Author's Notes: Decided to work on an alternative to upcoming 7.13. I wrote most of this months ago. Hope you guys like. BTW it's a Mini-Fic. Something to tide us over the Winter feel of this season's last few eps.

. . ….

Two Cities

By Atheniandream

. . ...

If things really go bad and your world shatter

Maybe I can say something that actually matter

If this progression can ease your depression

Maybe I can say something that matter

The Fiddlers, By Tingsek

. . . …

When Harvey Specter slams the front door shut behind himself, his heart is still pounding in his chest, the slightly unsteady thud echoing against his eardrums, blending into a discordant cadence, along with the cloudy patter of growing silence that folds him clean in two.

A suspended moment, and a faltering heartbeat later, his attention catches, his eyes just about managing to flick down with their sharpness, the only light in the room coming from his pocket, that ice blue glare, harsh as he winces at the bright light. He ignores the vibration against his hip, his hand sliding between the smooth material to press the 'divert call' button.

He closes his eyes, mashing his lips together just to still his rawest nerve.

He knows the caller ID without having to look. She calls with the same precision of timing every night that they are not together. He wonders when he became this man. What he gave up to have that choice in the first place.

His eyebrows slide into a frown then, a paper sharp guilt etching into his bones, as if the weight of that one self opposed accusation in his head is enough to brand him and overcompensate for the lack of words in his mouth. Ironic, that his mouth can be filled with bile and yet no words thereafter. Like a gun filled with blanks he is purposeless. A loud crack of a whip without the flash of lightning.

He clears his throat, swallowing thickly before toeing off his shoes, one after the other, for once, not bothering to stow them carefully away.

It'll annoy him later, the displacement of his things, mismatching with the perfect synchronicity of which he lives his life.

But everything has a consequence.

Everything in his life has a cause, and a reaction. Effective. Perplexing.

And he is slowly turning into a number of different reactions all at once.

He walks numbly to his minibar, loosely twisting the cap of a glass decanter with a pop, and lays it to one side, as he pours an indulgent measure of whiskey into the glass that has appeared into his hand, as if by magic.

He lifts the tumbler to his lips, ignoring the slight chink of crystal glass against slowly wearing enamel as he opens his throat, drowning all feeling and half the glass's contents with it, in one sheer wave.

But the liquor doesn't taste like it used to. It doesn't calm him like it should. He frowns, the disappointment letting a memory in.

Him, running, his heart almost bounding out of his chest to claim the lead, chasing a person,

A person, the one who was already gone long before, and now leaving him bare, with nothing but words in his mouth that poignant letter hanging in his hand, once more.

A love letter.

A parting gift, of such sweet sorrow...

His eyes flick out to the Upper Manhattan skyline, and all at once, he feels so far apart from himself.

Like a piece of him is missing, or mislaid. Borrowed without consent or a valid loan agreement.

His hand fishes into his pocket, deliberately swiping away the missed call, and answer phone message alert. In a moment of oddness, he dials the number he barely ever remembers by wrote, putting the receiver to his ear, as he hears the ringing on the other end. He feels his fingers twitch around the glass, as he pulls it to his lips, the nervous tick of a man trying to still himself.

'This is Donna. Leave a message' Peels out of the phone, lacking in that note of familiarity.

He hasn't heard her voice be like that in so, very long…

He feels a harsh pull, the right side of his face and jaw twitching as he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, until the pressure of the situation has him staring back into glass.

All time stops, as he watches his own actions as if behind a mirror,

Between the graceful flick of his left wrist,

The amber lash of glistening moisture that flies into the air,

And the crystal,

Exploding onto polished wood, like ice onto the jagged rocks of his life.

He knows, then.

She isn't coming back.

Not this time.

No matter what he does.

. . . ...

If things really go bad and your world shatter

Maybe I can say something that actually matter

If this progression can ease your depression

Maybe I can say something that matter - The Fiddlers By Tingsek.

. . . . . ...

In Chicago,

She's known as the woman who climbed her way to the top. Not slept. Climbed.

'Jessica's right hand woman'. 'Not' a man. In all the ways that help.

Just… Donna. And Donna Paulsen to those who haven't met her yet...

Somehow, despite Jessica's temperament - all of which she's seen in all the varying colours over the years - it feels good to be her second in command. Comforting, like she's in safe hands. It only highlights just what bad idea it had been - to fall in love with your Boss. And how refreshing it is, to not have that be the issue any longer.

She's not blind to the fact. She had resisted that cliche over the years. She had almost succeeded. But he was…

Gone. He's gone, she reminds herself. He's no longer in her orbit.

That time in her life has now been stripped from her.

Jessica has always treated her well, as an equal, and at the very least, as an extension of Harvey. Now, she is learning to fill those shoes as well.

Suddenly the world smells of roses, and she's a single entity, now. Admittedly there are some nights that she feels alone.

But she's also free of it all. The stress. The heartache. The tension soaked memories that had begun to keep her up at night.

It takes two weeks for her to settle in.

Chicago is no New York City. It never can be. And yet, somehow, that helps.

A fresh start.

. . . ...

My weakness

Is a woman

Who got me on my knees at night

When you were sleeping

I'm not that strong baby

You thought I was a faithful man

I'm just a liar when comes the night

And I'm washing my hands when the sun is rising

- Sinner By Isaac Delusion

. . . ...

Her empty office is like a sear against his heart. Every time he walks past it - the action being often, considering it's right next door to his - it catches in his chest, and for a split second he thinks about fleeing the scene, marching to the bathroom, or out of the building and onto the sidewalk just to regain control over the situation. Anywhere to not be right here beside it all. It's a palpable thing, if he were to admit it out loud, of course. Instead, he avoids talking about her altogether, which given her transition from his assistant to C.O.O, has been somehow easier than the last time. This time, isn't a direct amputation, however much he still bleeds.

It's the other people she left behind, that are making it harder. He ignores pointed glances from Mike, and the words he knows are lingering there against his lips, ready to come out and fill the lengthy silences that Louis carries with him everywhere. And Rachel...Rachel looks at him so much more harshly now, like accusations are written all over her face.

In the end, and out of all the rest, she is the one to break him down the fastest.

"Will you just...stop?" He blurts out one afternoon, when he's consulting her on a case she's handling solo. He's spent the last forty five minutes dodging her ripe silences in between her pointed responses.

"Excuse me?" She says, her dark eyes flicking up, her pixie nose twitching at his outburst.

"Rachel…" He sighs heavily, gathering a modicum of restraint. "I know that you're in a...position, between Me and...I know that you're...not happy with what happened, but,"

"Harvey, Don't." She cuts him off. It's a rare moment of polarity between them, as his gaze lingers on her raised hand. A symbolic gesture of a wall between them. Between him and the rest of them.

He never understood until now, just what a lifeline she had been between him and the world. Like he's been locked in a glass box and she is the filter, passing him air and reducing anything that could hurt him. Keeping him alive. Keeping him afloat in the world. Keeping him protected.

"Don't what?" He frowns, sensing the shift.

"Fine." She sighs, her fingers stretching out to fiddle with paperwork. "The Elephant in the room?" She clarifies. "No, Harvey. I'm not happy with you." She says, her face hardening at the edges, straightening in her seat. She's become something else lately. Something powerful and ammo filled. Bigger than that delicate paralegal without a proper voice. "None of us are happy about Donna leaving." She states. "And I could sit here, and focus on the fact that you are my Boss, and pretend that it's 'just between the two of you', or 'unfortunate circumstances', and 'no one's fault' but...after certain events….that...is," She pauses, drawing in a breath as the truth falls out. "Not how I feel." She admits delicately.

She's so good at pulling strings, as his brows knit together.

"Rach, I" He sputters, suddenly unable to defend himself.

She interrupts his words without a second thought. "Harvey, I've always kept out of yours and Donna's relationship, because she...is a very private person when it comes to you, and she's always handled it before, but…" She sighs, her eyes looking about the room for a few moments, before they direct themselves cleanly at him. Dark brown against darker brown. "She loved you. And you took her for granted, and worse than that...you didn't just...tell her that you didn't feel the same way. You let her think the exact opposite. And now...she's gone." She sniffs. "And what you forget in all this, is that...you're not the only one who lost her. I lost her too." She says, her voice quiet in the wake of it all. "We all did. We've all had to pay for your mistakes."

We've all had to pay for your mistakes...

It's the way she says it. Matter of factly. So delicately and yet so direct an assault.

He feels reduced to a mere asshole. Taken down by a petite little Associate, fresh out of the bullpen. In one monologue she has summed the entire situation and him up in one perfect deduction.

He feels his shoulders slump, any fire abating soon after. He looks down then, his fingers idly playing with the corner of a piece of paper in front of him.

"Rach...I miss her." He mumbles, just loud enough for her to hear.

She softens then, any annoyance dissipating between them and into the air. "I know you do. We all see it, Harvey. But if you don't want to be with her...then...you have to swallow that feeling...deep down, and just...move on. Let her...move on."

He nods fractionally, frozen, feeling overcome by this thoroughly perceptive woman.

Rachel doesn't give him a hard time after that.

But it doesn't make him miss her any less.

. . . . ….

Within the week, Donna buys a smallish Penthouse on W Diversey Parkway, a strange find, with high ceilings, a mezzanine level and a jarring eighties decor, an ugly parting gift from the previous occupants. She decides that it'll be a fixer-upper, with it's juliette balcony, ample parking - something she never even considered in New York - and wide open space. She decides that the distasteful primary coloured walls in the lounge, and the light silver carpet in the bedroom and log cabin-esque kitchen cabinets can all be traded in for classic American decor, with a modern twist, and stripped back wooden flooring to accompany a completely new kitchen.

She'll bring New York City to Chicago, and live like the young actress in her had always dreamed of.

She's out on the balcony one night, with a thick coat and scarf and a glass of red cradled in her hands, looking out onto the moody Chicago sky, mottled with oranges her hair used to be, competing with the royal blue signature colour of a man she had left behind.

She wonders then,

If heartache is just the body's way of exacting change. Of moving towards new things, rather than feeling the loss of one thing in particular.

It helps, especially when she catches herself delving into old wounds.

. . . ….

Harvey Specter is tired.

He needs a vacation.

Of late, he catches himself in the mirror, that tired dryness to his skin, from days of overwork, and little rest. That slightly purple tinge to the tanned skin under his eyes.

He feels it now. Working more than anything else. No boxing. No running. Just...work. And more work on top of that.

Paula's begun to notice. Calls him during the day to make sure that he's taking care of himself.

It's nice. To have someone there.

But it doesn't ease the unsettled feeling in him.

Something is missing. Someone is…

He feels guilt every time that he thinks of her, until Rachel's words shred him a second later, like a well placed scold.

He's never lived so much as a long weekend without her. She's been his constant for nearly fifteen years, and when he boils everything that happened down to one idea, that is the constant within him.

It's been just over three weeks.

And he's starting to feel it.

That burn...that sear against his heart.

He wasn't exaggerating when he said that her leaving would cause the firm to break. Mike and Rachel are getting close to their upcoming nuptials. They're talking of a honeymoon, no less than a month off. Both of them...absent. Making it he and Louis, to soon be the only ones left.

No Jessica. And no...

He couldn't refuse when they had jointly asked, no matter how selfishly he wanted to. They had been through so much over the years. Taken blows and lasted still despite the world's efforts to tear them apart. It was the least that he could do. If nothing, than to keep Rachel from jumping to her father's firm. He got an itch lately, that that was where she was headed. Something digging at him, like hidden information he'd managed to sniff out.

"Harvey?"

Mike's voice is a break between silences, as they are both going through paperwork on a quiet Wednesday evening, glasses scattered about the office, and take-out - no longer the shitty thai place - long gone cold and spread out around them.

"Have you talked to her?" Mike asks.

"What?" His eyes flick up then, a blank confusion on his preoccupied face.

"Donna." He clarifies.

It's a bold move, that causes a pit to drop in his stomach. No one says that name around him now. They either don't have the balls, or they can feel how it feels to hear it and know that there's no one around to answer to the name anymore.

His face drops slightly, swallowing as he lifts the pen in his right hand, eyes then dropping fully to the paperwork in front of him.

"What about her," He half replies, refusing to look up at his counterpart.

"Harvey...you can't go on like this forever." He says.

Harvey groans under his breath, straightening with a frustration to meet his friend's cool blue eyes. "Like what, Mike?" He replies heavily, indulging his friend this once, out of courtesy.

"You can't even see it, can you?" He says, matter of factly, huffing in disbelief.

"See what?" He asks, reluctantly.

"You're constantly fidgeting, adjusting your tie and your suit, as if you're conscious that someone's going to notice that you're not dealing very well. Even though, none of us mention it, because we all know that you'll deny it anyway."

"Mike," He huffs, dropping the paperwork in his lap.

"And the only person who would notice things like that - in a heartbeat - isn't here anymore."

"It's Paula, okay." He blurts out, his voice flying across the room.

"What about her?" Mike frowns, seeming to adjust to new information.

"She...notices...that I'm not...that I'm...I don't know…" He sighs, wrestling with the words. "Preoccupied, I guess." He huffs. "With work." He adds, clearing his throat.

"Like Donna used to," Mike observes.

"Mike," He says, his eyes flashing with that darker note of warning.

"Harvey," Mike adjusts in his seat, a pointed look on his face. "This may come as a shock to you, but you're...not preoccupied with work." He says. "You're using work as an excuse." He states. "And I'd expect that out of everyone, you'd have the balls to tell me." He says. "But I figured that you were worried that whatever you told me, I'd tell Rachel, and then she'd tell Donna, and then you'd have to admit the real reason you're distracted all the time."

"What do you want from me?" He shrugs defensively.

"You miss Donna." He states.

"You think I don't know that, Mike?" He remarks heavily, his pitch raising slightly as the papers in his lap make a snapping sound, as his hand drops onto them.

"Then why don't you call her?"

It rings in his ears, the words. Like something she's said to him a hundred times. It sends a streak of something dark and slightly sad to creep through his stomach.

~Why don't you just call her, Harvey?~ That wonderful tone, so caring and considerate and selfless as she waits for his reply.

It's enough to evoke the memory of her, all at once swelling out and into the room. It's like her name is etched in the glass walls, and burnt into the carpet. Woven into the furniture and hidden between every record on every shelf.

His eyes flit about the room for a moment, as a thought occurs.

Her fingerprints must be over every single thing in his office. Over every office he's ever had. Over his clothes, and stationery and...

"Harvey? Why? Why haven't you called her?" Mike presses.

"Because your fiancee warned me not to!" He says, a flash in his eyes enough to give Mike the whole picture and mess of things.

"Why not?"

"It doesn't matter." He says, shaking his head in weak protest, trying to shrug off this third degree.

"Harvey…"

He sighs, heavier this time, his lungs feeling overly weighted in the effort to breathe, as if the words are hanging off of his rib cage and threatening to pull him under.

"I don't want to talk about this anymore." He says. "I can't."

It's an alien response for both of them.

And the look that his best friend gives him only confirms for him,

That Harvey Specter is beginning to completely unravel.

. . …..

Donna's calls with Rachel are different. She loves her, completely. But there is something in the words that she says, that now have a lingering subtext to them. Before, Rachel was a shoot from the hip kind of girl. Now...she skirts over the subject, and yet seems to drop little crumbs every now and then. Mostly about one man in particular. One that isn't her husband-to-be.

She's pieced together a few things so far.

Harvey isn't doing well.

Mike is trying to hit as many balls out of the court as he can before they head off on their honeymoon.

Louis is preoccupied with Sheila.

The firm is generally unsettled.

And Rachel is picking up all missing pieces in her absence.

All when she should be focused on her upcoming nuptials.

One day, she finds herself saying it.

"Rach, you know it's not your job…" Donna reminds her.

It takes a second for her to acknowledge the words, and their intended meaning.

"I know...I'm...just keeping things going until you get back."

It hurts more than Harvey's stubbornness. Her childlike notion that like a mother she'll come home one day and save them all.

"Rach," She sighs, bending the phone into the crook of her neck. "I'm not coming back this time." She tells her.

They share the longest silence of their entire friendship.

She waits for Rachel to be the one to speak. "You'll be back for my wedding though, right?" She asks, the subtle claw of tears in her friend's throat.

"Of course I will. I'm maid of honor, silly." She says, feeling her breath hitch in her chest. "And what is a bride without her trusty maid of honor." She jokes.

She hears Rachel laugh through a watery sob. It pains her to hear such a thing.

"Good." Rachel sniffs.

"Good." Donna smiles.

. . . ...

The conversation keeps her mind roped in thought, turning like two sides of a coin, until one day, Jessica calls into her office.

"You wanted to see me?" She asks, looking to her Boss from the frame of the door. There is no glass in this building. Chicago is about solid walls and an even more solid future.

"This is...an awkward question." Jessica begins, her voluptuous pout bending slightly as she gestures for Donna to take a seat.

She frowns, bending in her Alice and Oliver A-line dress, a wave of sky blue ruffles at the hem as she sits.

"Is this about my work?" She asks directly.

Jessica gives her a look. She matches it in a second, with a growing sigh and and rubbing frustration.

They both know what its really about.

"What about him?" Donna offers, her eyes narrowing.

"Harvey...called me last night." Jessica offers.

"Right," She nods, letting her Boss continue and ignoring the tightness in her chest, that his name causes.

"Asking...to speak to you. Apparently, he's tried calling you directly, but he's not getting a reply. He wanted to know if you'd changed cell phones?"

"Oh. So after all this time he's finally remembered my number?" She remarks, the sharpness of wit lost in the heaviness of fact and a spikier reaction.

"Donna." Jessica admonishes gently, her chin lowering to give the redhead a pointed look.

"Sorry," She sighs. "This is not your problem. I'm sorry he involved you." She says, earnestly.

"I'm not worried about that. I actually asked you in here because I...wanted to know how you were doing."

"I'm...settling in well, thank you." She says, her heaviness lifting in favour of a small smile of gratitude. "Operations are...different here. But...I'm catching up." She resolves.

She sees it in the woman's change of posture. She's not asking about work.

"Donna, you know I didn't mean the job. You're...overqualified for your position here and underpaid in comparison to what Harvey paid you." She smirks.

"You knew about that?" She frowns. It's never occurred to her to think about Jessica in all of that.

"It was his only condition, Donna." She divulges. "He agreed for your salary to come out of his own, and I agreed to never tell you." She smiles oddly.

Donna feels herself falter then, bending against the urge to slump in defeat. Jessica catches the tail end of the impulse, but doesn't question it.

"I gave you a job because you asked for an 'out'. You've done alot for that firm and for me and especially Harvey, so...if you're not going to work there, then I couldn't let the chance for you to work here slip through my fingers now, could I?" She smirks once more, that luscious pout of hers heart shaped and all at once candid looking in her response.

"Thank you Jessica." Donna says, softening. "I appreciate that. It's nice to have people recognise your worth. And I'm...dealing." She admits. "I am."

"You are worth more to Harvey than he's ready to admit right now." The older woman promises.

It's a wonderful sentiment. A year ago it may have soothed her. But not now. Not after everything.

She looks down, gathering her natural impulse to lean on such words in favour of a harder quality.

"Harvey made his decision. I'm done with getting blindsided by his notion of where I sit in his life." She tells the woman. "I'm not waiting for him to be ready anymore."

A look passes between them. A measuring of her intention, she wagers.

"Okay then." Jessica nods finally, the curve of so many meanings etched in her voice. "I'll tell him not to call you."

"Thank you." She says, realising just what she's set in motion.

. . . ...

A couch, is what really sets everything home.

And it's silly, really. A couch. A place for you to sit, it couldn't possibly change the way you view a place.

But somehow, it does.

An American fern green chesterfield three-seater couch, with a heavy woven tan coloured throw and two deliberately lumpy cream cushions make her lounge look the part. Serene and adult and perfect, in her now moody burnt orange and black painted walls.

She had dabbled with the idea, worrying about the intensity, until the decorator had left her with a room filled with new possibilities. She spent a full weekend picking out black and white artworks, large monochrome pieces of abstract work to fill the walls - having kept her old apartment with a view to renting or airbnb'ing the place on the days that she didn't visit the city, it meant that she had an entire apartment to decorate and furnish. Or to a standard where it was at least liveable.

Her mother always told her that the lounge was the heart of the home, and now, with the fire on and the couch now delivered and placed in front of it, even with the oak cabinets peering out from the kitchen and stark white framed windows out onto the porch, the place was starting to look a little more like home with each passing day.

The only think offsetting these developments with a heaviness, was Rachel and Mike's Wedding.

It was only one week away.

And she wished it wasn't making her so anxious.

.. . . ….

Your name fizzes on my tongue
oh your name, it fizzes on my tongue
damn that name
-Goji Berry Sunset, By Jealous of Birds

. . . ….

"Harvey?"

He barely hears the distinctly english voice of the woman sat beside him, until the second time it rings out his name.

"Sorry? What?" He blinks, looking over at two intrigued blues.

"You keep going somewhere. Something on your mind?" His girlfriend asks.

He sighs, looking ahead and out of her direct gaze.

That's one way of putting it...

"No...just a case." He says, shrugging off the question. "There's a lot going on at work, Paula. You know that." He reminds her.

"Hmm," He hears her hum irritably, moving from his side.

"What?" He frowns.

He watches as Paula moves to a stand in front of him. "Before...maybe. Now, I'm not so sure."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" He bites, a reliable sharpness finding him. He's starting to grow tired of problems between them. He thought that after Donna...

"Look, Harvey. I know that after what happened, that you would throw yourself into your work. I accepted that that's just who you are. But this has gone on long enough." She says, folding her arms against herself.

"What are you talking about?" He remarks, squinting.

She laughs to herself, shaking her head at his response. "You're really going to make me spell it out for you? After everything that woman did to hurt our relationship?" She shakes her head at the concept. "I have to be the one to point out that you've not been yourself since Donna left?"

"Paula," He warns, his jaw stiffening at her harsh use of such a name. "It's not that. I told you…work is-"

"You're lying to me, Harvey. And you know it." She tells him, planting the words as fact. "She's not the only one who can read you, you know." She bites.

He shakes his head. This is the last thing in the world that he needs.

She softens then, feeling her own words cut. "It's okay to miss her, Harvey." She says, looking down at him.

But it's too late.

Something's already scratched at him.

He looks up at her, making to stand. "Then why do you give me such a hard time about it?" He asks darkly, stalking past her, not waiting for a reply. He knows how to cut back just as deep.

"Because you're not supposed to miss her this much!" She calls after him, exasperated and desperate sounding in one long wave.

He turns back around, directing his gaze towards her then, spotting the fear in her eyes. The possibilities flying around in her head.

"Paula...we worked together for over a decade. She was my assistant...my friend, and I-"

"When are you going to get it into your head, that this...and her...has nothing to do with work." She snaps at him. "Or being friends, for that matter. It's more than that and you know it." She accuses.

"Paula, I."

"I thought I could do this but you're...you're," She pauses, overcome by her own thoughts. "It's like you're...paralysed without her constant presence."

He shakes his head. He wants to object. He wants to tell her something to the contrary, built upon a certainty that he can measure without a doubt.

But he can't.

He just...he misses her.

"You can't tell me that it's okay to miss her, and then accuse me of missing her too much." He fires at the petite blonde.

"No." She sighs, looking about herself. "Maybe I can't. But I also can't stand by and watch a man that I'm...potentially falling in love with, mourn a woman that he assured me he didn't want like that." She says, marching across his lounge.

"Paula," He says, following her then. Yet more guilt falling in spades around him. "I…"

He watches as she gathers her bag and coat, his lame attempt at stopping her thwarted by her gaze. "I can't keep doing this with you, Harvey."

"Paula. Don't leave." He says, his voicing whining in frustration.

"Figure out how you feel about her, and soon." She demands. "Because I'm not stepping one more foot in this apartment until you do." She says, gesturing only to further solidify her point.

He follows her to the door, the truth flowing like a moat around him.

He doesn't stop her leaving.

Because she's right.

What he'll do with information, he's unsure.

After all, he already tried to convince Donna...once...

And look how that turned out.

. . . . .

My heart is yours

It's you that I hold on to

That's what I do

And I know I was wrong

But I won't let you down

(Oh yeah, yeah, yes I will)

Sparks By Coldplay

. . ...