···

In Dreams

°•.•°

Rounding the corner through the darkened hallways of the firm, Harvey's stride is determined when his gaze lands on the empty cubicle outside his office and he slows his pace. The only reason he came back tonight was to get a file he forgot before, but now that he's here, standing before her desk, he lets his memory run wild as images of Donna fill his battered mind.

The laughter, the fights, the late nights, they all wash over him in a continuous flow of unaltered visions and he is thankful for the hour and the opportunity to mourn the loss in private. Because she is gone. The workstation now as empty as the void in his chest.

His subconscious cruelly decides to add fuel to the fire, because he swears the scent of her perfume lingers in the air as if she had just been here. Working side by side for years had made his sense of smell succumb to odor fatigue, but the few weeks without her immediate presence must have restored its default and a lump rises in his throat as a fresh wave of grief crashes into his fortitude.

There have been low points in his life—times where he's felt like the sun would never shine again—but the deep-running despair was never greater than when Donna left him.

Every day, he wakes up with a surge of dread tingling the edges of his resolve to crawl out of bed and when he gets to the office, his heart bleeds whenever he catches a flash of auburn, or he hears her laugh with someone else, or when he looks up from his computer, absentmindedly expecting her to be there and she isn't.

It's been less than a month, and everybody tells him things will get easier. But they don't. Because how can he be whole again when part of him is missing?

The glass door resists only slightly as he pushes against the handle and he wanders to his desk, spying the forgotten documents on top of a pile of folders. Midway there he halts his steps when something luminous moves in his peripheral vision and he looks to his sofa where in the far corner he sees legs peeking out from under a dark colored dress and fiery locks drape over a pale face sipping on a drink of what he guesses is his Scotch.

His breath hitches and his heart stops, only to hammer recklessly a second later.

"Donna?" he asks tentatively, his voice too loud in the quiet space.

Even in the darkness, he catches a small smile ghosting over her lips—as if him calling her name brings up memories of happier times—and their eyes meet. In them he sees a tormented ache he recognizes from looking in the mirror and it beckons him into her orbit.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, lowering himself onto the sofa, mindful to keep a dissonant distance between them.

"I just needed a drink."

"Louis doesn't have Scotch?" The nudge is careful and free of scorn, with an honest curiosity driving his inquiry.

"He does."

But it's not his Scotch, and he fights the fragment of undefinable hope rising to the surface that she's here, in his office. "How long have you been sitting here?" he thinks out loud, but no response comes and nothing in the darkness gives him any clues, causing a ripple of unease to course through his veins.

Her silence kills him slowly and just when he's about to say something else, she whispers, "I miss this."

Briefly, he wonders if by 'this' she means him, but he won't allow himself to dwell on the hollow assumption.

"Me too," he replies, and he does mean her, but she doesn't look at him and will therefore never know.

"Everything's changed," she mumbles into her lap.

It has and he hates the gridlock they are in with a vengeance. Although, there is a silver lining. Therapy has given him insights he likely wouldn't have gotten otherwise, observations that are shaping him to be someone he never dreamed he could be, someone who might be worthy of—

"What happened to us?"

Her voice is so soft, yet he catches the struggle in the strained tone with which she utters her pondering into the open, like her heart and mind are not aligned and she is seeking an answer outside of her inner turmoil.

"I don't know." But he does. She does, too. They got too close to the fire and they both got burned. However, saying so would mean there was a fire raging and admitting that will jeopardize everything, and he can't risk losing her. Which sounds insane to him now, because he lost her anyway by playing it safe.

Delicate fingers wrap around the tumbler in her lap when she lets the other hand fall between them on the leather surface. It's an olive branch, but he's afraid to reach for it, because once he touches her skin, he'll realize he has made the biggest mistake of his life and he won't be able to let go. And where would that leave them? They're on shaky ground as it is.

As his mind lists off all the reasons not to surrender, his own hand drops besides hers, as if his heart doesn't give a shit what his brain thinks and all he longs for is to reconnect with his best friend.

His entire right side is ablaze from her nearness, yearning for a way back—or forward. Whatever gets them out of this bind.

Without warning, Donna moves until her cold palm covers his and she entwines their fingers in an effortless motion—because they fit so well together—breaching the chasm stretching between them. And he wants to scream. From joy and sorrow.

Searching for her eyes, they finally meet and perhaps it's the light—or lack thereof—but it looks as though they're filled with tears, although a hint of a smile teases her lips with a promise that maybe they will be okay. Someday.

So, he drops his gaze to where they are linked and he notes how the gentle brush of her thumb over his skin burns his soul down to the core, but their connection is broken before he has a chance to relish in it and it hurts when her cool touch abandons him.

On a sigh, she stands up, straightening her skirt and placing her nearly empty glass on the table. She glances down at him for a moment and the look she sports is anguished, weighed down by decisions they both regret, as she heads for the door.

"Donna," he calls and she stops, lifting her head from between her shoulders as she faces him. He expels a breath, his heart pounding too loudly with apprehension and elation when he asks, "Is it okay if we hug?" The vulnerability of the suggestion suffocates him, but he ignores the crippling sensation—his selfish need for her propelling him.

"Always," she says and those red-rimmed eyes soften with a glimmer of faith that better days are ahead while she waits for him to bridge the distance between them.

Another fire lights up his insides, although the inferno is not one fueled by lust. It's love. Deep, mind-numbing love for the person who makes him him, and the cavity in his chest shrinks instantly. He understands it will expand again once she walks out the door, but for now, he molds his body against hers, thankful for her heels bringing her arms around his neck effortlessly, so he is free to bury his face in her hair until the world feels whole again.

Perhaps they should have broken apart much sooner but he can't bring himself to pull away and apparently neither can she, so they just stand, immersed in the sanctuary of their embrace, where things are simple and love flows freely and where her scent becomes part of him again.

Hours pass by, or maybe not even a minute. Nevertheless, it's too soon when she disentangles herself from his arms and tired eyes meet his. "See you tomorrow, Harvey."

Please stay, he wants to beg, but his hands stuff in his pockets and he murmurs, "Goodnight, Donna," instead.

His eyes stay glued to her retreating form until she is out of sight and all that remains of her presence is some lonely, leftover Scotch sitting on his table. It feels wrong to drink the remaining liquor, the intimacy of such an act reserved for lovers or friends, words that describe who they were, in another lifetime. But her lips kissed the glass and he brings the tumbler to his mouth and empties what she had poured, grateful for the burn as it passes the lump in his throat.

Tomorrow, she won't be where she ought to be, but he still goes home tonight feeling lighter. Because maybe—just maybe—he isn't the only one hurting right now, and that means she loves him, too.

A/N: Just a little something that came to me while watching s5. Hope you liked it. :) Follow me on Twitter Insta darvey_love