1

His first week at the DA's office is painfully mundane. Cameron is dealing with the closing days of a high profile murder trial, and has little time to pay attention to a green ADA. It is irksome, to say the least. Cameron's mentorship is, after all, the only reason Harvey agreed to this stint as a prosecutor, and he expected to hit the ground running, not filling out subpoenas and other mind-numbing paperwork that could be relegated to a legal assistant.

A reprieve comes at the end of the week when the other ADAs decide to take Harvey out for welcome drinks, and he finds himself an eager participant in the festivities. New York is a long way from Cambridge.

They head to a low-key but high end bar, and the bartenders treat his co-workers with bright familiarity. He knows immediately stands out in the sea of familiar faces.

"Who's your friend, Greg?" says the pretty waitress sets their round of beers in front of them.

"This," says Greg, patting Harvey on the back, "is Mr. Harvey Specter. Newest addition to the team."

Harvey doesn't take taking an immediate liking to everyone he meets, but he finds himself strangely appreciative of Greg Wilkins' light, easy sense of humor. It is a welcome contrast from the emotionally debilitating and depressing casework that often weighs on the teams' minds.

"Oh? Locking up all the bad guys, Harvey?" she asks.

"That's the plan," he winks, and is rewarded with a flirtatious grin. He could get used to this place.

Two rounds later, Harvey is being regaled with stories of Cameron Dennis' numerous exploits from some of the senior attorneys. He loosens the tie around his neck, attention waning. Cameron's reputation precedes him, but he already knows everything there is to know about the man.

Harvey glances across the bar, stalling as he catches a flash of color, red. The woman's back is against the bar as she speaks animatedly to a brunette companion, all hands and theatrics. His eyes travel down her form, from the dip of her blouse, to the gentle curve of her hip, and the length of her long legs. It is almost eerie when her gaze knowingly locks with his and she narrows her eyes, though the smile does not leave her lips. His eyebrows rise slightly, testing the potential response, but she has already turned to face the bar.

As if some greater power is watching, the brunette decides to duck out for a visit to the ladies room, and never one to waste an opportunity, Harvey rises.

"You lawyers seem to multiply every other week. Like rabbits," she says pre-emptively without meeting his gaze.

"You a regular here?" he asks, motioning for two more of the woman's now-empty martini glass.

"You could say that," she concedes, taking a sip of the drink rather demurely.

Harvey crosses his arms across his chest and shoot her a well-practiced smile. "And what should I say?"

"I only come here when my coworkers drag me here," she whispers conspiratorially. "Can't stand the place, really. Too many of those suit-types, you know?"

"I hadn't noticed," he starts, playing along with the game.

"And I don't just mean the attorneys. Wall Street is right around the corner after all. All the coiffed hair, the underlying scent of Acqua Di Gio that just permeates the air like the furniture was soaked in it," she wrinkles her nose with distaste. "It just rubs me the wrong way."

"Good thing I'm more of a Boss man."

Her friend is approaching, motioning that she is about to leave, and Harvey knows the moment is over.

She throws her martini back with unabashed gusto. "Thanks for the drink."

"My pleasure," he replies.

"And I'll see you on Monday, Harvey," she winks, turning on her heel and heading for a door without missing a step.

He blinks, understandably puzzled. Greg sidles beside him, laughing without an ounce restraint.

"Good try, man," he says, the hints of the Brooklyn accent lining his tone have become more pronounced with alcohol.

"Why didn't I see her at the office?" he asks, his mood considerably darker as he forgoes the martini for another Heineken.

"You probably didn't pay much attention to the west wing. Special victims. Donna is Lisa Pereira's secretary," he explains, though his face his still awash in amusement.

Pereira, as Harvey learns the following week, is a bigwig within the bounds of her own unit, but the rumor mill has been churning stories that a state judge nomination is heading her way. Harvey could not care less about Pereira's potential career path, but instead finds himself picking out the pieces of the story that have to do with her secretary.

Best legal secretary in the office. Pereira's trying to convince her to move upstate when she leaves. Cameron himself is looking to scoop her up.

The idleness of the previous week comes to a sudden end when Cameron slams him with his first case, and is all too clear in that he will not offer Harvey any help. He's to lead the deposition in a sexual assault case, and unfortunately, the defendant is a police officer. On the third late night in a row, bleary eyed, but unwilling to leave, he decides to make a stop in the break room in hopes of finding a cup of coffee.

He has poured the grounds and water into the absolutely ancient machine, but it doesn't seem to want to dispense any liquid. He stares at it, jaw clenched, more furious than anyone should be at an inanimate object.

"Ah, the life of a public servant. Isn't exactly as glamorous as they make it out to be, is it?"

Donna certainly does not look as if they've worked a 15 hour day. She is as bright and polished as she is every morning when he strolls past her cubicle, and he resents her for it.

"Public service. Purgatory. Tomato, to-mah-to," he drawls wearily.

"Here," she says. She grabs a plastic fork, finds some strange orifice on the device and prods it. Like clockwork, the warm red light turns on and coffee begins flowing into the pot.

"You're a godsend," he breathes as he takes long swig of the bitter liquid.

"And you're making me blush," she whispers, helping herself to a cup. "So, Cameron got you burning the midnight oil?"

"Endless reports to prepare," he replies. "Why are you here?"

She shrugs as she tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. "Lisa needed some paperwork while she's in Michigan for a conference. Had to finish it before tomorrow."

"Above and beyond the call of the typical legal secretary, no?"

She laughs humorlessly. "People have used a lot of words to describe me. And typical is not one of them."

He can believe that.

"You really enjoyed making a fool of me on Friday," he remarks offhandedly as he follows her out of the room.

"Sure did."

He's sure it's the sleep deprivation, but he finds himself chuckling despite himself. They stroll through the bullpen together and they come upon his desk first.

"I didn't know Manhattan was prone to hurricanes," she says, gesturing to the mess of files and paperwork on her table with distaste.

"I know where everything is," he assures her.

She arches a dubious brow and glances back to her desk. Then she decidedly sits in his chair and begins flicking through the case reports he's been combing to find any other signs of the defendant's misgivings.

"How far back do these go?"

"Two years," he replies, unsure of where she's going with this.

She shakes her head, disapproving. "You should get more than that. He's a lieutenant, he's been around the block a few times," she reminds him, having already scanned the briefs.

"This is all we have on hand."

"You have to go directly to the precinct to get more."

"But the-"

"Go to Judge Delancy for the court order and drop Cameron's name," she interjects, placing the folders she's perused in a series of stacks on the far side of the desk. "That will expedite the request."

After mere moments, she's organized the folders by relevance and date, and just like that she stands.

"Hey!" he protests, thumbing through the files to make sure she hasn't misplaced anything. "I think I can handle this myself."

I'm a Harvard educated lawyer and you're a legal secretary, are the words he doesn't say, but she hears them loud and clear.

"Fine." She holds her hands up, yielding. "Good night, and good luck."

Then she's gone, and he is left alone to work in miserable solitude. The next day, after making sure she is nowhere in sight, he calls Judge Delancy and is granted the court order with almost no difficulty, just as she promised. Later, he sees her hunched over her desk, writing furiously on a legal pad.

"What's this?" Donna enquires, motioning to the cup of takeaway coffee he has placed in from of her.

"The closest thing you're going to get to an apology?" he tries, sincerely hoping she won't make him go there.

"I think you can get closer." She lifts the cup and puts it aside, returning to her work.

He drapes his forearms over the cubicle wall and leans against them. "Sorry," he mutters, and it is nearly inaudible.

She must be in a forgiving mood because despite the half-hearted admission, she swivels in her chair, coffee in hand, hint of a smile on her lips. He knows he is dismissed.

The deposition goes swimmingly, and the performances he gets from the witnesses seems to impress Cameron. The case never moves to trial when the defendant confesses, cutting a plea bargain. It's his first real victory, and he knows it will not be the last.

Three more times over the next two months, he finds his evening work schedule overlapping with Donna's. Each time, unprovoked, she points out something procedural that he has missed, or gives him a pointer on who to ask for what. Never does she sit with him for more than 20 minutes at a time, but her intervention has saved him hours, if not days of work. Never again does he question her knowledge or judgment.

Despite the strides he has been making, for every case he seems to knock down, two more sprout up in its place.

When he makes this remark to Donna on an evening in the break room, she shakes her head with sympathy. "It's like a goddamn hydra, isn't it?"

"Guess that makes me Hercules," he smirks.

"I walked into that one," she admits.

"How long have you worked here?" he finally thinks to ask her as he hands her a cup of the god awful ADA coffee.

"Two years," she responds, giving the mug the obligatory scowl that she always seems to get upon first sip. "Straight after getting my Masters at NYU."

Then, a more candid question. "Why do you work so hard for her?"

"She's a good woman, and she's treated me well," Donna explains, as if it's the simplest thing in the world.

To this, Harvey can find no argument. Instead, he dumps his coffee out into the sink. "How about a run to the diner down the street. My treat."

She hesitates. "I don't know…"

Despite her apparent fervor to make conversation in the confines of the office, she seems hesitant to take it outside. Why exactly, he's not sure, he's sure his made up for his embarrassing performance at the bar. It doesn't matter anyway. He knows he can break her.

"You're going to regret it when I come back with a steaming cup of heaven and you're drinking that East River sludge," he says easily, hands in pockets as he turns for the door. "Oh, and pie."

She falls into place beside him further down the hall and he shoots her a grin. "Good choice."

"I always make the right choice," she promises him.

To be continued, if there's interest..