the water was covered with blue leaves
Disclaimer: I do not own any part of Suits.
Note: originally posted on my Tumblr, but I figured it was quite long and I enjoyed writing it, so here you go. A "I am miserable and speculating about next week" fic.
Donna allows herself exactly one week to grieve.
She cries, she breaks a plate, she eats an entire pint of ice cream while on the phone with her best friend, and falls asleep to her sad playlist playing on repeat.
No one tells her, "It was just a job." No one says, "There will be other bosses."
Because it wasn't, and there won't be, and that's the only reason Donna picks herself up that Wednesday morning and allows her mother to take her out for lunch.
She might be alright, eventually, but before the thought can fully form in her mind later that night, the phone rings.
There has to be something wrong. Her intuition is almost never off. And it isn't now.
"It's Harvey, you have to stop him, he's losing it Donna—"
"Slow down Mike, tell me—"
It comes in short spurts, so unlike the steady rattle of Mike's knowledge that Donna has come to know. She has to cobble the story together, and by the time Mike has finished, practically out of breath, his voice is tremulous and thin, and Donna is already out the door.
The teeth of Harvey's spare key dig into her hand all the way up to his door. Donna bursts in to find Harvey without his jacket or tie, a glass of amber liquid halfway to his mouth.
His expression flashes back to the elevators from all those days ago and she almost loses it, right then and there on the pristine floors of Harvey's apartment, where she hasn't set foot in years, but within a breath he is Harvey again, so she can be Donna.
"I'm gonna kill that kid."
She considers laughing.
"Don't do this, Harvey."
"What is it do you think I'm doing, Donna?"
It's almost painful to say.
Harvey's face could be carved from stone. Donna takes her chance, advancing slowly as though she's trying to wrangle a hissing cat. "How many times have you gone this week?"
"You don't keep track of me anymore."
That stings more than she's willing to admit, but Donna rallies her expression as she breaches the other side of the counter and comes face to face with her—(friend? barely. boss? not anymore. what else is there?)—with Harvey and finally looks.
His face is pale, his eyes dark and shadowed—are his cheekbones sharper? Has he been eating, let alone getting enough sleep? The guilt rises up in a wave. Donna's hand is reaching to touch Harvey's cheek without even really meaning to.
He lets her.
This is bad.
"I'm so sorry."
Harvey looks so pained in that moment that Donna is nearly breathless from it. It hurts. But she didn't come here to beg for forgiveness. She reaches her other hand around to his that still has a grip on that glass.
Her hand trembles.
Harvey's as steady as a rock, but he allows her to guide the glass to the countertop and lets go. "What are you doing?"
"Getting you to bed. You're a mess."
His face screws up in classic indignation, but Donna is having none of it. She grabs him by the sleeve of his suit - one of his least favourites - and leads him like a bewildered child to his bedroom.
She whirls to face him. "Just- just let me do this, Harvey, okay?" His eyes focus to catch hers and her heart does something very painful (and very old) in her chest and Donna can feel desperation choking her words, tears screaming in her throat, but she cuts them all down.
Harvey's eyes are so filled with that unnameable parting emotion that it becomes impossible to look at him. But he says nothing else, so Donna concentrates on the buttons of his shirt.
When Harvey's left only in a thin cotton t shirt and his boxers, she pushes him ever so slightly backwards onto his bed.
He looks a little dumbfounded; maybe the exhaustion is finally catching up to him. Donna tries to smile but it doesn't quite come out right. She also tries to leave, but before she can even clear the end of the bed, he grabs her hand.
She wants to wrench it out of his grip, because this is familiar and scary and too much, but Donna looks back and all she sees is Harvey. Not Harvey Specter, senior partner at Pearson and Hardman. Not the city's best closer. Not even the jerk he's very capable of being.
Donna opens her mouth, all ready to list the multitude of reasons why this is a terrible idea, but his fingers close around hers and her heart stumbles and this is perhaps the most vulnerable she will ever see this man in her entire life.
They don't talk about how she remembers which drawer houses his handful of non-dress shirts (third down on the left), nor why she takes the only long-sleeved one (his apartment is freezing at night) and wears it like a nightgown.
Donna crawls into the other side of the bed and faces away from him, pulling her hair away from her neck. The bed shifts and she feels very exposed suddenly, lying there with Harvey's eyes on her back.
"Cold?" She can feel his smirk in the gathering dark.
"You didn't have to do this, you know." Harvey's voice is slow and deep. Donna thinks fleetingly that she might be able to get out of here within moments of him falling asleep.
"Yeah I did."
He doesn't reply. The silence folds around them like an embrace; she tells herself it's just for a second, closing her eyes, she's just so tired—
And then it's morning.
Warm. Safe. Protected.
Donna wakes up with tears in her eyes.
Harvey migrates when he sleeps — does he know? she wonders. Does he know that he gravitates towards the warmest spot on the bed — towards her?
She sleeps with her hands close to her heart; this morning it seems Harvey's intent on taking that, too. He's holding her, curved around her with his hands, strong and stable over hers, with his nose cool on the base of her neck, with his breath ghosting warm over the tip of her spine.
Donna counts to seven (and a half).
And then she disentangles her body and her heart from Harvey Specter, picks up her dress and her shoes, and folds his shirt into a neat square at the foot of the bed.
He's probably awake, she muses, looking down at his face, slack in an expression of sleeping openness, but Donna knows better. He's allowing her this one small dignity and she should be grateful.
Or she should be angry.
But instead of dwelling, Donna leans down and smooths back his hair, and hesitates for only a second before placing a tender kiss against his temple.
He's not going to call, she knows.
And somehow that's okay.
Author's Note: let me die because of feelings.
Sorry, Tumblr has permeated my ability to speak coherently about anything. This is my first Suits fic, so hooray for new fandoms, please let me know what you think!