when you stop looking; harvey/donna ; r (and maybe NC-17); 628 words;

things will never be different, they will never be the same

a/n: i don't even know what this is it just kind of happened

He doesn't believe in love;

but he thinks that if he did, he could love her.

The world is filled with discrepancies, nothing that he can fix - not with the law, not even if he cared - so, instead he bites his tongue and puts one foot in front of the other. His ears perk up at the sound of her voice, a stellar cognizant that permits his brain to function in a way that he doesn't begin to understand how it ever functioned without her. He thinks that maybe she's his saving grace, that she makes him human in a way; the funny thing is that she isn't even his.

Her eyes pierce his in a way that makes him soften, even when angry - even when filled with pure, unadulturated hate.

This isn't love, he tells himself.

He swallows hard, saliva thick with despair, lined with desperation, completely empty at the end of it all. Somewhere he forgets where she ends and he begins, works harder to convince himself that he couldn't love her; he buries himself in meaningless flings, never the same woman, never the same feeling, never the same taste, never the same smell, never. Doesn't matter because they're never her anyway.

There's an emptiness that resides, a sense of need and desire that can't be fullfilled. As he watches her with baited breath, he realizes that she doesn't really see him; she knows his every move, every thought, but she doesn't acknowledge his desires. He thinks that maybe he's always been wrong, he couldn't love her.

His lips crush into hers, hands buried in her fire colored hair, bodies pressed together in a way that melds one person. For a brief moment he feels whole, but that disapates, turns into an unspoken and unreturned desire. The ghost of her lips in his ear, her words tangling with his hair - I can't do this.

She's getting married. When she tells him, his jaw tenses, his lips form a thin line, his eyes are glazed over and none of the songs make sense anymore. He breaks a record - leaves the little pieces scattered on the floor of his office. He's mad at her, he hates her, because she can't do it for him but she can for someone else.

The next time he sees her, he loses his resolve - goes back to pretending that he doesn't notice the way her lips part when he brushes against her.

She pleads with him using her eyes, asking him to give her a reason not to go through it and uses her words vaguely and suggestively, never letting her facade go away. He sees the way her hips sway when she walks, how it isn't as poignant as it once was, and that her lips reflect a frown when she thinks no one is looking. She doesn't beg him, simply says: you're the only one who can give me a reason not to marry him.

He doesn't say anything, just pulls her into his arms and lets his Adam's Apple slide over her forehead when he swallows; he doesn't know how to put into words how he feels or what he wants. She boards her plane for Hawaii the next day. He thinks she goes through with it. She comes back happier, without a wedding ring.

He doesn't smile too wide, doesn't reflect the relief he feels on his features. He just mutters a welcome back with the hint of a grin. Later on he asks her what happened and she tells him that he gave her a reason; he doesn't understand what she means until years later when he watches her walk away and he doesn't know if he'll ever see her again.