Inevitable

"Do you want to come in?"

"Not tonight."

There is a question that she only just swallows back, that he saw on her face before she shut the door.

Not tonight. Which night then?

He can't do that thing, that thing she does, where she conjures truth and meaning from seemingly nowhere - but he does know her as well as possibly anyone else, and it's not clairvoyance but it could be. He knows what it means when she looks at him quietly, instead of spelling out the reality of what's going on for him. He knows what she's thinking when she gives that slight shake of her head, breaks eye contact, and then that pause, that silence. It's the loudest quiet he ever feels, the loudness of her withdrawing from him because she knows if she says, out loud, what she feels and what she wants to say, she would break him - because as much as he knows her, she knows him.

She sees who he is. His fear, his clumsiness, his pretence. She sees all of it. She knows his bones and how they're always primed, waiting for the next betrayal. She can predict the flashes of brilliance and greatness that peek out from time to time, when the chips are down and he finds himself in situations where the only thing that can happen is that who you really are punches through the noise. She knows the tension under his skin, knows he's never truly relaxed, knows he's waiting for the next one to leave. Knows there's a part of him that believes they all leave. That one day, she will leave.

She knows him. Knows him like nobody else in the world.

But he also knows every fibre of her, her radiance and light and goodness, all her fabric, seen and unseen, and it's not really fair on either of them. Because he hates the idea of letting anyone else know her the way he does, hates the idea that anybody would know her fabric so well they could unravel it with a few words if they wanted. Like he does, sometimes. Like he did a few days ago, in public no less.

He almost winces at the memory. He'd been so ugly to her.

If anyone knows about selfish, it's you.

Your judgement sucks.

She had messed up, and they both knew it. But so had he, more times than he could remember, and where she would guide him back to something resembling goodness, he was just… cruel.

If he was being less honest he would have called it an out of body experience, claimed he was out of control, that he only watched himself tear her to shreds. Except he wasn't out of control. It was methodical, and calculated, and shitty.

He hates that he did it, that he turned that coldness, the icy soul of a closer on her, on purpose. Because he doesn't want anyone to hurt her. Because he doesn't want to hurt her. But also because there's a darkness in him he can't quite cut out of him that whispers you can hold on to her. Because he's fucked up and he is his mother's son. And he knows that one day she will leave, but if it's his fault she does, then he can still love her.

Piece of shit.

"Harvey."

He blinks, and he's been staring at the painting in her hallway, and she's leaning against the door, and he's not sure if he's been standing there for three seconds or three hours.

"Sorry," he says, a slight shake of his head to bring him back to reality.

She studies him for a second, then reaches out, takes his hand, loosely tugs him towards her, and says, "Just come in. You need a drink."

—

They've been sitting in tense silence for half an hour, matching each other shot for shot, chasing a bottle of whisky to the bottom.

Donna only keeps whisky in case he comes over.

The only other times he's been here have always been gentle, caring, safe. Donna's place is a refuge, a place of peace, where Donna and Harvey don't pretend what they are or aren't and they can just be together, laughing and unguarded in their not-quite-together and not-quite-single conversations. They flirt, they laugh, they play as close to the line as possible before Harvey shies away and calls Ray to pick him up, and goes home to collapse in his own empty bed, palming himself under the covers until visions of red hair dance behind his eyelids and he falls asleep with her name hidden in his mind.

Donna's apartment is a refuge and a fantasy. But this, tonight, is not that. The air between them is heated and ready for a spark. He feels the pressure of it in his gut, wonders if she feels the same.

"You're angry." She's the first to break the silence. It's not a question.

He knocks back his glass in one gulp and pours another even as the burn down his throat makes him grimace. It's heavily peated, he hates heavily peated, hates whisky you're meant to sip when he just wants to inhale the whole bottle and disappear into the haze for a while. "I came in, I never said I'd talk about it, Donna."

"You got put in a position to choose between myself and Paula." Her words are careful and measured; she is trying hard to keep the peace. She feels the tinder box as well, then. He takes the tiniest amount of perverse pleasure in that. "I'm sorry. I wish that was different." She takes a sip and he thinks he can taste her gathering her courage, and says the next into her glass. "Even if I don't want to take back what I did, I'm sorry for what it's caused, Harvey."

"I said don't want to talk about it," he mumbles, raising his glass to his lips.

"Harvey -"

"You once asked me not to fall on my sword for Mike." He interrupts her harshly, head snapping to pierce her eyes with his.

She can't hold his gaze. "I know."

"Well, you're asking me to do that now and why the fuck is this different." It's not a question, not really, because they both know why.

"Because that was about you having faith in yourself and this is about you having faith in me."

"Bullshit."

"I -"

"You really didn't know about us. About me and Paula."

A pause. "No."

That word triggers off some absurd buried offence that he's had locked away in his chest since she wrapped her arms and the taste of her around him, slid into his being and his dreams again. He's not sure why he's mad at her for this admission. Maybe one day she'll explain it to him.

Fuck, he's such an asshole, and chants don't do it don't do this to himself even as he launches off the couch, his palms spreading and his anger finding her - unrestrained, unfair, unsurprising.

"What the hell, Donna, how could you not know? You know everything! It's what you said made you a good COO. It's what you tell everyone. And you're meant to know me, and you. Missed this."

She looks up at him, battle wearied. "I don't know everything, Harvey. I know you don't like to think so, but I am actually human. I don't think I wanted to know. Maybe the signs were there, but I ignored them." She shakes her head, murmurs, "I think I wanted to be wrong."

He's not willing to have the tension in the room defused by her gentle admission. He wants a fight. It might be rage, or it might be the coil of desire sitting low in his belly that the whisky always seems to unleash in him, but whatever it is, he wants a fight. He's going to get one, and he stabs his glass at the ground as he turns the force of his whatever the fuck he's feeling on her.

"So you wanted more, and you came after partner and asked me to put you above the firm, and you told me you could hold the firm together because you know people better than they know themselves, and you told me this wasn't about us, but clearly there's something more going on, Donna, because if it wasn't about us, why the hell did you kiss me? And then after you put me in the position where you made me cheat on Paula, you made me choose between you and her! Everything was finally starting to work again after Jessica and you just yanked the rug out from under me. Did you even think about what that would do to me, Donna?"

Unfair this is so unfair you asshole

"I didn't make you choose, Harvey." She's keeping her voice calm, but he can hear the waver underneath the words and he hates it. "I should never have kissed you and I'm sorry, I really am, but Paula gave you an ultimatum, not me."

"And Paula wouldn't have had to give me an ultimatum if you hadn't done that. Face it, you fucked up, and now you're blaming me for having to fix your shit!"

"Oh my god, Harvey, listen to yourself," Donna finally snaps. She's standing now as well, jabbing the glass of whisky at him like a weapon. "You didn't 'fix' anything. You ran, like you always do. Would you have ever done this to Mike? Snuck behind his back to get him a job and not even had the balls to talk to him about before sending him out of the firm and his family because you found a girlfriend?" Harvey begins to open his mouth at that, and Donna raises her hand to stop him. "I know you care about her. I know she's important to you. And I know it was me that put your relationship at risk. But Mike put us all at risk for years. You still never would have done that to him."

"Are you kidding, I would have fired him."

"Yeah, well, firing me would have at least taken a split second of courage, Harvey." She wheels away from him, maybe because they're too near to each other, too loud, too close to happening upon something sitting too close to the surface. She pours another drink and that bottle is a lot emptier than it should be considering the thin ice they're both tap dancing across. He feels every inch of empty glass in the back of his throat and in the way the floor isn't quite as rock solid as it should be.

"What the fuck did you just say to me?"

"I said you're a coward, Harvey." Her voice is wobbling but she looks at him, looks right into his soul, and her eyes are clear and furious. "You couldn't fire me, because that would have meant actually making a decision for once, instead of manipulating people to get them to make your decisions for you." He winces at that, because she's right. Ever since Jessica left, he's been veering wildly between making no decisions and making bad ones. He thought he'd been able to hide his panic. But, of course, he hadn't really. Not from Donna.

But she's still going, her voice gaining strength as she lays out in front of him everything he should have heard from her months ago. "You demand so much from me, Harvey. From all of us. But God forbid anybody puts you in a difficult position. You've always said loyalty is a two way street, but you're letting your fear get the better of you. This isn't you, Harvey. You used to be better than this." She swallows and her voice breaks, just a little. "You used to be braver than this."

She runs out of steam, and there's a too-long silence between them. He's out of breath, somehow, and his chest heaves for air. She folds her arms and looks at his feet.

Well, goddamn it, if she wants courage she can have it.

"You know why I could never fire you, Donna," he says. "You're not Mike. You know you're not Mike. Just like you know if it came down to it, it was never a choice for me. Not ever. Paula … I was never going to choose her and you know it. Because we… this -" he waves his hand between them - "makes no sense half the time, and the other half of the time… Donna …"

She's turned back to him now, her eyes wide. It's so close, they're so close to it, and she looks at him like she can't quite believe it's him, of all people, that's going to say it.

"What?" she breathes.

At the same time all the fight goes out of her voice, all the fight goes out of his chest, and he lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding onto. His glass drops to his side, sloshing whisky over his fingers, and something stings his eyes.

"God dammit Donna, I just…" And he knows, suddenly, why he's never said it - there aren't any words that fit. So he shakes his head, helpless, his arms spread out to his sides, and says "you're everything," and he barely gets the words out before her hands have wrapped around him under his suit jacket and she's sliding her mouth over his in a kiss that jolts all the air out of his lungs.

He doesn't even have a chance to consciously process this change of events as anger does a hard left turn into passion and his stomach flips. He drops his glass, his hands tangling up into her hair. She slides her tongue into his mouth, and he feels that deep in the core of his being. The world spins, and it's only partly the drink, and she tastes like whisky. She nudges his bottom lip with her own, sliding her tongue across his in that lazy, loose, half-drunk way he loves, and fuck. His stomach hollows out with want and he wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her tight against him. He can't quite believe it; can't quite believe they'd just agreed they didn't want each other a couple of days ago, Donna telling him she didn't feel anything - and here she's kissing him like the world's ending. He has shoes on and she's barefoot and when she presses her body against his and wraps her arms around his neck to make up the height difference he thinks he might actually die.

His hands find their way up under her shirt and the touch of her skin under his hands makes his cock twitch. She's beautiful and he feels like he can feel the colour of her skin, feel the light dusting of freckles up her back. He remembers. He's fallen asleep more than once with his hand stretched out across a blank space in his bed where she was meant to be. Those nights always felt like regret, but he's here now and so is she and she's perfect. He drops his mouth to the gap where her neck and shoulder meet, tasting her, one hand scratching up to the base of her skull. His other hand skates across her waist, dipping into the waistband of her pants. He kisses sloppily up the side of her neck, over her ear, and she turns her head to capture his mouth with hers again, her hands tugging his shirt out of his waistband under his suit jacket so she can hook her fingers into his pants and pull him closer.

She presses her body against him, instinctively grinding her hips to his through their clothes, and a guttural moan escapes him. He mumbles "fuck" against her mouth, and he remembers she likes when he talks because she groans in response. He's too overwhelmed to take control, which works for Donna as she walks him backwards towards her bed, one hand on his chest to guide him and the other deftly unbuttoning his shirt as she does.

By the time the back of his legs hit the bed and he falls back onto his ass, she has his shirt open under his suit jacket, his shoes off, his belt open and his pants unbuttoned and he thinks she might be a magician. She climbs onto the bed after him, straddles his lap, and kisses him in the way only she can - all at once slow, longing, urgent, sensual but sweet as fuck and how the hell does she do that anyway? He grabs her waist, pushes her shirt up and over her head, dropping it behind her. Her skin is flushed and warm under his fingers, and she's not wearing a bra so he slides his hands over her breasts, massaging and then tweaking her nipples as she settles herself on top of his cock, rolling her hips against him through his pants. She has sensitive breasts, he remembers, and she moans into his mouth as he teases her nipples into taut buds. She feels amazing, and the sounds she makes fills his frame with something akin to awe. He doesn't quite know what he's managed to do to deserve this, having Donna under his hands, rubbing herself against him as he flicks and teases her nipples. She's remembered too, though. Harvey's never been too proud in bed - he's not self conscious about showing women he's with what he enjoys, and she's not the only one that finds this maddening. So she drops her head to his chest, outlining his nipple with her tongue, circling lightly, teasing, before taking it into her mouth and sucking gently and holy shit. Harvey drops his forehead to the back of her head, trying to get his breathing under control, but that goes out the window when she palms his cock through his pants and he gasps her name.

He's straining against his pants but can't do anything about it as he's holding onto Donna for dear life. But Donna knows, she always knows, and quickly tugs his pants down past his thighs. In the same movement, she sheds her own pants, and climbs back over his body, pushing him, pressing his back into the mattress, and he gives in completely - he's hers, all of him is hers, and nothing has meaning outside of her guidance and desire anymore. He lays back, pants on the floor somewhere, shirt and jacket open at the chest, and somewhere dimly he knows he must look utterly helpless, and he doesn't care.

She follows him, covering his body with hers, covers his nipple with her mouth again, teeth teasing gently, and immediately takes him in her hand, stroking his length slowly. His head drops back and he moans towards the ceiling, tangling his hands through her hair. The feeling of her sucking on his nipple while she squeezes his head is too much and he has to focus hard to avoid embarrassing himself. Harvey runs one hand down her back blindly, nudging her body up further. As she brings her mouth to his, he runs his hands down her skin, sliding down her belly and to her pussy, and Donna must be as on edge as he is if that guttural 'Harvey' that escapes her lips is anything to go by. His fingers and thumb already slick from her, he finds her clit with two fingers and draws lazy circles over it. She huffs shallow breaths into his mouth and it's messy and wanton and she's gorgeous and how could he have ever wanted anything other than this, anything other than her.

And then she has him in hand, guiding the head of his cock to her entrance, taking a moment to rub the head of his cock over her clit. He holds her thigh, staring, lost, not just with how damn good she feels but how damn good she is. She is his better in every possible way and she has somehow found her way to him. It's inconceivable, and when she sinks down on him, lights explode behind his eyes and everything in his world slots into place.

She sets the pace, slow and deliberate, rolling over him and pushing her hips against him, and he moans with every thrust and she almost looks smug about it. She's gorgeous, utterly gorgeous, the dark tan of his hands contrasting with alabaster and freckles as he slides his fingers over her waist. "Harvey," she says, mixing with his gasping recitation of her name, and she braces her hands against his chest and she strokes him in and out of her, feeling him stretch her out with each push.

It's exquisite, its torture, it's not quite making love and it's not quite fucking, it's unreal and it's every dream he's ever had about her wrapped up in one. She's building, searching out her orgasm, speeding up, her thrusts needy and deep. He just hopes she finds it before he loses the last shreds of his own control. He can feel his cock stretching her with each movement and it's too much. He slides one hand from her waist back to her clit, rubbing in tight circles in time with her thrusts, and Donna's moans become guttural. "Fuck, Donna," Harvey murmurs. "Holy fuck."

She comes with a heaving sigh, her stomach muscles fluttering under his hands, and he's right behind her, the unconscious squeezing of her orgasm wrapping around him, pushing him off the edge.

—

She's still on top of him, a leg wrapped around his waist as she pushes her face into the crook of his neck and he can feel her smile against his skin, and he thinks it wouldn't be so bad to just stay here forever.

He wants to say I love you but that feels awfully like a cliche'd moment, something out of a movie, and quoting movies is not what he and Donna do.

"Well," he murmurs instead.

"Well."

He pushes a hand up into her hair. He thinks he maybe has a fixation with her hair. He's okay with that.

"Hi."

He smiles. "Hi."

"Stay?"

He nods, and she holds him a little tighter.

Notes:

Thank you for giving your time to read this! I am new to writing in the Suits fandom, so any and all constructive feedback is hugely welcome while I find my feet (and Donna and Harvey's voices).