't."
The word is abrupt and final, shutting down her attempts to take any responsibility for his condition. Donna sighs, her hand stilled, her eyes not leaving the bruise that she's still cupped against, almost possessive.
Then, slowly, she reaches up and pushes his shoulder down gently until his back is against the soft, white carpet, and she settles over the tops of his thighs. She takes off her sweater, and it feels like the most natural thing to do in that moment – a display of vulnerability, a giving of herself. The skin she reveals to him is pale in the dim light. He watches as her fingers reach back and undo the clasp of her bra, sliding the straps down her shoulders, letting the lacy material fall to the floor.
His hands slide up her sides, thumbs tracing circles on her hips, following the dip in her flesh down between her thighs. She watches him watching her and there's a quiet calm to the movement between them, a lack of urgency that's strange for her. She's usually frantic to finish, to rush past any emotion that the sex can stir, to bury it under orgasms, and endorphins and a sense of fleeting satisfaction. This isn't like that. The way she feels for Harvey – that's never been like that. She loves the man, though she can barely stand to admit that she feels that much, and when his thumbs are moving and he's sliding beneath her underwear and parting her and finding wet flesh and dipping inside her and hissing her name – god – when she has his bare, unburdened attention and his cock starts hardening – she's not trying to reach the ending, because she just wants more of his soft breaths and half-lidded eyes and whispered praises.
The marks – Weston's bruises, all faded to a dull gray, a sickly green – have come into sharp focus under the overhead lights, stark shadows that spread across her lower back and hips. She wonders what Harvey sees when he looks at her like this – a victim, a survivor, or something else entirely.
But whatever he thinks, his eyes never leave hers, and there's no pity or horror in his gaze. Instead, he explores the terrain, lets his fingers roam. His touch is soft and tentative at first, a barely there caress, and she feels the flush building under the heat of his scrutiny.
His lips follow where his eyes led, soft kisses peppered across her flesh like promises, healing words pressed to the ghosts of Wes' cruelty. And it's the strangest, tenderest thing – to feel so vulnerable and so safe at the same time. The fear she'd harbored before – that he might run if he saw her like this – melts away with each brush of his mouth against her skin.
He shifts her so she's laying beneath him, and his hand is back to work between her thighs. She arches into his touch, desperate, needy. A part of her wonders if perhaps she should be embarrassed by the ease with which he unravels her. Another part doesn't care.
She closes her eyes, her fingers twisting into the strands of his hair, her breathing ragged as his touch teases and torments her. He moves with deliberate slowness, like he wants her to feel everything. She does. Every stroke, every gentle pressure builds within her until she's panting, her chest heaving, her hips bucking involuntarily. But still, he keeps his languid pace, determined to make this moment stretch.
"Harvey...please," she whispers hoarsely, her grip on his hair tightening. He looks up, and the hunger she sees there is enough to take her breath away. She's almost there. That precipice looms in her peripheral vision. God, just a little bit more, a bit faster—
He moves, sliding up and settling his hips between hers, and when he fills her – all at once – the shock steals her breath, turns her gasp to a soft mewl of surprise, her fingers tightening on the broad expanse of his back, nails biting into skin as she arches, as the muscles low in her abdomen tighten.
Her release finds her without warning. She is helpless in its onslaught, her body responding with an eagerness she has no control over. Her legs clamp around his waist. He's hard, impossibly hard inside her, and his strokes – even in his beaten state, even in his obvious pain – are long, and deep and steady, prolonging her pleasure.
Donna cries out as her body spasms, and she can't hold him tight enough, can't keep him close enough, can't kiss him deeply enough. He stills above her, but doesn't give into his own pleasure. He waits for her to ride the last of the waves out and then resumes.
Harvey rests his head against her neck, panting, and she can hear his harsh breath, can feel his sweat-damp forehead, can see his teeth biting into his bottom lip. She runs her fingers through his hair and lets him rock until his rhythm falters and she feels his cock twitch inside her as he comes on a quiet moan.
After a moment, he rolls off her and collapses beside her on the floor, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. She's not sure if it's a result of the injuries or the sex, but something about the way he gasps for air worries her.
"Hey," Donna whispers, pushing herself up onto her elbow, so she can look down on his face. His expression is contorted, sweat beads at his brow. "Are you alright?"
He nods, though his movements are jerky, and his color doesn't seem quite right.
"Fine."
She frowns. "You're not sounding fine."
"I just... Need a minute."
He looks pale. His lips almost have a blue tinge. And his chest, she notes, is rising asymmetrically – the side with the bruising is lagging, struggling to expand and contract as quickly as the uninjured side. She wonders how she could have missed that before.
"Harvey..." She touches his face, and his eyes are closed. "Talk to me."
His throat bobs, his lips pressing together in pain. "I can't..."
"You can't breathe." She feels fear grip her insides. "I'm calling an ambulance," she says, already reaching for her phone, but his hand catches her wrist.
"Don't," he manages. "Can't... Explain. The attack..."
"I don't care about the attack!" The words burst from her with unexpected force. "I care about you, you stubborn idiot!" Her voice breaks on the last word, fear and frustration manifesting as angry tears.
She should have realized sooner that he was struggling. She should have been paying more attention. But she'd been so caught up in the heat of the moment, so enraptured by the magic of being with him, that she'd failed to notice the signs. Guilt and panic twist in her chest, an awful combination that sets her pulse racing, her mind reeling.
Beside her, Harvey is gripping his ribs, his teeth clenched, a pained grimace contorting his handsome features. "My phone... Call Avery... She's... In my contacts. His words come in short bursts between breaths. He's clearly trying to stay calm, but his distress is evident in every line of his body. "She can fix this." His chest heaves, and his brow furrows in concentration as he fights to control his breathing.
"Avery?" Donna repeats, and Harvey nods.
Donna doesn't know who Avery is or why she's the solution here, but at this point, she doesn't care – anything or anyone has got to be better than waiting around for Harvey to suffocate in front of her. She snatches up Harvey's phone, and scrolls through his contacts. She finds an entry labeled simply "Av," along with a pink heart emoji. Donna tries not to think too hard about it and hits dial.
A woman's voice comes on the line, groggy with sleep. "Harvey?" She doesn't sound surprised, as if this isn't the first time he's called her late at night. Donna feels a surge of possessiveness, and she can't help the sharpness in her voice. She is also naked, holding the phone in one hand while she helps Harvey onto the bed with the other.
"Avery? It's..." She's not sure if she should give her name or how to begin explaining the situation. So instead, she goes straight to the point: "Harvey's in trouble."
"What happened?" Avery's tone has instantly shifted, any sleepiness vanished, replaced by a professional seriousness that puts Donna's nerves slightly at ease. "Where are you?"
"My apartment. In Midtown," Donna replies, trying to keep her voice calm, to focus on providing clear and concise information to help the other woman assess the situation quickly. "He's having trouble breathing. I think his ribs are injured. I don't... It's like one side is...stuck." She takes a shuddering breath, her heart pounding in her chest. "I was going to call 911, but he said to call you first."
There's a sign from the other end, and some movement. "Put the phone on speaker, please," Avery instructs, and Donna obeys. She presses the button and lays the phone next to Harvey on the bed, freeing her hands to reach for his. He grasps at her fingers, but his grip is weak.
"Harvey. When I asked you if anything else hurt, you said no." Avery's voice is calm but firm, and there's a hint of disappointment in her words.
"Forgot..." Harvey rasps.
"You didn't forget. You chose to omit." There's a beat of silence, and when Avery speaks again, it's with a more businesslike tone, all hints of emotion banished. "Your ribs are fractured." Harvey doesn't deny it. He just closes his eyes, his chest rising and falling in short, shallow bursts. "And now you have what's called a tension pneumothorax. That means air is getting trapped in your pleural cavity, and it's preventing your lung from expanding properly. Your chest cavity is filling up with air that can't escape. It's like a balloon being blown up and not being allowed to deflate."
Harvey's fingers twitch in Donna's grip, and his brow furrows in discomfort.
"I can do a needle decompression when I get there, but god knows how long it will take me to get to wherever the hell you are," Avery continues. "And the longer we wait, the more likely that pressure builds and shifts your windpipe and the blood vessels going to your heart."
Donna feels a cold wave of dread wash over her. She's always prided herself on her level head, but now, she can feel panic creeping in. Harvey's breathing is becoming even more labored, his face contorted with pain.
"What do I do?" Donna's voice is tight, but surprisingly steady despite her racing heartbeat. Harvey looks up at her with a glassy gaze. He doesn't say anything, but she can see the fear lurking behind the stubborn mask he's wearing. His lips part as if he's trying to form words, but he doesn't seem able.
"Text me the address," Avery replies. "Then find a defibrillator. They're usually kept near fire extinguishers. After that, grab a sharp knife, something that will pierce easily, and the thinnest hollow straw you can find – a coffee stirrer or something similar. If I can't make it in time and he starts crashing, we need to be ready to act fast."
The words Avery says next will forever haunt Donna's dreams.
"You might have to stab him in the chest."
Author's note: This chapter just poured out of me. All the support from you wonderful readers really means the world to me. Those of you that don't review, but took the time to reach out in the wake of the negativity – know that you made a difference, and your words of encouragement didn't go unnoticed. I'm still replying to comments and will catch up, I promise. I've just been in the zone and am really excited to get this chapter out early as a thank you to all of you!
Also, the pet store/ aquarium moment might be my favorite of the whole story. There were many different versions, and it's gone through several rewrites, but the result makes me happy. And even though it seems like I'm leaving it on yet another cliffhanger...you've been waiting for the Avery/Donna meeting...how else would it come?
Predictions? Request? Thoughts?
Thank you for sticking with me!
- Kelly