made of glass ; pg ; 1424 words ;

prompt: the windows of my soul are made of one way glass

Mid-morning Saturday and her appearance at his door takes him off guard. She has on jeans and a sweater but no coat so he guesses it's beginning to warm up outside and he's a little lazy on this particular day in lieu of a late evening of celebration. There had been champagne and liquor quite a bit harder than that, not to mention dancing that faded out and turned into a blurry haze and no one really knows what happened after. But he made it home in one piece so at least he knows that he can rely on his instincts when drunk.

It takes him off guard when she absently greets him and sifts through his things before he remembers that she's a woman with idle hands very capable of multitasking. She hasn't been in his home for quite some time but it still looks good wrapped around her and for a moment he thinks that she belongs more than he does in her dark blue jeans and furniture that compliments her frame. His lips purse and fingers flex as she speaks calmly, recounts the moments between them that they haven't dared speak of over the years.

"Do you remember at the DA's office?" She starts... It's rhetorical but he nods anyway, socked feet three paces behind the click of the heel in her boots. She turns to face him but only slightly, mouth quirked teasingly as she offers him the faintest resemblance of a smile. "We always said things wouldn't change when we got to this point."

"We've worked for this for a long time," he agrees.

She wanders into his bedroom like she's a girlfriend he's been blowing off for weeks and she's trying to catch him in the act of cheating, but he hasn't had a woman in months. He hasn't been able to bear the thought, the weight of her on his shoulders as something changed in a way that became impossible to keep from acknowledging. He recalls her words, i'm so sick of watching you fight for everything that happens in here and for nothing that happens in here, and it reminded him if everything that really exists in his heart and has become a part of him over the years.

He's made moves and said things to remind her of what they've always said, the agreements they made the night before they started at Pearson-Hardman: associate, senior associate, partner, senior partner, managing partner, named partner.

He sits on the edge if his bed in resignation, lets her thumb through his things because he kind of like the way that she does it with elegance but knows that there isn't anything she will be able to find. He tilts his head as he looks at her, leans back on his palms as the silence lulls between them in an ease. The sound of her voice calms him, even when he's angry and wants to yell at her it calms him when she speaks.

She stops, turns to fully face him as she teeters on her heels; "we finally made it to the top."

"My name is on the door," he muses. She takes a wayward step towards him and he thinks that maybe they are finally going to get back to where they left off, her settling so easily between his legs and fitting so perfectly against him as their minds meld and their bodies fuse together. He thinks that the years of wanting and almosts, the years of fighting for what they have been fighting for because the truths (like how he needs her more than she needs him) both trap them and set them free at the same time, he thinks that it's all worth it and he finally gets to touch her like he's wanted to all along. He thinks too much. "It could be your name too."

"Is it too soon?" She wonders aloud.

She's so close that he can feel the heat radiate off of her body, so close, so within reach that his mind literally stops moving and her words fall on deaf ears. The ghost of her presses against his knees and the memory clouds his judgment as he lifts his gaze to hers and purses his lips together, her hands fists at her sides. He doesn't want her to fight anymore, doesn't want her to feel like she has to because he can finally be hers. Now is the time.

He swallows and releases a breath that he doesn't know he's holding in, the taste of despair filling his mouth when she sits beside him right within reach but not quite touching him - "we always said when we got here our lives would begin."

"Yet, I'm the one who showed up at your door," she reminds him.

"Call it stupidity," he tries, "you know that I'm not the best when it comes to conducting matters if the heart."

She offers him a smile as she leans back, mimicking his posture, "that is one part of your life that I can't micromanage for you."

"I was afraid that you were going to fall in love without me," he admits.

She laughs and lays back, hair spreading against his comforter beneath her head and he's missed it even though its a different apartment and a different bed but she looks the same, like she belongs, and he silently wonders how it has really been so long since he's had her. He expels a breath as she wets her lips, his movements following hers, and he feels like a teenager again. He isn't sure if he's allowed to touch her, doesn't think that he could steadily do so if he tried.

"Harvey," his name sticks to her lips, "you worry about all the wrong things."

He furrows his eyebrows, "what is that supposed to mean?"

"That you are an idiot," she counters, but he can see the smile tug at the corners of her lips, "that I've been in love with someone for a very long time and he's just too much of an idiot to realize."

"Just determined," he corrects.

He steadies his breathing and absently wets his lips, his fingers inching towards hers like he's found courage when she makes him a coward. He sees her eyes drift shut at the contact, the way his fingers wrap around hers before they entwine together. He's relieved to see that he has an affect on her just like she has on him, the way her nimble fingers and the knuckle bones hug the base of his fingers making him forget what words are.

"There have been men," she mutters.

His eyes drift closed and it takes everything in him to steady his heartbeat before he rolls over and presses his knees between her thighs, lets his hips dig into hers as his left hand finds her right. Her lips are so close, dangerously close as he pushes the back if her hands into bed and the heels of her boots dig into his calves. He shrugs and sighs simultaneously, "there have been women."

"Dana Scott. Zoe Lawford," she recounts.

He laughs just a little, "oh, stop it."

"You weren't waiting for me," she acknowledges.

He smiles, squeezes her fingers between his and she returns the gesture with her thighs, "because a woman like you waits for no man and you shouldn't have to."

"And what kind of woman is that?"

"The kind of woman who can make a heart beat faster and slower at the same time."

"Before you kiss me," she says, voice wavering and dripping with fear, with a love that has been denied its right for so long, "before you ruin the possibility that I could ever love anyone else, we need to be sure."

"I'm sure," he returns without hesitance.

Suddenly he remembers that she should be a lawyer because all of her verbal agreements feel binding, conversations happen without lingering and are quick fire to the point that he feels sorry for anyone caught in the cross hairs. This verbal exchange will be quick but sure, no lies passing between their lips and no restraints. Whatever gets said in the next few moments will be what they mean and there will be no going back.

Her lips are a distraction before she even speaks - "Harvey."

"Donna."

"Did you mean it?"

"What?"

"About the name?"

"I love you," he says, the words he's never allowed himself to say finally passing in the air between them, "and yes."