A/N: This is a companion piece to "Pinprick", by justanotheranonwriter.

First and foremost, I'd like to thank C for not only writing the beauty that is Pinprick, but also letting me use her work and build from it, and for giving me her much needed inputs. Any and all words that you recognize here come from her story.

On a personal note, writing a companion piece is a somewhat terrifying experience, haha, especially when you know the writer of the original story is watching, so I hope I'm doing "Pinprick" justice. Thanks for reading :)

"Those tapes prised the lid off homesickness and rattled out the contents, but always at the bottom was solace."

— David Mitchell

.

Donna has barely been able to think straight ever since Louis stormed out of his office towards Harvey's with an anger so intense it reminded her of the day he found out Mike's secret. From then it was calling Jessica; worrying herself sick because she couldn't go there and see what was happening for herself, lest she made everything worse; then getting terrified for and of Louis, having to talk him out of suing Harvey for all he has or calling the police on him; and finally getting a call from Jessica again for mutual updates. And now she's alone in his office, having just sent Louis home to rest, and her ears are ringing and her heart is still beating out of her chest and she's pissed, and afraid, and so damn tired.

Everyone knows Harvey can be aggressive when he's angry and, sure, he's thrown punches and shoved people and gotten into that fight with Stephen but he had never done something like this. He threw Louis on a glass table. Louis could have easily hit his head on one of the pointy metal legs, or he could have cut himself on the glass, or he could have gone blind or paralyzed or any number of things that would have made everyone scarred for life, either literally or figuratively.

Harvey is petty and antagonistic and impatient but he is not this, he is not usually prone to doing stupid things for no reason, and she knows Louis is bound to have said something to piss him off but she is so fucking done with his tantrums.

Her nervousness turns to resolve and she gets herself on a cab, tells the driver Harvey's address and spends the whole fifteen minutes thinking about all the shit she's going to give him.

She forces herself to be calm, collected and steady because she could just scream from how angry she is at him for making such a huge, giant mess of everything, but she doesn't want to give him the satisfaction. She knocks on his door insistently.

"I … what are you doing here?" he looks genuinely surprised to see her and she wonders why for a second, before she remembers she's not supposed to do this anymore.

"Well, I figured I'd come and see how your holiday is going," she practically spits at him, bumping their shoulders harshly as she barrels past him and into his apartment, "And I wanted to make sure you were here and not in a cab back to the office to have it out with Louis again."

"Donna...," he starts with that tone he uses when he thinks she's overreacting and it just makes her more annoyed.

"Don't 'Donna' me," she snaps, turning around to stare him square in the eyes, "How could you do that, Harvey? Louis is family. You lied to him, and I told you this would happen, and you ignored me. You hurt his sister, you've hurt him, and I told you -"

"Oh come on Donna," he interrupts, spreading his arms as if she's the one who's being unreasonable. "You don't get to do that anymore."

"Do what anymore?" Be an adult?

"Talk to me like I'm some fucking idiot who needs his hand held every time he has to have a conversation with someone," he spits. "You left my desk. You left my office. You left me. You don't get to tell me what I need to do, or make my emotional decisions for me, or try and aim me in the right direction anymore. I'm the asshole, okay? There, I said it. But you don't get to sidestep that part of me anymore. You just have to deal with it, like everyone else."

He looks so hurt, so done with her, that what he's saying and how he's saying it hits her with full force. She thought their relationship was special because of who they were, because of Harvey and Donna, but if he was only willing to let her that close when she was his secretary, then maybe their relationship is not what she always thought it was. But that's a realization she's not ready to face so she just goes back to the issue at hand.

"Harvey, this isn't about me dealing with you and it isn't about you feeling sorry for yourself and embracing being a piece of shit. You hit Louis!" she lifts her hands to him in exasperation, wondering if he ever gets tired of being so frustrating.

"He shoved me," he offers, as if that made it all okay, and she almost laughs at the feebleness of his excuse.

"Christ, Harvey, what are you even talking about? You think that justifies what you did? It's Louis. He couldn't win a fight with you if he had a fucking shotgun," she unloads, stepping towards him because she is so fucking tired of him running away from her. "You're lucky Jessica hasn't fired you. You're lucky Louis hasn't pressed charges. Dammit Harvey, you're lucky the cops aren't here cuffing you right now. What's going on with you?"

He pauses, maybe to buy himself time or to decide how to answer, and the silence of his apartment presses down on them like the atmosphere.

He's not saying anything but his shoulders pull back minimally and she doesn't know if it's him being combative or spiteful or something else but it's something, and that something makes her narrow her eyes at him and take another step forward. "Harvey".

He's still not answering and now his eyes are shifting away from her, unfocused, and the connection they still have - the connection they apparently might always have - spikes Donna's senses and she realizes that the something she saw is actually something wrong. Harvey doesn't trail off, he always responds or markedly refuses to do so and this isn't it, this is him spacing out like he lost the thread of the conversation.

"Harvey, what's going on?" she presses again, clearly hearing the worry that's edging itself past the anger in her voice.

Harvey is now breathing hard and she notices his forehead is covered in a sheen of sweat, as is his neck, his skin glistening beneath the ambient light of his condo.

He lifts a hand between them. "Donna..." he says and it comes out strangled. Not strangled by anger or emotion, but like he can't breathe.

"Harvey, are you okay?" it comes out almost as a whisper, her own concern suffocating any anger that was still present in her voice. He shakes his head, says he's fine, but she has never seen him look less fine in his entire life and suddenly he's leaning on the kitchen bench and she almost yelps at his sudden movement.

She decides to stop paying attention to what he's saying and instead closes the remaining distance between them, carefully taking the half-drunk glass of whisky from his hand and reaching for his arm to offer support. He squeezes his eyes shut and it's like he's almost blinking in and out of conscience, the way he sways.

Instinct kicks in and she forces herself to swallow down her fear and her confusion and act, otherwise Harvey is going to collapse right beside her. She loops his arm around her neck and hugs his middle, trying to hold his weight up against her own as best as she can. "Okay, let's get you to the bathroom," she half-grunts and begins their journey to his bathroom, walking slowly to make sure he can follow, her whole body and mind focused on making sure he stays awake and upright.

They reach the toilet and he immediately sinks to his knees and starts throwing up. Donna stands there, petrified, for a second before snapping back into action, retrieving his face towel and running it under cold water in the sink. She takes it with her over to him, lays it across the back of his neck.

She crouches next to him and hesitates, then places a hand on his back. She massages her palm slowly and firmly over the damp of his shirt, along his spine, and up to the curve of his shoulders, feeling his taut muscles, his goosebump-y skin, the sweat collected. They don't really touch like this, ever, but she thinks a bit of human contact might help. She hopes it helps, because she needs him to be okay. She needs to make him okay in any way she can because she has never seen Harvey like this, unhinged and not in control of his own body and it terrifies her more than anything.

Her brain races with a million scenarios, a million suggestions of what might be happening, from alcohol poisoning to a twisted stomach, but she tries her best to stay calm for him, steadily running her hand up and down his back.

Eventually he opens his eyes, rests his arm and forehead against the rim of the toilet, slows down his breathing. She doesn't stop touching him; instead, she lifts her hand to the back of his neck, enjoying the additional space his new position affords to scratch the base of his hairline. She pours all her affection onto that touch, every last ounce of love and care she has been painstakingly harboring for the past twelve years. With her other hand, she reaches for the toilet chain.

"Okay?" she asks dumbly, because he's clearly not okay but he seems slightly less not-okay than he had five minutes ago.

"Fucking perfect," he murmurs, still slightly out of breath, his voice rough from the effort his throat just went through, but she recognizes his humor and it lightens up a little part of her. She allows herself a little smile at the back of his head before it slips away and she's just worried again.

He turns his head and it's the first time she's been able to look at his eyes since he started shutting down. She finds turmoil and confusion and a hint of despair and she wonders what could possibly have brought this particular mix of emotions on but she knows now is not the time for soul searching.

She still needs to know what's going on, though, so she draws from experience and observation skills and the way he seemed to know what was going on even as he could barely tell if he was still alive, and she hazards a guess. "Panic attack?"

He nods.

"Not your first," she half-asks, because if he knows what it is then it's definitely not his first and she wonders when they started, wonders if she could have missed this when they were still... them.

"Sorry," he says instead of answering. She doesn't know if he's apologizing for letting her see him like this or if he's apologizing for Louis or for how he's been treating her or what, but it annoys her a little because she doesn't want him to apologize, she wants him to be okay, goddammit.

He doesn't say anything anymore, just keeps breathing and looking lost and maybe it's a flutter of his eyelids or a minuscule tremble of his lower lip, something insignificant no one would have noticed, but she does, and she knows.

Wordlessly, she cups his cheek, turns his face towards her. Their eyes meet and the world stops for a second, just so they can stare deeply into each other, bridge in an instant all the distance they've been working to create between each other for the past several weeks. And then her arms are around his chest and shoulders and he's leaning into her, resting his forehead on her chest, and she holds him tight and closes her eyes as she feels him breathe shakily.

She holds on for as long as she can, for as long as she thinks he'll let her, then rubs her hand over his back, asks him if he can stand. Once he feels ready, she helps him up, directs him to his shower, says she'll be right outside. She resists the urge to stay, resists the ridiculous desire to help him shower, not because of sex or as a revival of the last time they did this twelve years ago, but because she genuinely doesn't want to leave him. Instead, she does everything she can think of to be helpful, draping his robe over the towel rack and perching his toothbrush and toothpaste on the sink for him. She throws him one last glance before she leaves, a reasurrance to them both, then closes the door.

The second she hears the water running, it's like a switch flips inside of her and all the adrenaline runs out. Her eyes immediately fill up and she lets them, lets her chest rock with the tears as they fall because it's better to break down right now, when he can't see her, than to risk doing it in front of him. He needs support, needs her to be strong for him, so she cries now, alone in the dimness of his bedroom.

Once she's done, she dries her eyes, takes a deep breath, goes back to being Donna. She takes a look around his bedroom. She hasn't been here in a long time, her semi-common visits to his condo for a signature or doc review long gone. She takes a closer look at his bed, his nightstand, the vanity and the bookshelf filled with trinkets and fillers that look at least 50% staged by the interior designer he hired to decorate the place way back when. She finds a book of poems, e. e. cummings, that looks way too pretty to have ever been read. Still, she thinks it might be good to distract her from spiralling until he resurfaces from the bathroom.

The second the door opens she lifts her head to him. He knew she would be waiting but he still looks a little surprised by her presence there. She stands, offers him what she hopes is a reassuring smile. "How are you feeling?" she asks gently.

He touches a finger to his temple, says, "I don't really know what's going on in here, Donna," and his voice breaks just a little. Donna can feel her heart shattering into a million pieces and her throat clogs up and she almost breaks down right there and then. She knows how much he relies on his brain, how clear and sharp he always wants his mind to be, and if he feels like his own mind is failing him, if the lies he's been feeding himself aren't sticking anymore, then maybe he is faring worse than she thought.

She steps to him, lays her palm flat against his heart. "You mean in here?" she asks, because he may think his brain is his best asset, but she doesn't. Much more than a ruthless gambler and a brilliant attorney, Harvey is a good man. A great man. With stumbles and mistakes and dark hours, like everyone else, but none of his accomplishments will ever mean more to her than the fact that, through all the pain and hardship he went through, he's always managed to have a good heart.

He tries to argue, because he never seems to understand this, but she stops him. "Your brain isn't what I worry about, Harvey."

He looks away, never one to want to admit that he indeed does have feelings. She doesn't feel like pressing the matter, switches subjects to something that is much more urgent inside her own brain at the moment.

"Did this start when I went to work for Louis?"

He doesn't answer, but he doesn't have to. She didn't even really need to ask, but the way he looks at her, torn between trying to lie and getting caught, and trying to come up with the courage to admit to something she knows he can't, is all the answer she needs.

She thought as much, but having it stare her in the face is something else. If there was any residual anger or frustration inside of her, it's all gone, consumed by a flaring, flaming guilt like she's never felt before.

Donna left him. Never looked back. And she's been working for Louis and going on dates with Mitchell and carrying on with her life as if she had cancelled a monthly subscription instead of cutting a piece of herself off and leaving it behind.

In the meantime, Harvey's been having panic attacks.

The strongest person she has ever met, reduced to a gasping pulp, collapsing onto toilets, failing to carry out the most basic task of breathing on his own.

She did that to him. And she never wondered, even for a second.

In this moment, nothing else matters. Everything he said, every manipulative and childish thing he did, every time he's made her feel like shit for the past weeks, him telling her he loves her and taking it back, it all falls away. All that's left is the burning need to repair him, to protect him like she's been doing from the very moment they met.

"Do you want me to come back?" she asks, because she will, without a second thought, without sparing Louis' office another glance. If Harvey wants her back, if her going back means he'll stop tearing at the seams, he can have her.

He's silent for a moment, staring at her intently, and she stares back, trying to read his eyes but for once she doesn't fully understand what she sees. She doesn't know what she wants him to answer, if she wants to go back to his desk or not. Still, her fingers curl against his chest as she tries to prod him on. He hasn't said anything in a while and she needs him to say something, anything, otherwise she might do something stupid like kiss him and patch him back up with her bare hands and her bare body.

"Harvey," she calls out.

"No," he says, and she feels him take a deep breath, "You made a choice for yourself, Donna. I need to figure out how to make that work for myself."

Somehow, Donna thinks that's the perfect answer.

"Are you sure?" she still asks, because she wants him to know he doesn't have to put on a brave front for her. They're so far past that.

He gives her a tiny smile. "No. I'm not. I'm scared out of my mind. I've got some shit I have to work through, and you protect me from all that, but I have to try because if I don't do it now I think it might kill me, Donna." He squeezes the hand that's still on his chest. "I don't know what's going on or what I'm doing, but I have to try this. I have to see if I can get to where I need to be."

She's proud of him. Possibly prouder than she's ever been, and she wishes he could see himself through her eyes right this second because then he'd understand what a beautiful person he is. Instead, she gives him a watery smile and lifts a hand to his cheek. "You're not as far away as you think, Harvey."

There's a moment, a suspended minute in time where they look at each other and their hands are touching and his face is leaning slightly into her palm and it feels like they're back in her living room except this time no one's leaving.

But they're not in her living room, and things aren't as simple as they were that night. He just had a panic attack and she's working for Louis - Louis, whom Harvey threw on a glass table, who currently wants his head on a silver platter - and maybe no one's leaving but no one's staying either.

So she drops her hands, severs all contact so that she can bring herself to go.

"Will you be okay?" she asks, about tonight, tomorrow, every day after that because she's not right next to him to make sure of that anymore. He says he will, and she knows he needs her to believe him, so she does.

She wonders if she should make any arrangements, help him with anything, but the intensity of everything that's happened in the past two hours or so hits her with a vengeance and she can see his own eyes are heavy, so she just makes him promise to call if he needs anything, and says she'll let herself out.

She doesn't cry again. She doesn't fixate on what his face looked like as he heaved, or how his breath rattled in his chest like his lungs were drowning. She doesn't think about her hand in his and his face in hers and how for a second she could smell forever in the air between them.

But she doesn't sleep either.