It starts like this.

He wakes up because of the pain echoing in his bones. The brilliant Pacific sun has subsided, ultimately retiring for the day as night is bestowed upon them. He half expects Donna to be fast asleep on the other side of the bed like two civil adults who go way back. She isn't anywhere near him and his hopes are dashed. He'd hoped she wouldn't hate him when he told her the truth.

He pushes himself upright into a sitting position, a groan eliciting from the back of his throat, and sits on the side of the bed. He lifts his left hand and absently rubs at his eye, his right arm in too much pain to really bother trying to move it more than is necessary. He blinks a few times and realizes there is a cool breeze. His eyes follow the source of the breeze, the curtains swaying from the balcony doors being propped open.

He pushes himself to his feet and stumbles, an imbalance resting near his equilibrium. He licks at his lips as he narrows his gaze, the sharpening around his eyes allowing himself to make out the form leaning against the balcony rail with much more clarity. He stifles a yawn then, his muscles cramping with the urge to stretch.

"Hey," he says, his voice hoarse, as he steps forward. She turns ever so slightly to look at him, her face highlighted by the soft glow of the table light from inside the room. The stars behind her are clearer than he can ever remember seeing from any point in the city skyline and the waves behind her echo with a natural, peaceful disturbance. "What are you doing out here?"

"I'm…" she starts but trails off, leaning back against the rail then as her face comes into full view. She's dressed in a pair of jeans and a black top made out of silk material. He briefly thinks it would be soft to touch. Her feet are bare and she looks somewhat relaxed. She smiles gently then and says, "I'm taking in the view."

"This old thing?" He asks, gesturing to himself.

She offers him a pity laugh and lightly shakes her head. She turns back to the view of the waves crashing into the beach and he saddles up beside her, his hands circling the wooden rail as he braces himself against it. The silence surrounds them as they look off into the distance, her more intently than him.

"I've never seen a view so beautiful," she says slowly.

He turns to look at her then, taking in her appearance before him. Her neck is long, collar bones peeking out of her shirt, and jaw looks relaxed. He wants to reach out and touch her skin to fully feel the weight of her, to understand the expanse of space she consists in. His gaze traces over the outline of her form, taking in the slight pout that has conquered her lips.

"No," he mutters. He thinks about her lips on the corner of his mouth, the kiss that ricocheted throughout his body as his skin puffed in victory. His lips still tingle from the almost. She's sliding her gaze over to him before he can angle his body away from her, unsuccessfully planting the façade that he had never been looking at her. He adds, "I've never seen anything more beautiful."

He slowly looks back at her as though never being caught and he feels a sense of understanding pass between them as her threat dies before it can even touch her lips. Her customary 'Harvey, don't' or 'Harvey, please' or simply 'Harvey' like she wasn't asking him to spill it all out between them months ago. But he has nothing to tell because she has asked him time and time again not to.

"Are you in a lot of pain?" She asks.

"It wouldn't let me sleep," he admits. He swallows. He says, "Did you, uh, did you sleep at all?"

She shakes her head lightly, as she pushes off of the rail. She looks better rested than he does and he truly doesn't know how she does it. He's so tired for so many reasons. She taps on wood of the rail for a brief moment before she shrugs. He must have had a look on his face that says it all.

"I made sure to get you some food, just in case you woke up. Did you know everything shuts down here? Even room service," she says.

He nods then. He says, "So did you at least eat?"

The breeze picks up a bit more as she gives him a disheartened nod. He doesn't believe her. She isn't a very good liar. She says, "I had a coffee."

"That explains it," he replies. He offers her a smile, lips tight as he pushes off of the rail and turns to go back inside. She doesn't follow, just rests her hands where they were. He takes a seat back on the bed. His mouth flattens out and he blinks slowly. "Would you mind helping me change this bandage?"

She perks up at that. He watches her throw her shoulders back as a pleased grin threatens to spread across her mouth. She says, "I thought you would never ask."

He lays his palms flat on the bed as Donna makes her way into the hotel room and takes off towards the bathroom to retrieve the plastic sack with the items they had purchased at the pharmacy. He expels a breath as she sets the bag in the center of the bed and sits beside him, one of her knees pulled up between them. Her shin presses into his hip and the rest of her is close enough that he can feel her warmth.

"Can you…?" He asks, trailing off as he gestures to his sweater.

He watches her swallow before she nods, her fingers flexing at her thighs only briefly before she reaches for the hem of his sweater. He lifts his left arm above his head, her fingernails absently dragging over his torso, and he inhales a deep breath. Once the sweater is over his head, it's as easy as Donna pulling the material towards her to free his injured arm. He hisses as she does this, the sting in his skin sharper than he had anticipated.

"Sorry," she says.

He shakes his head and says, "You didn't shoot me."

"But I am the one who took off your shirt," she replies.

He laughs gently, the noise getting caught in the back of his throat. He says, "If I weren't in so much pain, I would have a witty retort for that."

"In your wildest dreams," she volleys.

And she's right. His wildest dreams start pretty much exactly like this. She rips off his shirt and he kisses her hungrily, like he's trying to remind her of all of the promises he made her and he kept. She's hesitant at first but ultimately gives in, melting into the kiss like gravity keeps pulling them together. He usually isn't experiencing such an intense amount of pain either.

"You're just changing the bandage, right?" He asks.

"Yes," she bites, "I know. I can't get it wet for another twenty-four hours."

His gaze fixates on her mouth, watching as her lips circle around the word wet like she's teasing him. He absently licks his lips as she unwraps the bandage from his arm. He says, "Stop."

She pauses with her long fingernails pressing into his skin just beneath the white gauze. Her eyes dart to his, confused and pressing him for answers. He wants to kiss her then, like he's wanted to kiss her for months. Wants to remember what it feels like to have her so close that he can breathe her in. Her lips on his cheek just aren't enough. Not anymore. He's never said this out loud, but he knows that it's there. She knows it too. She has to.

His mouth hangs open for the briefest of moments before he says, "I'll do it."

"Harvey, don't be ridiculous. I'm already helping you," she counters. She sounds annoyed, like she wants to scratch his eyes out – like a cat. Cats are stupid. (He takes this distraction in stride because he sure as hell needs one.) "Quit being a baby and just sit still."

"You don't have to-"

"I want to," she interjects before he can finish. She huffs then, her hands going back to the task. He settles with keeping his mouth shut and not saying anything. If he keeps his head down then his mind can't wander either. He picks a spot on the wall to stare at. "You know, you asked me for help. That's why I'm doing this. You told me what you wanted, what you expect out of me, and that's what I want."

"Oh please," he counters with a laugh of disbelief, "You've never really wanted to hear what I really want to say."

"Harvey, don't," she says. Right on cue, just like he'd expected. He rolls his eyes then. She pushes her thumbs into his arm and gets a good look at his wound then. He stupidly looks back at her, his gaze softening. It's so much easier to be angry with her when he isn't looking at her. "This doesn't have to be a fight. I was just saying that I like it when you tell me directly what you want or need rather than a guessing game."

"You've never had to guess," he replies. She seems resolute suddenly, twisting her mouth. He knows that she's been caught, that the particular look on her face is one that she makes when he has stumped her. She reaches into the sack for the new roll of gauze, tearing up the package with unprecedented anger. He says, "What did that thing ever do to you?"

She pauses then, looking up at him. She takes the roll of gauze out and peels it open, disconnecting the white fluff from its counterparts. She begins wrapping it around his arm. He keeps trying to make it lighthearted but it never stays there for long.

She says, "I got you some food."

"Thanks," he says quietly.

She doesn't press it. Her usual game of 'what for' and 'for what' is dead on her tongue before he can even blink. She usually likes to push him just to see how far he is willing to go with her. She should know better by now that she's important to him without some lame way of him saying so.

She secures the gauze into place and her warm hands leave his skin. He hears her rummaging through the plastic sack on the bed behind him and his eyes follow the noise. She looks tired and he briefly wonders if she's even eaten or if the coffee is really the only thing he's consumed.

"Did you eat anything or did you just have coffee?" He asks again, quietly.

"I wasn't hungry," she replies. She looks up at him then, her lips tight in a feigned smile. He wonders what's going on with her and why she didn't eat. He lightly shakes his head and she has to know that he doesn't believe her. She huffs and angles her body away from him. "All that time in the plane fucked with my equilibrium."

He laughs then, the vulgar sound coming out of her dainty mouth hitting him just right so he can't control his laughter. She glares at him. He takes a moment, but he straightens up eventually.

"You need to eat something," he says. He pushes himself off of the bed, his leg muscles flexing despite their failure to cooperate at the moment. He realizes then that their overprotective and insistent need to see that the other is taken care of has to mean something. "Pumping yourself with caffeine isn't going to keep that skin looking fresh."

"This looks the way it does," she says, gesturing to her face, "Because of man's greatest creation: makeup."

"I don't believe you," he replies.

She is a fraction of a fraction of who she used to be. She means this in the simplest of terms. She was once a girl with dreams but those dreams were crushed by the realm of responsibility and practicality. Her father used to preach, ironically so, practicality at her until he was blue in the face while her mother sat back and watched quietly from a corner. Her mother's backbone had broken with the harshest loss of their family, the move from their Connecticut estate to their upstate New York household where she and her siblings called home until they embarked into their own worlds of obligations.

Practicality rings true for her even amidst her blindness to her boss and, though over a decade of impractical practicality, she has held steadfast to her backbone. Donna is uncertain of who she would rather be like – her mother or her father. Harvey, on the other hand, is definitely like her father, preaching rules that he doesn't follow and risking it all for things that really don't matter.

Maybe that had always been the underlying problem… He isn't willing to risk things that really matter to him because he wants to keep all of his cards close to his chest, but she's watched him risk everyone and everything else in front of him time and time again. His refusal to risk anything with her or for her has left her reeling. Though she knows him, she is unfamiliar with his unwillingness to risk anything.

She supposes that's where she lost track of him somehow. A man with values he holds close to his chest but the risk still comes easy. And she's spent enough time mulling over their decade long situation and has come to the conclusion that he just isn't in love with her if he isn't willing to risk anything to be with her because he is a man who always goes after what he wants.

She's realized over the course of the last few months (amidst her binge drinking and her inability to eat food properly) that she has taken his decision to not be in love with her way too personal. However, the realization still didn't bring back her appetite and his so far constant interrogation on her food intake is driving her mad. They have spent the better course of the last two days alternating their sleep schedules and staring out at the ocean from their balcony in silence.

Harvey has mostly been sleeping to get through the pain. Her time has been mostly spent sitting on the balcony and going out to get food to make sure that Harvey has something to eat. He's been tired lately, even before the mishap on the street. They've been on decent terms but they haven't particularly spoken beyond pleasantries. She knows him well enough to know that he needs the time off work just as much as it has been demanded of him.

She can hear the echoes of his breathing crash against the ocean and she finds it comforting. She momentarily hates herself for the vicious cycle she keeps repeating over and over again. He does not love her yet she keeps letting herself get drawn in, caring for him and looking after him and begging him to come with her when they are just friends. They will only ever be friends and he will never return those stupid feelings she tried to bury years ago.

She turns to look at him over her shoulder, his position looking extremely uncomfortable as he sleeps. He looks like he's in pain, like the mental and physical ramifications he is dealing with is just too difficult for his subconscious to come to turns with. She wishes she could soothe him but she doesn't know how. It isn't her place to ease his troubles and he doesn't want her to. He is headstrong and has a strong will. He can be unfathomably unbearable at times.

"I'm not sleeping," he says groggily. She doesn't look away from him. Contrary, she sharpens her gaze on him, suspicious that he's not even really awake. So she says nothing for about a minute when he slides an eye open. "I can feel your eyes on me and they're burning a hole in my skull."

"Sorry," she grumbles. She pushes herself to her feet and walks over to the doorway. She hugs her kimono closer to her chest and leans against the frame. She shrugs half-hazard then. She says, "I was just worried about you."

"It's hot as hell in here," he replies.

Her eyebrows furrow in confusion. She's freezing to death and he has beads of sweat lining his forehead. She pushes off of the doorframe and enters further into the room. He sits up, his face squeezing as he groans. She stops in front of him, her hands reaching up to his forehead. She wipes at the sweat lining his hairline before pressing her wrist against his skin.

"Jesus Christ, Harvey," she barks, "You're burning up."

"My shoulder's too stiff," he mutters. She looks down at him and notes that he's drenched in sweat. She's not a doctor, but if he has a fever then his stitches could be infected. "Can you help me take my shirt off?"

"Of course," she replies a little too quickly.

Her hands find the hem of his shirt and she tugs at the grey cotton. He moves his left arm through the arm hole. She widens the neck hole to take it off over his head, and finally pulls the shirt completely off of his right arm. She inhales in unison with him, the sharp intake of breath for two very different reactions. She uses his shirt to wipe at the sweat around his neck and chest area.

"Hold still," she says, moving towards the bathroom. She gets a washcloth and wets it with cold water. She rings it out over the sink. She turns back towards the bed and, crawling across the mattress behind him, presses the cold washcloth against the back of his neck. "Maybe this will help."

She sweeps the wet washcloth across his skin as she presses her palm into his good shoulder to help balance herself. She moves the washcloth over the back of his neck, and down his spine to the small of his of his back. She pushes it across his waistline all the way to his torso. Her front rests against his back as she reaches around him to slide the washcloth up his sternum. She rests the weight of herself on him as she moves her other hand to the washcloth to continue the movement, her right hand pressing into his ribcage so she doesn't accidentally hit his arm. She then pushes the washcloth up his throat before holding it against his forehead.

If she didn't feel his chest rising and falling beneath her fingertips she wouldn't even know for sure that he is actually breathing. Her fingers twitch against his skin and absently tap at his ribcage. He squirms a little at the movement, maybe like she'd accidentally tickled him or something. She peers around him to see if it's helping at all but when she does, he turns his head to look at her.

They don't make eye contact, not exactly. She's busy studying his eyes and trying to determine the state of his pupils (not that she's a doctor or anything, but she has dated her fair share of doctors) as he angles his torso more towards her. His skin tightens beneath her fingers with the movement. His eyes darken as his gaze hones in on her slightly parted lips.

She braces herself for the inevitable contact. Her fingers preemptively dropping the washcloth onto the bed as he leans towards her. His lips touch hers, and her hand settles on his jaw. His left hand slips between them as he turns more towards her. She feels his tongue flick against her lip as his hand presses against her stomach. His palm flattens out against the material there, her lips parting beneath his silent reprieve. Her nails dig into his ribs. She feels something brush across the back of her hand and recoils in surprise. He pulls back from her really fast, wincing. She barely had the taste of his tongue and it's already gone.

"Shit," she murmurs, realizing that she'd hit his hand and made some sort of pain shoot up his arm, "I'm sorry. Are you okay?"

"It's fine," he replies softly, "It was an accident."

She loosens her grasp on him, settling back into a sitting position as she rests onto her legs behind him to take the pressure off of her knees. She absently swipes at her face, silently chastising herself for kissing him. He's in pain and probably delusional – meanwhile, she's taking advantage of him. She rubs at her forehead for just a moment before she reaches for the washcloth again.

"Was the cold washcloth helping?"

She doesn't even wait around for a response, just pushes off of the mattress and moves back to the bathroom for more cold water. She looks over at him, the sound of his annoyed huff somehow managing to be louder than the running water. She tucks a loose strand of her hair behind her ear as she peers at him. She's really concerned about his sudden fever.

"Harvey," she tries again. He clears his throat loudly. He says her name with the same tone she used. She turns off the water and rings out the rag. "You're scaring me."

He turns slightly to look at her then. "I'll be fine."

"Lay on your stomach," she says, gesturing for him to lie down.

She moves around to the other side of the bed and sits on it beside him. She pulls her legs up as she leans against the headboard and presses the washcloth against the back of his neck. She holds it there for about a minute before she moves the washcloth across his shoulders. She peeks at his face. She thinks he's fallen back asleep.

This is going to be a long night.

Her head clears. She must have fallen asleep or something. She stills her movements, feeling her hand rise and fall, and she realizes that her hand is resting on his bare back. She breathes out a sigh of relief once she comprehends that his breathing speed is regular.

She isn't a doctor but she has dated a few of them, and they always seemed to think their weird pulse and wrists and breathing things were cute or quirky. They weren't cute or quirky. It was annoying. She always felt like she was being sized up.

She finally opens her eyes, comforted enough by his involuntary movement that she isn't terrified by what she might see. His skin feels warm still, like he maybe still has a fever. The room is still dark except for the light in the bathroom. She smooths her hand across his back as she rolls over, resting on her back. She's really worried about him.

She watches him for a few minutes before she sits up and directs all of her energy into something else to busy herself. She hadn't meant to fall asleep. She had meant to stay awake and keep an eye on him. But something about the steady rhythm of his breathing must have lulled her sleep.

She crawls out of bed and grabs a blanket before she heads to the balcony. The balcony is small. It only has two small chairs and a tiny table on it that serves as a dinner table. These can't be living quarters. This has to be a temporary arrangement. They can't be staying here for too long.

She's freezing still. She never realized that the ocean got so cold at night, especially on the west coast. The blanket is doing very little to keep her warm, but Harvey is burning up still. She sighs and thinks that maybe the reason she fell asleep so easily is because the bed beside him was so warm and welcoming. She didn't even need a blanket even though the doors were open as wide as they are now.

She's still terrified, but now she has more to be concerned about. People are after them, bad people who take no prisoners. There isn't a way out of this unless these men are imprisoned or, worse, killed. Not to mention, now she has to worry about Harvey's well-being. And try not to think about that kiss, about whatever is happening here.

Not like she can really put her finger on it at this point. They've only been gone for a day and a half. They've done very little talking. And they honestly have a lot to work out, a lot more than they can probably successfully work out if they even give it a shot. Not that Harvey is one of those who is particularly keen on talking about things as 'mundane' as feelings. But he's exposed himself pretty deeply with her before, just never on the subject of, well, her. And, hell, she has rarely pushed. Really only the one time did she push, and she knows that at first he'd really only thought she was leaving in an attempt to manipulate him.

Part of her was.

He wakes up to a cold at the back of his neck with a rather quick movement of the cloth down the length of his spine. He shivers at the movement, and her thumb brushes against his skin just at the small of his back. He groans against his will. He tucks his face into his shoulder as an embarrassment washes through him.

He lifts his head and faces her, her face barely coming into view. Her lips are pursed, eyebrows furrowed; she has that same look she gets when she is incredibly focused on her top priorities. There's a warmth in the pit of his stomach at the thought of being her top priority again.

"How long have you been up?" He asks, voice gravelly.

"A couple of hours," she says. She smiles knowingly, like she knows he's in pain. He musters his energy and rolls over onto his back, her hand recoiling at the very last second and maneuvering to not brush across his stomach. "I'm going exploring to find some more stuff for you."

He clears his theist and says, "You don't have to take care of me."

"Harvey," she says, his name low in her mouth, "You took a bullet for me."

"Seriously, Donna," he says evenly, almost as forceful as usual. He doesn't even have the energy to fight her but he is going to expend every last bit of it until the moment he dies. She does not owe him anything. She does not have to restore his faith in the human race, in the female gender. She is entitled to her space. But she asked him to come for a reason, right? He adds, "I'll come with you. That's what I'm here for, right?"

She sighs, annoyed but voicing her overall concession to him. She says, "Right."

"Okay," he replies, with a slight smirk and a full nod. He pushes himself into a sitting position with a groan. He throws his legs over the side of the bed and takes a moment to collect himself. He says, "Just let me go to the bathroom and get a shirt on, then we can go."

He stands up with a great pain shooting through his body and proceeds to stretch, like that will kink out the pain and let him continue to live his life. It doesn't much help, and the sun is blinding him into a squint. He can feel her eyes on him as he hobbles to the bathroom. He shuts the door behind him and once inside he turns to full face the mirror.

He shakes his head as he pushes the waistband of his pants over his hip and just a little down his thigh. The cloth rubbing against his leg stings quite a bit. He takes a long hard look in the mirror, the gauze covering his skin just a tinge red. He pulls the gauze from his leg, taking a closer look at the wound. It doesn't look too bad. He tosses the gauze into the trash and reaches for some toilet paper. He replaces the heavy duty gauze with the light duty toilet paper, looking around for that medical tape Donna had hours ago.

He should tell her about this, but he can't. He can't have her worried anymore. He can't be her responsibility anymore. She shouldn't have to deal with another wound that he has. It isn't her job to care for him, to coddle his wounds. He has seriously overstepped their boundaries over the years.

So he sighs in relief when he spots the tape on the counter and tapes the toilet paper to his thigh. He'll be fine. It's not even really bleeding anymore. He stands upright and replaces the cringe on his face with a hearty smile. When he opens the bathroom door, she's already standing on the other side with one of his shirts in her hands.

"Need a hand?" She asks.

He laughs at her joke. He's laughing to hide the pain.

He's a half step behind her as they explore the small island town in search of a drug store or something of that nature. She's walking a little fast, especially since he's too busy trying to keep his steps in line to keep his pain under wraps. She was right about one thing, it's a little chilly for the sun to be so active on an island such as this.

If only he could treat it like a getaway weekend with the woman he doesn't want to lose. But he can't. He's too busy hiding truths from her. Which he knows that she hates so fucking much. She will be pissed when she finds out, but he can't worry her anymore.

His gaze sticks on the way that her hair is caught in the wind, waving dangerously just inches from his face. He wants to run his hands through her hair, just to feel the softness of it against his fingertips. But she's walking faster, putting so much distance between them. He just can't keep up with her. She seems to notice that he isn't hot on her heels because she turns around and eyes him precariously, like she doesn't believe that he's okay. And he isn't. As time has passed, he's really done a piss poor job of hiding it.

"Do you need to go back to the room?" She asks. She's judging him. He can feel that judgmental gaze planted on him like she's about to give him the third degree.

"I'm fine," he snaps, picking up his pace. He cringes, really cringes, and she can see for the briefest of moments just how much pain he's in. She stops moving and he feels like he's back in that interrogation room.

"Are you taking those pain pills?" She asks, "It would probably help with the pain."

"The pain is fine, Donna," he says with an annoyed sigh, "I'm fine, really. Why won't you believe me?"

"I know you, Harvey," she says solemnly; she almost sounds sad, "Just because we've been going through stuff, doesn't mean I don't know you anymore."

He thinks they look like a couple who's been falling apart and are making a last ditch effort to save their marriage. He suddenly starts laughing at that thought. He can't help laughing even harder when she arches her eyebrow, intrigued yet annoyed at the random outburst.

"Donna," he says calmly, "We sound like a couple trying to save our marriage."

"Isn't that who we're supposed to be?" She replies.

She looks coy and not at all serious. He's a little annoyed about it as he's been trying to find a way to talk to her for months but she just won't give. He huffs and lightly shakes his head. He wants to yell at her in the middle of the street but he never will, not at her.

"You don't have to be so stubborn," he says. He locks eyes with her, challenging her with everything inside of him. If he could for just one moment get her to stop being so stubborn. He swallows there and says, "We could maybe have a conversation for once."

"I'm the only stubborn one," she bites the question out, "You never want to have the conversations that matter."

"Donna," he says, too even to realize that he's really pushing her nerves, "I always want to talk to you. You have no idea just how much of me derives from you. But Doctor Agard said I have to accept the terms and conditions of things when people really matter to me."

"What does that mean?" She says quietly, a shock forming on her face.

"It means you wanted to be colleagues so I had to respect that boundary," he says.

"I didn't," she stops to breathe, the hesitation so clearly tending her shoulders at the possibility that maybe just maybe he's thought all along that's what she wanted. She shakes her head lightly. She says, "That wasn't what I meant, Harvey. I knew you couldn't be committed to me so I couldn't be your girlfriend and your secretary. It would have been too complicated."

"It's complicated anyway," he says evenly. He hears the annoyance seep out into the space between them, like he's annoyed about all of the years lost. He doesn't even remember the initial topic of conversation. He's just in so much pain. "Let's take a break."

She looks taken aback for a moment as he stops mid thought. He can't even stand anymore. He feels so lightheaded suddenly with so much pain racking through his body. He huffs and takes a few steps back, finding a sturdy brick wall to rest against.

"Harvey," she mutters, more concerned than he's ever heard her before. The tone of her voice shakes him to the core. He looks up, not even realizing he had looked away, and he can barely see her. She's blurry. "What is it?"

"Nothing," he insists, "It's fine. I'm fine."

"Stop keeping things from me," she says, voice breaking. He feels a sting in his chest and he feels like his heart is breaking. Whatever this feeling is, he does not like it. He feels a puff of breath against his cheek before her hand presses against his side. She adds, "Please."

"I just don't want you to worry," he replies, softly. He blinks once and feels a hot tear slide down his cheek. She becomes a little more clear and he suddenly realizes he's crying. He hates it when she sees him cry because then she starts crying and it becomes a whole thing.

"I'm going to worry, Harvey," she says there. His name from her mouth stings him for some reason. He doesn't want her to worry, but he should know better by now. Part of him just thought... "I never stopped caring about you."

"We don't have to talk about it," he replies decidedly. She sighs heavily to reveal her annoyance but drops it anyway. Her hand stays fixed on his side, fingers pressing a little too hard against his ribs only a few inches from his heart. He hopes she can't feel his heart beating faster beneath her fingertips. "I think I just need some food. And you definitely need some food."

They find a place called Original Jack's Country Diner to grab a bite to eat. It's a breakfast place on the island, and the menu offers them the protein that they both really seem to need right now. She's beginning to look tired. He knows that if he tells her so, she's going to nearly lose it on him, but he needs to keep her in line just as well as she does to him. Besides, he's only here because she asked him to be.

"Will you try to get some sleep when we get back?" He asks, his annoyance quite obvious.

"Fine, fine, whatever," she mutters, literally waving him off.

She looks away from him and he can tell that she's highly annoyed. She's ready to agree to anything to just shut him up. He gets it. She's been annoying him, too. They've only been cooped up together for a few days and they're already on the verge of killing on another.

"You know, Donna," he starts. He pauses to sigh and absently wipes his hand across his face. Her sharp gaze quickly turned back to him. He regains himself, a sharp pain shooting through his leg. He expels a breath, his forehead beginning to feel clammy as he feels both hot and cold at the same time. "I just, I care about you, okay? You asked me to come and I did because I care about you."

"You're hurt," she reminds him. Her arms are crossed in front of her chest and he isn't entirely happy about it. She's closing herself off from him. He wonders if it hasn't anything to do with that kiss. "You should be worrying about you, not me."

"Has this not always been our problem?" He asks suddenly, "You thinking I don't care about you like you care about me? Which is bullshit, by the way. I mean, you kissed me just a few hours ago, and now you're acting like it never happened."

"Actually, you kissed me," she corrects, "And I'm not acting like it never happened, Harvey. I'm just trying to pretend that it never happened, just like everything else that happens between us."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He snaps. He feels like she's trying to pin this all on him when it isn't even his fault. He can tell though that she doesn't want to talk about it. She's squirming in her seat. He sighs in defeat. "Nevermind. You obviously don't want to talk about it."

"This is not on me," she refutes, "You're the one who told me you love me and couldn't follow through with it."

His face instantly falls. He is not happy with the way she's acting as though she was completely innocent in any of this. He's always the one taking them a step or two forward and she brings them anywhere from two to three steps back. Every move he makes, she's resistant. One day he will tell her exactly what's on his mind and she'll be forced to make some decisions.

He opens his mouth to retaliate when the waitress returning with some food interrupts him. His body needs the food way more than he needs to speak what's on his mind. He quickly shuts his mouth and sweeps up his fork, extremely eager to consume something his body needs. He looks up at her, watching her extreme gratuity as she interacts with the waitress. It reminds him of his manners.

They step outside of the diner and they're instantly greeted with a gentle shower in the morning air. The light dust quickly turns into light rain. She stands under the awning and looks out, trying to determine how long it's going to be raining. Back in New York, there would never be a surprise rainfall.

"Shit," he mutters to her right. She turns to look at him, eyebrows furrowed with concern. He shouldn't get his wound wet. It risks infection.

The rest of their meal had been eaten in silence. She has a lot to say to him, a lot that she's built up over the years but hasn't had the courage to say, and she really doesn't know if she will be able to say anything. He's injured. He got injured in an altercation trying to protect her and she didn't even get a scratch. She can't approach the subject matter. He has to do it.

"We could wait it out," she suggests.

He sighs. He says, "I'm not feeling great."

She angles her entire body towards him. She watches as he pushes his hand into his stomach, favoring one side of his torso. He doesn't typically admit any vulnerability. She has to get him back to the hotel. As fast as possible.

"Okay, I'll go find an umbrella. You wait here," she says.

She tosses him another glance as he leans heavily against the doorframe of the diner. She's concerned about him. He seems to becoming weaker and weaker as time goes by. The more sleep he gets, the more lethargic he feels. She's going to pay a lot of attention to him.

She runs down the sidewalk, looking for a stand that might have an umbrella. While she's looking, it only seems to rain harder. She finally finds one, pays the man with the twenty she has in her pocket. It's the only cash she has. Harvey has the rest. She's lucky she even had it.

She turns to the downpour again, pushing the contraption open to shield her for the hard rainfall. She finds him, slumping even more against the entryway of the diner. She offers him a small, reassuring smile that he tries to return but can't seem to muster. He reaches for the handle of the umbrella, but she shakes her head.

"I've got this," she replies. She holds it tightly in her left hand and swoops her right hand around his waist. He gives her a look as he stands upright, and she rolls her eyes in response. She pushes her fingers into his hip and he hisses loudly. "Lean on me."

He gives her a long look, no doubt battling with his pride, before he concedes. He drapes his arm across her shoulders, leaning on her a bit more. They begin to slowly walk out into the rain, the pellets hitting her around the ankles. Good thing she changed into a pair of jeans, but her feet are wet and freezing already.

It takes them a lot longer to get to the hotel lobby than it normally would. Part of her wants to press him for answers, maybe a hint as to why he's getting worse rather than better. She leads him up to the room. She barely has him sitting on the bed before his eyes drift closed.

"Harvey," she says sharply, hands circling his shoulders. His eyes pop open quickly. She doesn't understand what's happening. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he says, quickly. He sucks in a deep breath and releases it. He shakes his head quickly like he's trying to spark himself awake. "It's fine. I'm fine."

He waves her off.

"I'm just tired," he adds.

She nods slowly, leaning down in front of him. She pulls his shoes off and sets them on the floor, soles pushed together. She looks up at him. His eyes are only open a crack, both of his hands grasping onto the edge of the mattress like he's holding on for dear life. She does the only thing she can think of.

She lays her hands on his thighs near his knees. He quirks an eyebrow at her. She swallows the thick film of saliva that's gathered at the base of her throat. Her tongue feels heavy in her mouth. She pushes her weight into her palms and makes herself taller.

She presses her lips against his. He seems shocked and uncertain on what to do. Her left hand leaves his leg and she touches his neck, cupping his face in her hand. She's gentle, only lips, until his tongue flits against her top lip. She widens her mouth expectantly, but nothing else happens. He doesn't deepen the kiss any further. In fact, he does the opposite. He pulls back, nearly breathless.

"Okay," she mutters softly, hand brushing through his hair beside his ear, "You lay back and get some rest."

He nods slowly, clearly unable to fight any longer. She presses her palms against his sides, guiding him back in the bed so he can fully spread out. He tries to scoot more to one side to leave room for her, but he doesn't seem to have the energy. She smiles softly, tears beginning to form in her eyes.

She sits on the bed beside him, slowly running her hands over his chest and face and through his hair until his breathing slows to an even sound. She lays her hand on his chest then, feeling for his breathing. She knows he would say she's overreacting, but she doesn't think she is. She gives it a few minutes, her with her hand on his chest and her back against the headboard, before she pushes herself up off of the bed. She grabs her key card and shoves it into her pocket.

"Excuse me," she says the man in a lobby. "Is there an on-call doctor or something that I can get sent to my room?"

"There's a medical center open until six," he replies.

"That won't work," she says quietly, "Look, my husband is stubborn. And he's in a lot of pain. I don't think we could even get there if we tried."

"Do you need me to call an ambulance?" He asks.

"Here's the thing," she replies, "He has a lot of pride and, full disclosure, I think he's going into shock. I'm not a doctor or anything, so if it happens to be nothing and we call an ambulance, he will not be happy."

"I'm sorry, ma'am," the man mutters, "What are you asking me to do?"

"Fuck it," she mumbles to herself, "Call an ambulance."