Content Warning: Mild Aggression
I
Ten Years Ago
Donna's knee-deep in her closet, trying to find the perfect pair of heels to wear to her interview at the District Attorney's office, when there's a knock on her front door.
She lets out a groan of frustration and steps back, calling, "It's open! You can just come in!"
Without even turning her head, she can sense Wes walk into her apartment, his presence filling the room. The smell of his cologne and the sound of his footsteps are as familiar to her as her own reflection. He steps up behind her and places his hands on her waist, tugging her close so that her back is pressed up against him. His chin brushes her ear as he nuzzles against her neck, and a tiny shiver runs through her body.
"You should really learn to lock your door. It's dangerous, especially for a pretty thing like you. Any jerk could come strolling into this joint and steal you right out of here."
She rolls her eyes at his overprotective fatherly act, even as she leans into his embrace. She turns in his arms to face him, taking in his tired expression and the dark circles under his eyes. She can always tell when he's overworked or overly worried. She knows that the past few months haven't been easy on him. After his congressional hearings regarding the sex trafficking debacle in New York, he's barely left his office. It's like he feels personally responsible for every death and injury in the city, as if every broken window or homeless youth sleeping on the sidewalk is a failure on his part.
She reaches up and gently runs her fingers through his hair, watching as he closes his eyes and sighs contentedly under her touch. His dark lashes flutter as he blinks lazily, relaxing against her. "You look exhausted. Rough day?"
"Yeah," Wes mutters, resting his forehead against hers. "It's been a long week. All I want to do is take you to bed and pass out."
She laughs softly, cupping his cheek and tilting his face up so she can see his eyes.
"You might be able to pass out, but I'm kind of on a schedule here. I have an interview to get to."
Wes raises an eyebrow. "Interview? For what?"
"Nothing special, just the Manhattan DA's office. There's a secretary position open, and since Kate moved out, the rent has sort of eaten all the life-sludge that was my bank account, so...time to get a real job, I guess. The last thing I want to do is move back in with my parents and be a waitress for the rest of my life."
The crease in Wes' brow deepens. "A secretary?"
There's an edge of incredulity to his voice that she can't quite shake off. "Uh, yeah, what's wrong with being a secretary?"
"Come on, Donna, it's...you...well, I thought you wanted to be an actress. This..." his voice trails off as he searches for the right word "...it's just not what you're supposed to be doing."
"Well, there's nothing wrong with the profession. The pay is okay, the hours are decent, and after ten years I get a pension from the state if all else fails. So no, you're right, it's not what I'm 'supposed to be doing.'" She gives him a weak smile and shrugs her shoulders. "Just gotta work with what life gives ya."
She moves to turn back to her closet, but Wes' hands are still on her waist, holding her in place. There's a sad look in his eyes and a strange, conflicted expression on his face.
"Hey, look, I didn't mean anything by it," he says gently. "It's just, you've got this spark about you, you know? This determination and ambition that other people just don't have. I hate to see you throw that away just because you have to pay the bills."
She squeezes his shoulder. "I know, it's okay. Like I said, I don't have a choice. Besides, acting is a fickle industry, and I'm not getting any younger. Eventually, the time's going come when I have to give up and accept that I just don't have what it takes. Maybe it's already here."
The pain on Wes' face is palpable. He brushes the hair away from her face, stroking her cheek lightly, and traces his finger over the curve of her lips.
"I wish...if there was a way that I could help, I would." His voice is barely above a whisper and his gaze is downcast, as if the burden of failing her is too much for him to bear.
She rests her hand over his and smiles reassuringly. "You are. Being with me like this, it's enough. I don't need or want anything more than you." She brings his hand to her lips and presses a kiss to his knuckles. "Now, the thing is, if I don't find these shoes I'm looking for, I'm going to be late, and probably out of a job before I even set foot in the building. So if you could just–"
She doesn't even get to finish her sentence before Wes is dropping down to his knees in front of her and rifling through her messy collection of footwear. It's a surreal, yet oddly endearing, sight. This powerful, important man on his knees in front of her, rummaging around on the floor of her disorganized closet. He looks up at her through his lashes, his face a mixture of amusement and exasperation.
"Okay, woman, we gotta get you a maid service, or at the very least, a shoe rack."
She laughs and drops down next to him, nudging him with her shoulder. "I'd rather have you on your knees than a maid."
He raises an eyebrow suggestively, his hand closing around a pair of black heels. "Oh, really?"
But the teasing remark dies on his lips as she slips the shoe onto her foot, rolling her ankle and modeling it for him. The way his eyes rake over her body, as if taking in every inch of her, sends a shiver of anticipation up her spine. She sits back and stretches out her legs, crossing one ankle over the other, and smirks at him as he swallows and wets his bottom lip.
"Like what you see?" she asks.
Wes leans over and plants a kiss on her bare knee, his eyes never leaving hers. "Always."
She feels her cheeks flush at the intensity of his stare, and she threads her fingers into his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. He hums, closing his eyes and resting his head against her leg.
"Do you want me to wait for you here?" His voice is low, his gaze heavy.
"That's up to you." She doesn't want to put any pressure on him, doesn't want to seem too eager. "I don't know how long it'll last, and you've already had a long week. Plus, Matt – my new roommate – might be home soon. I don't know how he'd feel having the senator of New York lounging around in his living room."
"Matt? Your new roommate's male?" She doesn't miss the edge in his voice, and the accusatory tone.
"Weston," she tries her best not to smirk and fails, "are you jealous?"
He rises slowly, and helps her to her feet, then guides her backward until she's flush against the wall, trapped, and she'd be a liar if she said she didn't love the possessiveness that's rolled into his eyes.
"Should I be?" He braces a hand on either side of her head, hovering over her, watching, waiting for a response.
"Absolutely not," she whispers, and her hands wander across his chest to his back, and then dip lower, drawing him impossibly closer.
"Why doesn't that reassure me?"
Her nose nuzzles his jaw. "I didn't realize we were exclusive."
His hands, his strong hands, trace the length of her arms, coming to rest at her shoulders. Gently, he lets his thumbs caress the base of her throat, before sliding upwards to her chin, tipping her face up to his. "Are you fucking him?"
She stiffens at his bluntness. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me. Are you–"
"Stop," she says, louder than she means to. "You don't get to do this. You're not my boyfriend. This–" she gestures between them "–isn't anything more than a fuck. You made that abundantly clear from the start. If I want to screw my roommate, or the doorman, or anyone else who's willing to give me what you can't, that's my choice, not yours."
She doesn't know where it comes from, this anger and frustration and hurt, but it's there, bubbling up like boiling water overflowing from a pot. Her words spill out, hot and bitter, lashing at him. Maybe because she hasn't been with anyone else, even though she could, and maybe because she knows he hasn't, either, and dammit, all she really wants is for him to choose her, for once, instead of his image and reputation.
His face is grim, jaw clenched, eyes dark. It's clear he doesn't like what she's just said, doesn't like being on the defensive. His grip on her chin becomes painfully tight.
"Wes–" she gasps, squirming against his touch.
She opens her mouth to protest again, to remind him that he is hurting her, but he doesn't give her the chance. He slams his fist into the wall next to her head, making her jump, and she can see the cracks spreading out like spider webs from his blow.
"Answer me," he says, his voice deadly quiet. "Are you fucking him?"
"No," she says. "Jesus, Wes, I'm not–"
His anger dissipates as quickly as it surfaced, and he looks...horrified? Regretful? Mortified? Some amalgamation of all three? His body slackens, the tension leaking out of him. He releases her from his grasp, his hands moving to his sides, hanging limp. His eyes dart frantically between her face and his hands, like he's a wild animal who's suddenly aware of how easily he could destroy her.
"Donna," his voice cracks, "I'm sorry. That – Jesus." He grips his hair, pulling at the roots, his face contorted in anguish. "I don't..." He meets her gaze and seems to sag in relief. "You're okay. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to–"
She shakes her head, too shocked to say anything. His reaction unnerves her. Weston Harding is generally a quiet, reserved, cautious man, and he rarely shows more emotion than a hint of melancholy. How did it get here, her bracing herself against the wall, wanting to shrink away from him, and his face a mask of grief, regret...regret, oh god, is he regretting ever touching her? That realization is worse than his harsh words and actions combined, and it nearly drives her to tears.
"No. It's – please don't be – " She closes her eyes, swallowing past the thick knot in her throat. She attempts a weak laugh, one that doesn't quite make it out of her, and more seriously adds, "I'm fine."
But she's not fine, not really. And he doesn't seem fine, either.
"God," he murmurs, his eyes wide and desperate and pleading. "Donna, I'm so sorry. It's just...the thought of another man touching you..." His breath hitches, and his expression turns despondent. "I'm sorry," he whispers again. "I've never...I don't know what came over me. I just..." His voice trails off, uncertainty creeping in, and for the first time since she's known him, the man looks lost.
The desire to comfort him, despite the fear that lingers, is overwhelming. She lifts a trembling hand, reaching for him, hesitating for only a moment before brushing his cheek, and the way he leans into her touch, as if her simple gesture is all that's keeping him tethered to reality, breaks her heart.
"Wes," she says softly, "it's okay."
"It's not," he says, his tone resolute. "It's not okay. I lost control. I put my hands on you. That's not okay."
She knows he's right. A violent display like that shouldn't be excused, it should be a deal-breaker, it should set off a million warning signals in her head. But she looks at him and sees the honesty, the sincerity, in his eyes, the remorse and contrition and self-loathing, and all she wants to do is take away his pain, to make him understand how much he means to her.
She tries to brush his hair back into place, but her hands are shaking. She hates this, hates the fear she feels, hates that there's a part of him that seems so unfamiliar to her, hates that her own body is betraying her in such a humiliating way.
He notices. Of course he does. And just when she thinks she's done a reasonably good job at collecting herself, she's unable to stop a tear from spilling down her cheek. He tenses and shies away from her hand, before turning and retreating a few steps, as if making sure there's plenty of distance between them. He looks up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly, composing himself, before lowering his gaze to her again. "I should go."
"Don't."
He hesitates, and she wants to rewind time and erase the last few minutes, to recreate the happy banter they were sharing, to capture his bright smile and that easy, devilish twinkle in his eye. She's the one who drew this into the open, she realizes. She's the one who sparked his jealousy and allowed it to flare out of control, who chose to provoke him. This is her fault, and she can't just let it go. She has to fix it.
"Don't," she repeats. "Just...don't. This isn't anything we can't get past, it's...it's just a misunderstanding." She can hear the desperation in her voice, can tell that she's clutching at straws. "We're okay. Really. I'm fine."
She expects him to bolt for the door, to make a hasty exit and avoid any sort of hard emotions or difficult discussions. She braces herself, ready for him to brush her off, his good-natured, easy going manner taking over.
Instead, he sits on the edge of her unmade bed, resting his forearms on his thighs, staring at the floor. He speaks with a flat, bleak tone. "I need you to hear me, okay? I meant what I said. I've never lost control like that. Ever."
"Okay."
"I've never...before, with any woman...it's never even been an issue. But I've never felt the way I do about you with anyone else, either. I always thought love was like Santa Claus. It was just some nonsense story that you learned to believe in, even if you knew it wasn't real, just to make yourself feel better, but..." he looks up at her, holding her gaze for a moment before looking back at the ground "...I don't know how else to explain it. Everything you do, everything I feel when I'm with you, it's like you've climbed inside my skin and wrapped yourself around my heart and I'm just powerless to fight it. No matter how hard I try."
Her cheeks are wet, she realizes, and she can't tell if she's crying because he's telling her all these wonderful things, or because she can see in his eyes that none of them change the fact that he won't choose her. She bites her lip, afraid to say anything, waiting for him to continue.
He sighs and runs a hand over his face, glancing up at her again. She can see the anger and frustration and sadness warring within him, the struggle evident in the lines on his forehead and the rigid set of his shoulders.
"I can't be with you," he says, his voice rough and edged with frustration. "It's...Jesus. You're twenty - what? Five? Six? - years younger than me. I'm not looking for passion, Donna, I'm looking for stability. I'm looking for someone who's more of a – " He grimaces, seeming to hate the phrase before he even finishes it. "Partner. An equal. And you're just starting out. And god, I don't even know what I'm saying. Like it fucking matters, I'm already feeling whatever the hell this is for you, aren't I? Christ, I can't believe I let myself get into this."
He stands, crosses the room, and stares out the window, his whole frame heaving, as if the weight of his emotions are too heavy to bear.
"The loss of control I just had… That's not who I am. That's not the kind of man I want to be. I have responsibilities. Obligations. People who depend on me. I have a life I've worked so goddamn hard to create, and I'm not just going to throw it away because I want something - someone - so badly. I've built a career on careful deliberation, calculated risk taking, and avoiding impulsive decisions. I don't do irrational things. I don't just act without thinking."
There's a steely, miserable resolve to his voice now, and it's so much worse than his anger earlier. Anger, she could understand. Anger, she could work with, could try to diffuse. But this resignation, this guilt, this...whatever else it is she's sensing from him...she doesn't know how to respond.
"What are you trying to say, Wes?
"I don't want to feel this way."
What can she say to that? I'm sorry I'm such a shitty person to love? Because, clearly, she is. To have the man of her dreams tell her all the beautiful, lovely, terrifying things that she makes him feel, only to say that he doesn't want them, to use such stark language to define their relationship and what it's lacking, breaks her heart.
He meets her eyes, and the agony in his expression cuts her to the core. He takes a shaky breath, his hands curling into tight fists. He shakes his head. "What am I going to do with you?" he asks miserably.
"You don't have to do anything." She swallows past the lump in her throat, the tears spilling down her cheeks again. "You can walk away, Wes."
"I can't walk away. You have no idea, do you? You have no fucking clue what you've done to me. Somehow, you've crawled so deep inside me that you've ruined me, you've made me yours, and now, I can't – I can't – "
"Wes." She finds herself moving forward and brushing his knuckles. His hands are clenched in balls, and she loosens his fingers and presses a kiss to the backs of them, willing him to be calm, to stop raging at himself. She searches his face desperately, begging him with her eyes to not withdraw from her so completely.
"I don't know what to do with these feelings, Donna. It's like I'm not myself anymore when I'm with you. I just want to give in, give you everything I have. I want to give you the world. But I – " He gives her a pained, pleading look, as if he's begging her to understand, to spare him from himself. "I can't."
She nods, realizing he's made his decision, that it's over. She inhales sharply, bracing herself against the pain that seems to be tearing a hole in her chest. "I know."
She's crying now, actually crying, her vision blurred with tears, and all she can do is swipe at her cheeks.
His posture relaxes somewhat, and he softens at the sound of her sob, stepping towards her. "Donna..."
"It's okay." Her attempt at a brave face is a pathetic one. But damn it all, if it's going to be the last thing she gets to offer him, she's going to offer it. "Really."
He sighs, an eternity condensed into one small exhalation. He's quiet for a long moment, and then he reaches out, slowly, hesitantly, his gaze careful as his fingers brush her face, as if searching for some glimmer of strength, some sign of her tenacity to hold her own. She supposes he must find something in her expression, because his next breath is deeper, fuller, stronger.
"Pack your things."
The change in tone is jarring, from sorrow to matter-of-factness. It throws her so completely that, despite her misery, she can't help the question that escapes her: "...what?"
"Pack your things," he repeats. "I'm taking you to my place. Tonight."
For a moment, she is stunned, simply unable to process his words, let alone his intent. And then, slowly, the meaning begins to sink in. Her relief swells until it feels like a dam breaking, and she lets out a breathless, guttural half-laugh half-sob, still not quite believing.
"Really?" She hates how hopeful and stupid she sounds.
The ghost of a smile flickers across his face, then fades. "Yeah. Really."
She sniffs, wiping at her eyes, which doesn't really do much but spread her tears and smear her mascara. "What about your...issues? I mean, you said that–"
"We'll figure it out." His arms come around her, and he gently dries her tears with the pad of his thumb.
Inexplicably, this sends another flood of tears streaming down her cheeks. She's so tired, suddenly, so completely wrung out by the rush of relief and the release of the tension she didn't even realize she'd been carrying. She leans her head against his chest, listening to the sound of his heartbeat.
"I'm going to be so late for that interview," she murmurs.
The laugh he lets out is a breathy, tired one, but genuine. He drops a kiss on the top of her head. "I can do you one better than a receptionist position," he whispers. "Anything you want. You can write your own ticket."
It's a ridiculous, preposterous idea, but she closes her eyes and allows herself to imagine the possibilities. Her. The senator's girlfriend. Maybe he'll win another term, maybe he'll even become the president one day. The images flash through her head in a pleasant daze. Five years from now, ten, her and him, holding hands on a stage, under a crowd's applause. Maybe a kid or two running between them, knocking them off-balance. Maybe her on a career path to doing something she loves. A lifetime of nights in each other's arms.
What future could be better than this?
She lifts her gaze to his, looking him in the eye, and swallowing past the raw, exposed, vulnerable feeling blooming in her heart.
"I love you," she whispers.
"I love you, too," he says.
She searches his face for any hint of uncertainty, looking for a chink in his resolve, a reason not to hope, for surely this perfect picture isn't possible, this isn't how life works out, is it? How does she know it's real? He notices her uncertainty, but if he feels uneasy, he doesn't show it. Instead, he smiles, his eyes crinkling with kindness, and kisses her. "Come on. Let's get the hell out of here."
II
He should be working on one of the dozen cases he's juggling at the moment, but instead Harvey is clicking through gossip blogs, skimming articles speculating about Donna and Senator Harding's wedding postponement.
There's still no official statement from either of them, just rumors and unsubstantiated stories from "sources close to the couple" claiming the Senator is too busy with his campaign, or that Donna is playing hard-to-get because she wants an even bigger rock, or that there's trouble in paradise and their relationship is in the tank. It's all clickbait garbage, but he can't seem to stop clicking, devouring every last detail. He hates that he's tracking this bullshit so closely, but he can't bring himself to stop.
He doesn't know what he's hoping to find, but he keeps searching anyway. He can't explain it, even to himself. Maybe he just wants some kind of confirmation that they're actually separated – a way of clearing his conscience. Or maybe he's hoping to find something that will ease the tightness in his chest when he thinks about her, which is pretty much constantly these days. Or maybe he's just torturing himself because he's a masochist. Whatever the reason, it's fucking stupid and he should stop.
He won't, of course. But he should.
He closes the browser window and sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face, and god, he still smells her on his skin, and he's not sure if that's worse than or better than not being able to smell her at all. He needs to shower, burn these clothes, have a goddamn lobotomy.
What the hell was he thinking?
Again?
Twice now they've given in to this insanity, double that if he counts the times they kissed in the throes of rage or lust or whatever the fuck else this thing between them is. Not to mention all the innuendo, sexual tension, lingering glances, and emotionally charged moments they've shared since that first deposition. He's lost count of how many times they've crossed the line – he's not sure it even exists anymore. It's like some cosmic joke that he can't seem to stop falling into again and again.
And what's worse, she seems to be just as powerless to resist him as he is to resist her. She wants him too, he knows that, she told him as much in that damn conference room, and fuck if he isn't already hard again just thinking about it. He wishes he could go back and relive it all over again, if only to make it last longer, but at the same time, he wants to wipe his memory completely of everything that's happened between them. It would certainly make his life a hell of a lot easier.
He shakes his head, trying to clear it. He needs to stop thinking about her, needs to get his shit together. He has work to do, a career to salvage, an election to win. He doesn't have time for this, whatever the hell this is.
"Hey," Mike says, leaning in his doorway. "Got a sec?"
Harvey closes his laptop, grateful for the distraction. "What's up?"
Mike takes a step into the office, a grin on his face. "I've been doing some digging."
"Yeah? Find anything interesting?"
"You could say that." Mike plops down in one of the chairs in front of Harvey's desk and leans forward eagerly. "I may have found us a star witness. An engineer who worked for Wolcott for over 20 years. He was there during the entire period we're alleging the fraud took place."
Harvey arches an eyebrow. "Go on."
"His name is Kevin Reed. According to his personnel file, he was let go about a year ago. Officially, it was a layoff due to budget cuts. But get this – less than a month later, he files a wrongful termination suit against Wolcott."
"Let me guess," Harvey says, "the suit was settled out of court?"
Mike nods. "Bingo. And the terms were sealed. But I did some more digging, and it looks like Reed walked away with a pretty hefty payout."
Harvey's mind is racing, the fog of Donna-related thoughts finally clearing. "They bought his silence."
"That's what I'm thinking," Mike says. "This guy could be the key to proving Wolcott's entire scheme."
"So what's the catch?" Harvey asks, sensing there's more to the story.
Mike's expression sobers. "Reed's dying. Stage 4 colon cancer. He's in hospice care in Montana."
Harvey absorbs this information, weighing their options. "How long does he have?"
"Hard to say for sure, but from what I've gathered, not long. Weeks, maybe a month or two at most."
Harvey nods slowly. "We need to get to him before it's too late. And before Donna catches wind of what we're up to and tries to shut us down."
"I already made the arrangements," Mike says, holding up a plane ticket. "You're on the first flight out tomorrow morning, deposition set up for 3pm local time. Reed seems eager to talk, so I don't anticipate any pushback."
Harvey smiles, impressed. "Good work."
Mike grins back at him, clearly pleased with himself. "Thanks. I haven't alerted Donna's team yet. I know I'm the relay boy between you two since your weird frenemies thing has gone Cold War, but she scares me, and telling her that we have a new key witness to interview might piss her off enough to try to stab me with a pen. And then telling her she has to go to the Ass-end of Nowhere, Montana if she wants to sit the deposition..." He shudders. "I'm not built for that kind of pressure."
Harvey snorts. "Chicken."
"Bawk bawk." Mike gets up and heads toward the door. "Get some rest tonight, old man. You have an early flight."
Harvey nods, already pulling out his laptop again, anxious to review everything Mike dug up on Reed. "Thanks, Mike."
"Anytime." Mike steps out of the office, closing the door behind him, and Harvey settles back in his chair, his mind buzzing with possibilities. If this guy can give them the testimony they need to prove Wolcott's wrongdoing, it could be the breakthrough they've been waiting for.
He turns back to his computer screen, his thoughts drifting once again to Donna, and how this latest development will no doubt piss her off. The corners of his mouth turn up slightly at the thought. It's petty, he knows, but he can't help but take some small satisfaction in knowing that she'll have to fly out to some godforsaken corner of the country to try to counter whatever witness testimony Reed might provide. It'll be a fitting punishment for the hell she's put him through over the past few months.
He picks up his phone, debating whether or not to text her and rub it in a little. An email would be more professional, but that's not really their style, and it wouldn't quite carry the same weight. He pauses, his thumb hovering over the screen. What he'd really like is to see her face when she finds out about Reed. He wants to watch the moment when her expression goes from annoyance to shock to fury. He wants to be there when she realizes she's been beaten again.
Harvey taps his phone against his chin thoughtfully. He could go over to Pearson Wheeler Paulsen now and tell her in person. It's not like it's late, just a little after 6pm. Besides, they both know he's ruthless, and she knows he's got no conscience when it comes to winning. He's sure she'd expect it of him. Hell, she'd probably do the same thing if the roles were reversed. He has a reputation to maintain, after all.
Before he can second guess himself, he grabs his jacket and heads out of the office, a smirk on his face. If this isn't the perfect way to end a long day, he doesn't know what is.
III
Donna paces her office, the late afternoon sun filtering through the window, bathing the room in a golden light. The pretrial hearing still weighs heavily on her mind. She replays every moment, every word, every look over and over, torturing herself with the memories.
The more she thinks about it, the angrier she gets at herself. How could she have been so reckless? She can't believe she let it happen again. After all her promises to herself, after everything she swore to do differently, she threw it all away in the blink of an eye. And now she's left with this heavy, gnawing feeling in her gut – guilt, shame, regret. It's like a ball of lead sitting inside her, weighing her down, making it hard to breathe.
And then there's her confrontation with Wes. She knows it wasn't smart to challenge him like that, to push his buttons, but she couldn't help herself. The words just came pouring out, and before she knew it, she was saying things she never thought she'd say. She meant every word, though, and part of her is glad that she finally had the courage to speak her mind. But another part of her wishes she could take it all back. Because even if she means it, even if she feels it deep in her bones, she knows it's not what he needs to hear right now. Not with the nomination looming over him and the pressure of a presidency bearing down on his shoulders.
So here she is, stuck in this impossible situation, caught between wanting to stand up for herself and needing to support him. And she's so sick of feeling like this, of being torn between two sides of herself, always having to choose one or the other, never finding any peace.
A soft knock on her door jolts her out of her thoughts. Samantha walks in and closes the door behind her, looking as fresh and unbothered as ever. Donna can't help but feel a twinge of jealousy at her composure.
"I heard pretrial was quite the shitshow," she says.
Donna sighs, running a hand through her hair. "You could say that."
Sam crosses the room and perches on the edge of Donna's desk, watching her carefully. "That bad, huh?"
"Let's just say Harvey and I won't be winning any awards for courtroom decorum anytime soon." Donna resumes pacing, biting her lip nervously. "I lost my cool. Said some things I shouldn't have. Then he said some things he shouldn't have, and..." She trails off, unable to finish the sentence.
Samantha raises an eyebrow. "And?"
Donna swallows. Her heart is slamming against her ribcage; it feels full and heavy like it's going to explode out of her chest. Her hands are trembling slightly. "I don't know," she whispers.
Samantha gives her a knowing look. "Oh, I think you do."
Donna stops pacing and turns to face Samantha, leaning against the windowsill. She closes her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath before speaking again. "Harvey and I... We..." She pauses, struggling to find the right words. "We had a...moment. In a conference room on the fourth floor. During recess."
Sam stares at her, shocked. "You didn't."
"I did."
"Are you fucking insane?"
Donna winces. "I know, I know! It was stupid and reckless and completely inappropriate. I don't know what I was thinking."
Samantha shakes her head, still processing the revelation. "Did anyone see you?"
"No, I don't think so." Donna wrings her hands together anxiously. "It was so fast...one minute we were arguing, the next we were..." She trails off, blushing furiously.
Samantha sighs. "Jesus, Donna. I told you to stay the hell away from him, not drag him into an empty conference room for a quickie."
Donna cringes. "I know. I'm sorry."
"You need to get a grip. You can't keep letting this happen. If Weston starts suspecting something..." Sam doesn't finish the thought, but she doesn't have to. The bruises on Donna's skin are testament enough.
Donna runs a hand through her hair, swallowing back tears. "I know," she whispers. "God, I just... I don't know what this is. With Harvey. I mean, I know what it is. But I don't know how to stop it. Every time I'm around him, I just...lose control." She lets out a shaky breath. "God, I'm so fucked up."
Samantha doesn't argue with her. She just looks at her, silent and solemn, a hint of pity in her gaze.
"Okay, look, we need to figure out a way to fix this before it spirals out of control. Have you opened your own bank account yet?"
Donna nods. "Yes, last week. HR is putting five percent of my paycheck into it automatically."
"Good. That's good." Samantha stands up and walks over to Donna, placing her hands on her shoulders and looking her in the eyes. "I know this is scary, but you're doing the right thing. You're taking control of your life, and I know that's not easy. But you have to stay focused, okay? Don't let yourself get distracted by whatever's going on between you and Harvey."
Donna nods again, unable to speak past the lump in her throat.
Samantha squeezes her shoulders gently. "Just keep your head down, do your job, and stay out of trouble. And whatever you do, don't let Weston catch wind of this. Got it?"
Before Donna can respond, there's another knock at the door. She looks up to see Wes standing outside the glass wall, holding a bag of takeout and a bottle of wine. He looks tired but still manages a small smile when he catches her eye.
"Speak of the fucking devil," Samantha mutters under her breath. She shoots Donna one last warning look before walking over and opening the door for him. "Weston."
"Samantha," he says, his tone even and polite as always. "Sorry. Am I interrupting?"
"Little bit, yeah," she says bluntly.
He nods, unbothered by her sarcasm. "Word around town is that the Paulsen-Specter pretrial got a little heated." He looks at Donna and winks. "You let the ADA have it, huh?"
Donna manages a smile, the knot in her stomach tightening. "That's one way to put it."
Wes smirks, holding up the bag of food and the bottle of wine. "Well, good thing I came bearing gifts to soothe the savage beast. Your favorite, from that little Thai place on 34th." He turns back to Samantha. "You hungry? There's plenty."
"Nope. I'm good." Samantha gives him a polite smile, but there's a cold edge to her voice that makes Donna wince.
Wes either doesn't notice or doesn't care. He nods, his gaze shifting back to Donna. "I can just leave these with you and get out of your hair if you're busy."
Donna glances at Samantha, who just gives her a subtle shake of the head. She sighs. "No, it's okay. We were just finishing up." She gives Samantha an apologetic look. "We'll talk later?"
Samantha nods. "Sure. You know where to find me." She walks past Wes without another word, leaving the two of them alone.
Wes raises an eyebrow as he watches her go. "Samantha's a little intense, isn't she?"
"No more than usual," Donna says, trying to keep her tone light.
Wes lets out a soft chuckle. "Right. Well, anyway..." He holds up the bag and bottle again. "I hope you're hungry."
Donna manages another small smile. "Starving."
Wes sets the food and wine on her desk, then turns back to her. He hesitates for a moment before taking a step toward her, his expression softening. "Listen, about this morning... I'm sorry if I was harsh with you. I didn't mean to lose my temper like that."
Donna swallows, her heart pounding in her chest. "It's okay," she says quietly.
He shakes his head, sighing. "No, it's not. You're right, I've been...off, lately. I'm trying to get better, but I know I still have a long way to go." He reaches out and cups her face in his hand, his thumb gently stroking her cheek. "You said you needed something tangible from me to show you I'm serious about getting help, so... I enrolled in a stress management seminar. It's in the evenings for three weeks, twice a week. I know it's not much, but..." He trails off, looking down at her with those piercing blue eyes, his gaze filled with love and regret and hope. "It's a start, right?"
Donna doesn't answer right away, her mind racing as she tries to process this new information. Part of her wants to believe that he's finally making an effort to change, to be better. But another part of her still feels wary, still holds onto the fear and distrust that has grown inside her over the last few years. She knows he means well, but she also knows how quickly things can go south with him. She doesn't want to get her hopes up only to have them crushed again. She lets out a shaky breath, reaching up to place her hand over his.
"It's a start," she whispers, nodding. "Thank you."
Wes smiles, relieved. He leans down and kisses her softly, his lips warm and gentle against hers. "I love you, Donna," he murmurs. "And I'm going to do everything I can to be the man you deserve."
Donna closes her eyes, letting herself get lost in the kiss for a moment, in the feeling of his lips on hers and his hands on her skin. She wishes it could always be like this between them – tender and loving and safe. But she knows that's not reality. Not with Wes. Because as much as he loves her, he's still broken inside, still struggling to control his demons. And as much as she wants to believe he can change, she knows deep down that there's no guarantee he ever will.
And then there's her own demons – her subservient tendencies, her need to please, and the shameful, crushing fear that she is nothing without him. And god do her demons love to dance with his, twirling around each other, magnifying their effects.
She knows this dance well, but tonight it's different. There's a tension between them, an unspoken understanding that things have shifted, that the balance of power has been upset. He doesn't press for control, instead waiting for her to make the first move, and she's almost afraid to, but something in her cracks open. It's small and uncertain, but there. A tentative and fragile thing. She doesn't know what it means yet, but she can feel it growing inside her, taking root.
She pulls back and looks up at him, her heart beating fast as she makes a decision. She lifts a hand to his cheek, stroking it softly with her thumb. "I love you too," she says. "But in addition to the seminars, I think we need some time apart."
Wes blinks, startled by her words. "Donna–"
"Not forever," she says quickly, not wanting him to get upset. "Just...until things calm down with the nomination. Until you feel more in control again."
He looks at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he lets out a deep breath and leans back against the edge of her desk, staring down at the floor.
"Donna..."
"I know it's a bad time," she says softly, "with everything going on. But I really think we need it. I... God, I know if I go home tonight, we're going to fall back into the same pattern. The same routine. And it's not just you, I'm complicit in it, too." She swallows thickly, feeling a wave of shame wash over her as she admits her own faults. "It's my fault, too. I let you. I let you..." Her voice cracks and she turns away from him, running a hand through her hair while breathing in deeply, trying to calm herself down.
"I can't do this anymore, Wes. I just...I can't." She glances at him again, and sees the pain and confusion on his face. But she knows he understands, that he knows what she means. That it's not just the abuse. It's everything. The power struggles, the games, the control. All of it. "Please."
Wes nods slowly, still looking down at the floor. He doesn't say anything for a long time. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet and strained. "Okay."
Donna breathes out a sigh of relief. "Thank you." She walks over to him and places her hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat against her palm. "It's not forever. Just...until we figure things out."
He lifts his head and looks at her, his eyes filled with love and sorrow.
"I can't lose you, Donna."
"You won't," she whispers, leaning in to kiss him softly. "You're not."
It sounds like a lie. Maybe it is. But they both need it right now. They need this illusion of hope. Because if they don't have hope, then what else do they have?
IV
Harvey steps into the lobby of Pearson Wheeler Paulsen just after dusk settles over the city, the lights from skyscrapers reflected in the glass around him. He doesn't bother with a visitor's badge, catching sight of a familiar figure at the elevator bank – Jessica Pearson, the firm's managing partner, stands waiting with an air of effortless authority. Harvey can't resist the urge to engage.
"Well, if it isn't the queen of the damned herself," he says, sidling up beside her.
Jessica doesn't even deign to look at him, her gaze fixed straight ahead. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"
Harvey grins. "Come on, you know who I am. Best ADA in the city? Ring any bells?"
The elevator arrives with a soft chime, and they step inside. Jessica finally turns to face him, one eyebrow arched in perfect disdain. "Ah yes, Harvey Specter. The man who thinks a law degree and a sharp suit make him god's gift to the courtroom."
"They do when you wear them as well as I do," he says, adjusting his tie with exaggerated flair.
Jessica's lips twitch, the barest hint of amusement breaking through her stern face. "And yet, here you are, slumming it in our humble offices. I hope you're not lost."
"Just here spreading a little joy and sunshine, as always," Harvey says, his tone light but his eyes sharp. "Thought I'd pop in and give Donna the heads up that she's about to get buried by my new star witness."
The elevator doors slide open and Jessica steps out into the hallway, Harvey close behind. "I see," she says dryly. "And by 'spreading joy and sunshine' you mean gloating."
Harvey flashes her another grin. "Semantics."
As they make their way down the corridor, Harvey's heart rate kicks up a notch, his palms suddenly damp with sweat. It's only been a few hours since their encounter in the conference room, but it feels like an eternity. He wonders if she'll be as eager to see him again as he is to see her.
But nothing could have prepared him for the sight that greets him as they draw closer to Donna's office. There, framed in the doorway, illuminated by the soft glow of the city lights outside her window, is Donna – standing with Weston Harding, her arms wrapped around his neck as she leans in for a kiss. Harvey stops dead in his tracks, his jaw clenching as he watches them embrace, his cocky demeanor cracking as a torrent of emotions surges through him – jealousy, longing, guilt, and a complicated mix of desire and self-loathing that threatens to overwhelm him.
Beside him, Jessica has stopped too, staring at the couple with an unreadable expression on her face. He senses her shift, her sharp eyes now turning their attention on him. Harvey knows she can smell blood in the water, can sense his weakness like a shark on the prowl.
He grits his teeth, fighting to keep his composure even though it feels like he's been stabbed in the chest.
"Came to bury her, huh?" Jessica says quietly.
Harvey doesn't answer, watching as Donna and Weston pull apart and share a look so intimate that it makes him sick. He swallows hard, struggling to breathe past the tightness in his throat.
"It's going to take a lot more than one witness to do that," Jessica continues, her attention moving back to the couple. "I've seen Donna crawl out of some narrow holes. She's a fighter. And a damn good lawyer, even if her court decorum needs work."
There's something in the woman's voice that Harvey can't quite place, but it seems almost like admiration tinged with something slightly sad. The undercurrents are deep and multi-layered, but Harvey has no interest in delving into them further. His own heart is bleeding at the sight of Donna and Wes in such an intimate embrace, and he's desperate to get out of here before he does something he regrets.
"Yeah, well, she won't be crawling out of this one," he says, taking a step back, but before he can turn around and retreat, Donna glances over and catches his gaze, freezing him in place.
Her eyes widen, and a flicker of something - Fear? Panic? Guilt? - passes over her face before she quickly schools her features into a neutral expression. Wes notices her gaze shift, and he follows it to Harvey. His brow furrows only slightly and then he grins, and it's not smug or self-satisfied, but warm and genuine. He doesn't seem threatened by Harvey's presence at all, only slightly curious. Harvey envies that composure.
Wes murmurs something to Donna and then releases her, walking to get the door. He nods to Jessica, and extends a hand out to Harvey. "That courtroom brawl wasn't enough for you, huh, Specter? Back for round two?"
Harvey stares at the senator's hand, his own hovering awkwardly in mid-air. The same hand that was down Donna's pants just hours earlier, inside her, bringing her to orgasm. The thought is suffocating in a surreal, erotic, horrifying way. He grimaces. Donna shuts her eyes and looks away, seeming to sense the turn in his thoughts, and Wes' head tilts just slightly, curious at Harvey's hesitancy.
He finally takes Wes' hand, gripping it tightly, trying to get a read on the man. He seems so friendly and unassuming. There's no trace of jealousy or insecurity in his expression. No hint of any kind of animosity in him. Harvey looks over at Donna, his heart aching as he takes in her anxious expression. She looks like she's about to throw up.
"Can't help myself," Harvey manages to say. "Just couldn't wait to see the look on your fiancée's face when I give her my good news."
Wes laughs, clapping Harvey on the shoulder with his free hand. "Yeah, well, I don't want to be anywhere near here when you do that. So if you'll excuse me..." He lets go of Harvey's hand and turns to Jessica. "Do you mind walking me out? I have a car waiting for me in the garage and I'd hate to keep him idling there any longer than necessary."
"Of course," Jessica says, giving him a polite smile. She looks at Donna and Harvey, her gaze sharp and assessing. "Keep the blood off the carpets, please. They were just cleaned."
Harvey nods curtly, watching as she and Wes make their way down the hallway, chatting amiably as they disappear around the corner. The moment they're out of sight, he turns to Donna, his expression darkening. "Well, wasn't that a cozy little scene."
Donna crosses her arms over her chest, her posture rigid. "What do you want, Harvey?"
Harvey raises an eyebrow, affecting an air of nonchalance he doesn't feel. "What, no warm welcome? I'm hurt, Donna. And here I thought we were getting along so well earlier."
Her eyes flash dangerously. "I'm not in the mood for your games tonight. Say what you came to say and get out."
He tilts his head, studying her for a moment. She's still wearing her black pantsuit from court, her hair loose and falling around her shoulders in soft waves. She looks beautiful and defiant, but there's an undercurrent of tension in her posture, a faint tremor in her hands that betrays her unease.
"I found your friend in Montana."
Donna doesn't look surprised or angry at the revelation. Instead, she seems resigned, as if she'd been expecting it all along. "Of course you did," she says quietly. "Well done." She points to the door behind him. "Now leave."
He doesn't like her like this, cold and depleted. He'd rather they be at each other's throats. Anything is better than the apathy on her face.
"I'm flying out in the morning to depose him. I know it's short notice, but as you're likely well aware, he's on his deathbed. I can't risk losing this opportunity."
"Jesus Christ," Donna mutters, rubbing her forehead tiredly. "That gives me no time to prep. What am I supposed to do now? I can't just pack up and leave tomorrow. I have clients here who are depending on me."
Harvey shrugs. "You can file an Objection and Rescheduling, but by that time I'll already be halfway to the ass-end of nowhere. You might as well get on a plane with me tomorrow morning and make the best of it. Plenty of conference rooms and hotel beds to share in Bozeman. It'll be romantic."
She glares at him, her expression fierce and dangerous. "What the hell is wrong with you?" she says, stepping closer to him. "Are you actually enjoying this? Does this get you off? The idea that my life is falling apart because of you?"
Harvey matches her glare, refusing to back down. "This isn't about my enjoyment. It's about the law. If you can't attend the deposition, then send Wheeler, or better yet, sit this one out and let your client settle. You know I've got you beat."
Her face falls at his words, and for a moment, he regrets them. She's not herself, and it's bothering him. He wants her to fight back. He wants her to get in his face and tell him to fuck off. He wants to see that fire in her eyes again.
"Donna -"
"Thank you for the notice," she says stiffly. "Send your itinerary to my secretary, I'll make arrangements." She looks away, swallowing thickly, like there's something caught in her throat. "Now please go. I can't... I can't do this right now."
He stares at her for a long moment, trying to understand what's going through her mind. But there's no explanation, no epiphany that comes. She's just standing there, wounded and silent, looking small and lost. He has half a mind to cross the room and hold her, to find that damn vulnerability from this morning and bring it out into the light so they can talk about it. But he doesn't. He can't. Because they're not in the safety of a nameless conference room where the world stopped. They're here and the rules are different and as desperately as he needs this connection with her, he has no right to it.
God, he's a fucking moron. What is he doing? Why did he come here?
Because you're in love with her, you goddamn idiot.
His stomach lurches at the thought, and he grits his teeth against the harsh reality of it. It's not supposed to be like this. He's not supposed to feel this way about anyone, let alone her. But here he is, watching her turn away from him, the pain in his chest growing stronger with every step she takes toward her desk, and he's so fucking helpless to stop it that it makes him feel sick.
He's in love with a woman who's engaged to be married. A woman who belongs to another man. A woman who will never, ever be his. And the worst part is, he knew all of that from the very start. He knew it, and he did it anyway. Because he's a selfish son of a bitch who's willing to risk everything just for a chance to be with her, even if it means destroying her happiness in the process.
Jesus. He really is a monster. No wonder she hates him.
Harvey stares at her for a few more seconds, unable to form any more words. Finally, he nods and leaves, without saying a word, striding down the corridor, through the lobby, and out the building, desperate to get as far away from her as he can.
He never should have touched her. Never should have crossed that line. But it's too late now. The damage is done.
And god only knows what Montana will bring.
A/N: I'm deviating slightly from my original plan. I figured before things start to get extremely messy with the trial starting and feeling getting deeper and all the other stakes that have lined up, that I'd give you all a little "calm" before the storm. So, in other words, the Montana chapter hasn't been written yet. The next update will likely take a little longer to come than previous updates. Thank you for your patience while I figure out what the hell I'm doing. Lol.
And thank you all for your lovely reviews/comments. I hope I don't disappoint.
