AN: The ending of 9x08 completely blindsided me. Here's my attempt to make it okay (even though it is not at all, Aaron Korsh. Harvey deserves better). Hope you enjoy.

He isn't sure how long he stands there.

Backtrack.

He isn't sure how he's even standing.

To unravel and fall apart, his body shakes, but she holds on so tight, weathers out the current and anchors him. His face presses into her shoulder, solid and bone, feels the way his tears soak the fabric of her sweater, but neither of them says a thing. He thinks, she might. She might find the right words; it's a Donna thing to do. But the silence is like a blanket, heavy, settling. He'll remember how to breathe in a moment's time, forget the hiccup and rattle, but now, she does it for the both of them.

What scares him the most is how they've been here before.

In the openness of his office, glass doors and hallways that echo. The way her jaw faltered, a sudden shake, an impending storm that glosses her eyes and bites at her speech.

"Your dad," she had said all those years ago.

"Your mother," she begins now.

"He had a heart attack," she had said. Her skin looked paler and her fingers, a solemn tremble. But she stayed, feet fixed to the floor, and he swallowed a fierceness he was sure was going to slice his throat.

She says, "Your mother had a heart attack," a similar cadence and sound, nearly familiar and blindsiding at the same time.

He doesn't turn his back this time; he doesn't say I'm fine. Instead, her arms find him, something wordless and understood, and he wonders why he ever pushed away.

"How?" he croaks out, a needle scratch across a worn record. "How could this happen?" Pause, the quiver of an unsure breath. "Again?"

And for the woman who is always right, she resigns: "I don't know."

"I finally had her back. After so many fucking years, I had her back." His voice rumbles against her neck. "And now she's gone."

"But at least you did," she tries, carefully treads the water. "At least she didn't die with you still angry at her."

Another wave of silence. He feels her brace, and his hand slowly moves down her back, soft affirmation. "Because of you," he says, says it with as much conviction as I love you.

She whispers, "It wasn't just m—"

He pulls his head up from the crook of her neck, holds her face in his hands, looks at her like she is the world. "Yes, it was. Without you, I don't think I ever would have done it." There is a ghost of a smile on his face, a warm revelation. "It always goes back to you."

"I just try to do what's best for you, Harvey," she says softly, struggling to meet his eyes, almost overwhelmed.

"You don't even have to try," he says. "You simply are."

Somehow, she holds onto him tighter than before, her cheek now meeting his shoulder in surrender. He says, "I really wish you got to meet her in person."

She says, "Me too," and not much more.

"There's a lot of things I wish for," he starts. His heart begins to batter against his rib cage, yearning to be free. He swallows, thick with swelling emotion. "I wish I told her I was planning to buy you an engagement ring."

The room grows quieter.

"I wish she could have gone to our wedding." Then, the most daring: "I wish she could have seen the kids we'll have."

They haven't talked like this before, albeit their almost proposal and the internal idea of being together forever. But this is new, the starkness of his words being left on the table, the conversations they knew they would eventually have being said now. Harvey expels one final breath; there is no going back from this.

Donna doesn't freeze like he thinks she might. Instead, she dusts a kiss to his cheek and looks at him with the kindest of eyes, glazed in soft tears and warm light. She says, "I think she knew. I think, even though she won't see it, she knew that you were going to have the life you wanted. And she at least got a glimpse of it."

"I hope so." His lips bend into a small curve.

At some point, minutes, maybe hours later, they find their way into bed, shed off the weight of the day and climb under the sheets. Her touch never subsides, fingers interlocked with his, and her head on his collarbone.

It's tentative, a statement and a sentence at once; she says, "So, kids?"

He sucks in a breath. "I know we never talked about it but… yeah. Kids."

She doesn't immediately reply and he feels the grip of panic. "I mean, not now. But someday, or well, only if you—"

She squeezes his hand. "I do, Harvey. Don't worry, But in truth, I guess, as I got older, I thought I missed my chance to end up with a guy I'd want to have them with. And now—"

"Now it's right," he finishes, burying his face into her hair and presses a gentle kiss. She leans into his touch.

"It's right," she echoes.

He is about to shut his eyes, succumb to the weariness that eats at him, but then he catches it: his mother's painting. They hung it in his (their) room in the midst of the Malik chaos, taking a moment to relish in the greatest gift he could ever get. He realizes, this is what I have left of her, a painting more odd than not and at one point, the only thing from her that made him smile instead of frown.

Tears slide down his cheek before he even realizes what's happening. He sniffles and the hollow feeling begins to set in once more, something heavy and thick like the panic that used to torture him. It's like the feeling of falling, like you can do nothing but give in.

"Harvey?" she asks, tentative and shattering. "Harvey."

There's so much to say, and so much unexplainable. He settles for, "I miss her."

"I know," but it isn't self-assured, only warm comfort.

"She was here… and now, she's just gone. It doesn't make any sense."

He thinks briefly of Mike. They've slowly become more similar than not, and now, another box has been checked off. Orphan. Parentless. The world too cruel to let them have their mothers and fathers. Harvey swallows, remembering days where he snapped at Mike and put his ego above his friend's pain. He almost feels a need to call him and say, I'm sorry. I think I finally understand.

Donna breaks into his thoughts. "It never does," she says.

"What am I supposed to do now?" It comes out like a whimper.

"Be sad. Let yourself mourn," she assures quietly. "But, you'll also endure. If there's one thing I know, it's that your mom would want you to be okay, with or without her."

"Okay," he tries, "okay."

"And you still have me. Marcus. Louis and Mike and Jessica and Rachel. We're here."

"You are," he says.

They fall quiet, and he supposes this is how it will be. Louder moments, times where he is okay and forgets and buries himself into the world of law. Then, quieter ones, where it is raw and real and he's alone—

She holds his hand tighter.

—Or maybe not so alone anymore.

A minute or five passes. The rise and fall of his chest align with hers, and the sadness settles into a feasible ache rather than a drowning vice. His lips brush against her head.

She says, her voice so clear and calm in the night, "I've always loved the name Lily for a daughter."

He smiles; and with Donna, he'll endure.