A/N: Please note this was written right after 7x10 aired, so some parts of it have now become non-canon compliant. I debated whether or not to adapt them to canon but I have a particular soft spot for this fic, so I decided to leave it as it was written :)
Story title from Vance Joy's "First Time".
Let me know what you think!
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( 1 )
His first loss is not pretty. He spent almost two years at Pearson Hardman winning case after case (which is comforting), but he'd never done it alone before (which isn't). It's a relatively sensitive case, rape of a 15-year-old girl by a senior year jock, seemingly easy to win, and Cameron leaves it all to him, but Harvey doesn't have the hang of it yet and somehow the police fumbles with some important piece of evidence and just like that it's done. His very own O. J. Simpson-like experience at the worst possible moment.
As soon as the gavel drops he skirts the pews and leaves, frustration visible in his forceful steps and hasty handle on his briefcase. He dodges the family; coward's move, but he wouldn't have been able to handle facing them.
Hers are the first eyes that don't look at him with pity, disappointment nor scarn, and the gratitude that blooms instantly inside his chest is both unexpected and a little welcome. Of course she knows; must've had live updates from inside the trial. As he marches across her desk, she wordlessly hands him coffee and an aspirin which he might need to take soon if his temple doesn't stop throbbing.
He's not surprised to see she follows him wordlessly into his cubicle. "I told Cameron already. I figured he might hear about it before you got a chance to talk to him," she explains plainly once he's seated. He's half-pissed, half-relieved at that; he wanted to control the narrative, but it's probably better that she softened the blow.
"Thanks," he mutters, already moving on to some case files on his desk, and she lingers. "You know why this happened, right?" Donna asks, voice level, calm. He huffs, bracing for a lecture, "Yeah". "Good. I know this will never happen again, so we don't have to talk about it," she states matter-of-factly, and even in his sour mood he manages to be amused by the fact that she's the one who decides what they do and don't talk about.
"Let me know if you need help with Cameron," she throws his way as she sashays out of his office, and he knows she means well just as much as she means to annoy him. As if he'd need her help dealing with someone.
As if he'd need her help dealing with anything, really.
He rolls his eyes at her back, feeling strangely lighter.
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( 2 )
Harvey had never noticed how schooled her laughter was. Obviously he's heard it many times before and, sure, it always sounded knowing or sarcastic or sultry or even humourless. But he had never realized, maybe foolishly (because he does know her well by now, is caught up with her tactics), that all of that is planned, minimally adjusted to convey whatever effect she wants. Her true laughter, the kind you can't control, doesn't come by often.
Until one day she's listing his lost calls after a hearing while he reads the newspaper and she mentions a message from Louis asking for help with files from a client. He shakes his head and mutters something about cats and butts and where to find said files, and it's completely mindless. He barely even registers he said anything, is sure she didn't hear him, but then she snorts.
Her eyes crinkle at the corners and her lips spread over her teeth; her nostrils flutter a little bit. No other sound comes out and soon she's recomposed.
He eyes her curiously, expectantly, but she keeps telling him about the noteworthy calls and he realizes she didn't notice it. Didn't notice him staring, didn't notice his interest, probably didn't even notice she laughed.
He sits on that information like the cat that got the cream, dissecting and analyzing it until he's barely paying any attention to her. Then she's done and he must be doing great at hiding his smug grin because she leaves the room without paying him extra thought.
By the time he leaves the DA's that night, he's already come up with a list of twelve other ways to try to make her laugh like that again.
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( 3 )
It's brief, but not as brief as it should be if it didn't mean anything. It's carefully crafted to seem completely automatic to any onlookers, but she knows there's thought and strategy behind it. Most of all, there's intent.
It happens when he's leaving for a trial - finally back as first chair now that Cameron let the jock thing go - and she's just handed him his briefcase and the more relevant files he'll need. He makes for the door with her in his trail but, somewhat surprisingly, stops next to the treshold and lets her out first. It's unusual, but not unheard of.
What is unheard of, at least to her, is the way his fingers brush softly against her lower back, seemingly to usher her forward. She knows that's not it, because she knows to go forward regardless of his move. She also knows that's not it because his fingers linger, pressing ever so gently into the thin silk of her blouse, for one, two, three seconds (and yes, she does count) before he lets go and tells her he'll see her later.
He doesn't spare her any glance and she knows it's on purpose.
Donna knows how to work men, knows what makes them tick better than most. She'd be lying if she said she's never used her hair or her eyes or her fingers or her shoulders (or anything, really) to her advantage, to get them to do something. And, obviously, she knows Harvey too well. She knows he looks and appreciates what he sees, knows even he could, in a hypothetical and platonic way, want something more than just looks and quips.
But she also knows that their rapport, despite flirty and playful, is mostly meaningless. It's to break the ice, to pass the time, to make him flustered or breathless whenever she can. It's really just for fun.
So she's surprised by his touch, the pressure and placement. They've touched many times before, fingers grazing when they hand each other something, her hand falling on his shoulder for support when she leans over him to follow his train of thought on a document, even kisses on the cheek on special occasions. But this, this is different. It's deliberate. And it happens when it didn't have to, when they could have walked out his door and the world could have gone on spinning without him resting his hand on her back.
What's even more surprising - and this is the part that really startles her - is the way her skin burns instantly at his touch, the way her arms cover in goosebumps and her heart and breath quicken. It should be just passing contact, but it feels somehow more intimate than certain mouths have felt against certain areas (she's ready to admit now that she hasn't always been as criterious as she'd like to be with the men she sleeps with).
It throws her off balance like few things he's done before and it actually takes her some good six minutes to be able to register the two sentences she's been reading on her computer ever since.
This means trouble. She's sure of it, as much as she's sure it won't stop there, for either of them.
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( 4 )
Macallan 18 tastes more bitter and dry than she'd like. She's usually a heavy drinker, but she prefers champagne, sweeter concoctions, or anything that doesn't hurt her throat and makes her feel like she drank literal fire and put it out with gasoline.
So, all in all, a 6 out of 10.
She tells him as much and he laughs loudly, boorishly and she huffs and rolls her eyes. He says it's a drink for grown-ups, as if she hasn't been the one wearing the pants in this relationship for the better part of two years now.
In defiance - and, really, because she can't let the world know she got bested by stupid whisky - she downs the rest of her glass as he raises his eyebrows in amused surprise.
She narrows her eyes at him, daring him to mock her again even as the liquid burns everything in its wake. She'd love to cough but cannot bear to give him the satisfaction. Then he grins earnestly at her and, suddenly, it feels as if the drink goes down lighter.
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( 5 )
For someone who pisses people off so easily and often, it surprises everyone, really, that he'd never been punched in the face before (outside of the ring, obviously). But mix a hot model, careless suggestive flirting, overflowing booze and an angry boyfriend and that's what you get.
It's both a curse and a miracle that she's still at the mixer, despite her countless threats to abandon him when he started looking elsewhere for companionship, but it definitely doesn't feel great to have her laugh stridently to his face as soon as she sees the shiner.
She obviously takes her time making fun of him for it and adds remarks to taste about how much he needs her. The worst part is he can't even glare at her or roll his eyes, because his left lid is already swollen and it hurts too much to do any of that. So he sits grumpily near the kitchen and waits for her to be back with ice and the pomade someone told her the place had.
When she finds him she's ready for business, because she doesn't tease him anymore. Donna pulls a nearby stool in front of him, carefully pries his hand away from where it sits against his eye and presses a cold bag to his lid, tells him to hold it in place. While the ice does its magic, he watches as she peels the gauze pads and soaks them in arnica. It's all very meticulous and he's actually surprised at her dexterity.
After a bit, she takes the ice bag away and dabs the gauze gently on his eye, leaning in in the process. He can suddenly smell her perfume (jasmine and clove) and see all the details of the left side of her face with unprecedented clarity. He notices the deep chocolate brown of her eyes, framed by a slightly furrowed brow, the way each strand of her hair is a different shade of orange, the rosiness of her lips and all the tiny, impossibly light little freckles speckled across her cheekbone. He almost asks if they'd been there before, because he's known her for a while now and he'd never noticed them.
"Next time maybe try not to hit on someone with a boyfriend," she comments, cutting his train of thought, focused on gathering the arnica on the worst spots. The gauze must be getting in the way, because she peels it off and continues with a very light finger.
As soon as she touches him, his skin tingles. His heart speeds up a little and he can feel it in his temples. He's not sure if it's from the bruise or something else, but it's weird and... welcome. If she notices, she doesn't say anything.
Then, suddenly (too soon), she pulls away to admire her work. She smirks instantly and he knows it must already be pretty bad. Still, she quirks an eyebrow, "There you go, hotshot," and grins. He agrees to leave then.
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( 6 )
It surprises him that he's the one to bring it up.
(Obviously he knows she's thought about it, but he thought she'd be the one to cave)
It surprises him that she doesn't say yes right away.
(Not to be a jerk, but he'd been under the impression that they were on the same page - and what kind of stupid rule is that?)
It surprises him that she actually got the whipped cream.
(He'd only half-meant that. And she'd made fun of him for it. Tease.)
It surprises him that she's quiet.
(Not, like, in a dull kind of way. She sighs and pants and moans a lot, but it's low, private almost, like it's just for him. He finds he likes that even more than the shrilly, loud way some women have (not that he's complaining about that). He starts learning her tells, the signs that she's enjoying it. When he catches her lower lip in his teeth, she whimpers a little; when he tilts her just so, she digs her nails a little deeper into his back; when he speeds up, she scrapes her teeth down his neck. It's wild. He thinks back (as much as he can manage given the circumstances) but can't remember a time when he felt more connected to his counterpart, more atuned to her wants and needs. It's a whole new experience to him)
What surprises him the most, though, is that when she pants his name, softly, lightly, eyes closed after she comes down from her high, when she clings to him a little longer before letting go, he feels his chest constrict in a way he suspects has nothing to do with the sex.
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( 7 )
It takes them almost three years working together, but he finally shows her his father's music. On their one month anniversary at the firm, after the place has died down, he calls her into his office, offers her a glass of whisky and puts a record on.
Immediately the music fills her whole body, chords resonating in her bones and Gordon's masterful saxophone ringing through her ears. She was never one for jazz and blues, more of a classic rock and 80's tunes kind of girl, but this is just beautiful.
It leaves her completely speechless and she closes her eyes to experience the music more profoundly. Every dip makes her breath hitch, every high note makes her smile. It's unexpected and unpredictable and so, so much more than she had anticipated. She decides then that she really wants to meet Gordon, wants to see him play, to watch him write a new tune. This is art, and she's been around paintings and pianos and plays her whole life but this music... it's a whole new level.
It fills her with warmth and affection. It makes her happy.
When she opens her eyes again, Harvey is looking at her expectantly, carefully. She smiles at him.
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( 8 )
It's not that he doesn't want to do it. It's that he can't. He told Marcus not to touch anything and now he can't even bring himself to open the door. That's great.
Objectively, he knew from the start, ever since Donna told him the news - the most terrifying words he's ever heard uttered from pretty lips -, that this would be the worst part. Cleaning out his father's study. Cleaning up after someone who's only barely not there. Making space after him.
But actually being here is something else entirely.
By his account, he's been standing in front of the closed door for four minutes now. He heard Donna shuffling about in the room next door, noticed her drop an empty trash bag next to him as she went down the hallway. Still, his arm doesn't lift, his fingers don't grab the doorknob, he doesn't turn it. He just stares at the wood, wishing the room could just vanish from existence so he would neither have to go in there nor face the meaning of not going in there.
Then she stops next to him. She knows. He knows she knows and ordinarily he wouldn't give her the satisfaction. But this is his father. It's the be-all-end-all of all knowledge about him. And he'd be lying if he said it doesn't make it easier on him. That she knows. That she's there.
He hears her sigh almost imperceptively. He knows her too, and knows she probably didn't want him to notice, but he did. It doesn't matter, though. He'd be sighing too, if he could just make his body do virtually anything other than stare ahead.
He knows her well but it still comes as unexpected that she surges forward minimally. That her hand nudges its way between his own hand and his thigh. That her fingers wrap comfortably, firmly, sadly around his palm. That she squeezes it the slightest bit, a show of support and understanding (after everything they've been through, after what he did - or didn't do) that he can't even begin to thank her for.
That he squeezes her hand back.
With renewed resolve, with added strength, with a sounding board, with her, he lifts his other hand, opens the door and tries not to squint as the sun beams come straight at them from his father's favourite window.
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( 9 )
Looking back on his whole life, all the fights he ran from, all the times he refused to take responsibility for his actions, he had never felt like more of a coward than when he pushes that elevator button.
She's standing in from of him with all her belongings, all her time in the office, all of their relationship packed into a cardboard box that really should be bigger.
He thinks he should say something (if he's being really honest, he urges - needs - to say something) that'll make things easier, wash away the look of blame from her face, but he doesn't know what. He considers platitudes or honesty (he doesn't know which sounds worse at the moment).
He even goes so far as to calculate the probability of her laughing vs. her never speaking to him again if he tries to throw a punchline (the odds are currently at 1:472), but the elevator dings and makes his choice for him.
Her lips only tremble slightly when she walks into the elevator, and he pretends he's only slightly devastated by that.
Starting with the elevator doors closing, it's only downhill from there.
At first he thinks it's not that big a deal. Of course he cares about her, but what she did was wrong (he suppresses the part where she did it to protect him). And not being the one to fire her was a good thing, right? That way she can hate Jessica all she wants and their friendship can remain mostly intact (right?). Donna shouldn't (can't) be angry at him for taking the easy way out for both of them. Because that's just what it was: the easy (easier) way out.
He tells himself all that but the bitter taste doesn't leave his mouth and his stomach doesn't stop churning.
(Un)surprisingly, nothing gets better with time. He spends two nights tossing and turning in bed. He explodes at Mike more than usual and comes the closest he's ever been to punching Louis. He almost misses an important meeting and, honestly, who the hell files things in alphabetical order?
He drives two temps and one first year to tears and that's when Jessica draws a line. She asks what it will take. He realizes the answer's been clear from the start.
He tells her he needs her and means it. When she smiles at him, he feels like he can finally breathe properly again.
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( 1 0 )
Her ears ring like she just left a club. He's still in front of her but his figure is getting smaller and smaller (she's not sure if he's leaving, or if she's fainting, or both). She knows her mouth hangs open and she knows he looks apologetic or annoyed or angry or frustrated or tired but all she can still feel, all her body can manage to hold on to, are his words.
"You know I love you, Donna".
YouknowIloveyouDonnaYouknowIloveyouDonnaYouknowIloveyouDonnaYouknowIloveyouDonna
She didn't. She doesn't. She shouldn't. It's- No.
She's heard so much from him, from "I need you" to "fuck you" to "you're the best" to "what the hell, Donna?". It's almost funny that this - what she, at times, had wanted to hear him say the most (still wants. still wants.) - is what does her in.
She doesn't know if he says something else or if he just leaves, but it doesn't matter. As soon as the door closes behind him, she thinks about everything. Every moment, every word, every look and touch and laugh and fight comes crashing into her mind at a dizzying speed, demanding to be analyzed and dissected until no syllable has been spared. As if semantics could be the solution to her problems.
He could be saying what she thinks (hopes?) he might be saying. That whole "with you it's different" spiel could mean love. That time he grabbed her hand on his couch when she was helping him review documents late at night too, right? And punching Stephen and all the flirting and the one look he gave her at their first office Christmas party together.
But the "I'm a Donna fan" already veers off into friendship territory, kind of like all the times he agreed to have dinner with her parents or the expensive presents he gives but doesn't choose.
The eyerolling and the name calling and the smug grinning is brotherly. Friends - good friends - don't make friends arrange their dates for them, or comment about their sexual exploits.
But then again, it's been a while since he last did that. And that whole thing with Scottie had been her doing, under her guidance and encouragement. Maybe if she hadn't said anything, or maybe if she'd done something different, maybe...
It's hard to know that she knows him so well and still couldn't see this coming - and worse: doesn't know what he means.
It's not that she's not happy that he loves her regardless of how. It's not. They've been so close for so long that it makes sense, and, truly, she's happy that he can say it.
But... But. Maybe she wants him to mean it in a certain way.
Maybe she wants him to be so madly in love with her that nothing else makes sense, that he absolutely must have her.
Or maybe she wants them to remain friends - he doesn't have to be in love with her to want to protect her, take care of her, value and cherish and hone her. Right? It's what's worked for so long and everyone says you don't mess with the team that's winning.
Maybe the brotherly thing can be left out of the equation. But it could still be how he feels...
Or... Or maybe... Maybe he doesn't love her at all. Maybe he said whatever he said without thinking or without meaning, hoping it would be what she wanted to hear, or what would get her to stop asking questions. Maybe he loves her as a secretary, kind of like you love your tv or your favorite pen. Maybe she's like an appliance to him, something you adore and can't live without but wouldn't take out on a date.
The thought almost makes her laugh and that's when she suspects she's gone completely mad.
Donna takes a few steadying breaths and, when the tears come, she doesn't stop them. She can't. She has to allow herself to feel this so she can at least know that she's sane, so she can work out what she wants him to mean, even if it ends up never being what he actually meant.
When she finally manages to go to bed, she thinks it could mean anything. But it could also mean what she thinks (hopes? hopes.) he might mean. The morning will tell.
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( 1 1 )
He sees her lift her hand to her face, possibly to wipe her eyes. He thinks she might be crying. Maybe he thinks that because he hopes she's crying. Maybe he thinks that because he is crying.
But he's not crying. He's fisting his hands and clenching his jaw tight (very very tight) and that's not crying. It's different.
Still, she's walking away. Not just from her post, but from him. From them. From everything he's ever fought so hard to get because for years now he hasn't been fighting for himself. He's been fighting for them; where he goes she'll follow and so all he's ever wanted was to go someplace nice. Somewhere good, worthy of him and her and the both of them. He doesn't go alone anymore, hasn't for so long he fears he might have forgotten how to (not that he'd ever admit that out loud).
Still, she's walking away. From everything he's ever said and done and from the biggest admission he's ever made - that he needs her, wants her, loves- That should have been enough. Nevermind that he didn't specify what he meant (couldn't even begin to, not now) or that it wasn't what she needed. Dammit, she should know better. She knows him better. That should have been enough (he should have been enough). So what if he said something he can't account for? It was the truth. It was some truth and that's a great first step. Or a last step. He doesn't really know right now.
All that matters is that he pulled her in, brought her close and she pushed back. She tensed and tested and that was not what either of them needed right now. Not with prison and Norma and- He did what he thought was right (he did what made him feel better). He's always tried to do that with her, regardless of errors in judgment, and she should have seen through it, should have accepted what he could give her at this moment because it's more than he's ever given anyone else. But that (he) wasn't enough. He tried with all his might to make her stay and, still, she's walking away.
And if his sight is blurry and he feels his eyes swimming, that's because that could be a good enough reason to cry.
Or trash his office, which is his immediate thought once he can't see her anymore. Or fight with Louis. Or steal a car. (Or go after her)
Instead he just stands there staring at the empty hallway until his legs hurt. Then he moves to his couch and sighs.
Then sighs again. And again.
Except this isn't sighing. Shallow breathing and endless shortage of breath aren't sighing (right?). He tries to slow down his chest but it fights him, forcing itself up and down and up and down, faster every time. He's aware he's breathed an inordinate amount of times and yet it's like he's been under water for days, lungs burning for oxygen.
He starts getting dizzy. His head hurts. The more he breathes the more it hurts but the less he breathes the more is hurts. It hurts real bad. He tries to stand up, reach for water, but his vision goes blurry then black. His whole body tingles and he thinks he's passing out.
He falls back down on the couch, heavy as a stone, and faintly thinks it's good that this is happening because at least it took his mind off of her. Because apparently feeling like his body is in complete overdrive is better than watching her-
Somehow he manages to lunge forward far enough onto the floor that he reaches his paper bin exactly 0.6 second before he throws up.
The first time she tells him she loves him is also the first time he has a panic attack.
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( 1 2 )
It takes him a moment to process everything. One minute he's talking about Jessica being disbarred and the next she's crashing into him, mouth pressing against his, cutting off his words and train of thought. This isn't what they do. They flirt (not anymore) and joke (not anymore) and yeah, sometimes they've had moments akin to this (not anymore), but kissing? That stopped a long time ago (because she wanted it to. and now she doesn't anymore).
It happens so fast that he doesn't fully understand it, can't think straight. And, since he can't think straight ('cause he'd never do that if he could, right?), he kisses her back. The moment her hand cradles the back of his neck, he leans into her, giving as good as he gets (and it is good), losing himself in the moment (he's already so, so lost).
Then suddenly (too soon), as suddenly as it started, she's pulling away and looking at him, her fingers gently, carefully sliding down his jaw. She looks beautiful. He looks adrift.
"I'm sorry, Harvey," she says and that's when it hits him. She knows. She knows what this is (it isn't right). She knows he's seeing someone and she knows "I love you" didn't get them far and she knows what a huge fucking mess this is. All of a sudden he can't not think straight, think of Paula, think of her, think of them. He thinks so much he forces the feelings to the back of his mind, the warmth of her hands, the softness of her lips, how he-
How dare she.
"I just had to know," she says softly but to him it sounds flippant. So what if she had to know. She could have asked (he knows she tecnically did ask, back when he said too much, and he refused to answer but, exceptionally, this one thought gets pushed back with all of the emotions too).
When she walks away (she's always walking away), he stands there dumbly in her office (the office he gave her), staring out into the city (the city he took by storm), mulling over what she did (how she kissed him and he kissed her but only because she kissed him).
And, really, what does it all mean? What does it mean that she kissed him after she told him she was fine with him and Paula, happy for him even? What does it mean that she did all this after giving him his key back? What does it mean that this, this moment - whim - was nothing he could ever have predicted? What does it mean that she managed to throw him off - when he was supposed to know her? When she was supposed to know him?
(What does it mean that he enjoyed-)
I'm sorry, Harvey.
She better damn well be. Because of all the things he's ever wanted to be (astronaut, baseball player, his father, lawyer, rich, partner), a cheater - cheater - was never ever on the list. Because, if you put it simply, look at it objectively, that's what he is. He's a cheater because he has a girlfriend and still kissed (was kissed?) someone else. He's a cheater because he has something - a relationship, possibly a whole life - that was just put on the line by someone else.
Donna could have done anything else. He would have taken anything (not her leaving, but any other thing). But she chose the one thing that made him like his mother (no matter how well he gets along with her now, she is and always will be a cheater). The worst part of his family's history now runs in his veins and stains his shirt and is written on his forehead.
He is a cheater. And she is so fucking selfish.
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( 1 3 )
Harvey's a sprawler. Maybe he's not used to sharing a bed (or maybe he is. For the sake of her own sanity, this is thankfully one of the few things she wouldn't know about him), or maybe he just can't lie still, but she wakes up to his legs tangled up and his arms haphazardly placed on the mattress.
It doesn't bother her, and it's very endearing to see him so fussed up when he's normally so put together and controlled. But what she loves most about sleeping (really sleeping) with him is how, even tossing and turning, he's kept an arm comfortably swung over her middle, fingers clinging to her skin.
It's a connection, one he doesn't seem to want to break even in his sleep. This thought alone warms her to the core, almost as much as the memories of last night.
It's also a luxury she'd never been able to afford. That first time - the other time - they agreed it would be a bad idea for him to stay. (She spent the next two days regretting it)
But now it's different. In a way, it was just like before (her skin burning up everywhere he touches, her teeth sinking into his shoulder, the way he calls her name and looks her in the eye when he's almost there). But, at the same time, it was also very much not like before.
Because that time was harsh kisses, whipped cream, hidden meanings and a want so strong they couldn't bottle it up any longer. This time it's intimacy, shared knowledge and experiences, his fingers searching for her during and after (all night).
This time he knows. And she can say it all out loud. And he can feel it too. This time is all she's ever wanted, plus all she's never allowed herself to want. This time it's him and her, together. It's them, in a whole different light and a whole different meaning.
As she waits for him to wake up (and, frankly, because this is still huge), she allows herself to think back on everything that led them here. All the years carefully, painstakingly crafting their meticulous relationship, all the years just as carefully setting her feelings aside (when she could admit them to herself), all the care and concern for one another. Through all the fights, all the advice, the sermons, the hard truths and ugly admissions, all the loss. But also through all the support, the celebration, her hand in his, his encouraging looks and smug grin whenever they reached a goal. It's so much, so much history and feeling.
She stares at her ceiling, made blue-grayish by the daylight coming in through her curtains, and reflects on everything she set aside, everything she put on hold, everything she took in stride or swallowed whole to be where she is now. Living a good, comfortable life. COO of the best law firm in the city. With Harvey sleeping next to her. It's almost too surreal.
Then he shifts and tugs her closer, pulling her back to Earth, beckoning her to turn towards him. She does, and when she does she finds him smiling sleepily at her, face half buried in her favorite pillow, his hand caressing her side. "Hey," he murmurs. "Hey," she replies. When she smiles back, he pulls her in for the sweetest kiss.
Man, it was all worth it.
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( 1 4 )
For all of his father's passion and emotion, Harvey was never very sentimental, even as a kid. Obviously things took an even steeper downturn after the whole thing with his mother and he just sort of gave up on trying. It's not that he doesn't care about things or people - loves them, even -, it's just that he never really saw the point of... romantic love.
While he has (scarcely) thrown it around before, it was mostly to appease his girlfriends and make sure they were still on for Friday night. Not the noblest of sentiments, but eh. Real love was never on the table.
He saw what that kind of love did to his father, how it made him blind and weak; he saw Marcus make a fool of himself in front of some girl's porch and spend the rest of the year being made fun of. He's seen people break, be hurt, be destroyed by something that isn't as fulfilling as loyalty nor as satisfying as desire. Love made no sense and was of no use to him.
Ever since he was fresh out of college he's had to claw his way up, fend for himself in every way imaginable. The list of people who'd like to see him fail is practically endless and he's had to shut off anything that might make him vulnerable to them. If love got caught up along the way, so be it.
But when Donna smiles at him, that true, genuine smile; when he sees her walking around his place with his t-shirt on; when she fights for him; when she plays with the hair on his arm absentmindedly as they're watching tv; when she steals his last fry or makes him milkshake just because or when she goes out with his mother without him even knowing and when his niece calls her Aunt Donna he knows. He knows it can't not be love. And it doesn't make him weak.
It makes him feel whole. And pure. And welcome. It makes him feel like he has a place in the world, one that doesn't involve takeovers or clashes or lawsuits. It makes him feel like he doesn't need to run anymore.
Maybe that's what love really is.
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( 1 5 )
It's clean, elegant, not too big. Very shiny. It comes in a red box with gold lining (because Donna was never a Tiffany's girl). It comes with Harvey biting his cheek and looking serious. It comes sitting down on his balcony, in sweatpants and a cotton t-shirt. It comes with a proposition, not a question.
It comes completely unexpectedly.
She lost track of what was happening when he said "marry" and "me". At first she thought the early sounds of the city might have somehow caused her to mishear him, but she asked "what" and he said it all over again. And now he's holding a box open at her with the most beautiful ring, a diamond at the center with a paved band. It's not too much, not too showy, not too shabby, not too anything. It's perfect.
She stares at it, then at him, completely reactionless. She looks him in the eyes, her mind goes blank and yesyesyesyesyes buzzes through it like a beehive. "Yes", she practically blurts out. "Yes?" he asks, frown dissipating, the tiniest smile starting to form. "Oh, my God, yes," she confirms, shaking her head quickly to clear it as a stupefied smile blooms on her lips.
He looks up at her for a moment, marvelled, before she pulls him to his feet and crashes her lips against his, wrapping her arms around his neck. He hugs her waist with one strong arm (the other presumably still holding the box) and laughs against her lips. "I never knew you wanted this," she comments once they part, still only partially believing what is happening. He smiles smugly at her. "I meant it when I said I wanted everything."
She rolls her eyes as he pulls away and takes her hand. He brings the box closer and they both look absolutely mystified as he slides the ring onto her finger.
"I wanted something not too flashy, something you could wear every day," he explains, still looking down.
He knows her too well.
She hopes he also knows she would have married him with no ring at all.
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( 1 6 )
The simple diamond pin in her hair. The peonies Rachel insisted on bringing. The white, in contrast with her pale skin, her freckles. Her hair, catching fire in the afternoon light. His mother and his brother standing next to him. Mike as his best man. The golden specks in her eyes from the last sunbeams. The faint cello. Their future, renewed, ahead of them.
The smile she gives him, and only him.
He really did mean it when he said he wanted everything.