fic: the cracks in the sidewalk (suits)
STATUS: Complete
SUMMARY: She knows nothing, absolutely nothing at all.
RATING: PG
CLASSIFICATIONS: Donna/Harvey
SPOILERS: post-Sucker Punch (2x07)
ARCHIVING: Do not archive. Thank you.
NOTES: Unbeta'd.
FOR: phrenitis, for all the usual reasons. ♥
WORDS: 1,551
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Don't sue.
Copyright anr; August 2012.
The Cracks in the Sidewalk by anr
When she opens her door, twelve hours and change after the mock, she is not not surprised to see Harvey standing on the other side of it.
"You didn't answer the question," he says by way of greeting.
Oh hell no. With a withering look, she closes the door on his stupidly handso-- "Wait," she says, halting the door's swing. "Which question?" Louis asked two, after all. Would you and do you...
"Do you --"
She slams the door shut.
The first time she met Harvey --
She didn't fall head over heels, didn't get swept off her feet, didn't curl her toes or play victim to any other happily-ever-after lower limb clichés. He was arrogant, charming, smug, handsome, vain, witty, shallow, intelligent, cocky and entirely too in love with himself. He gave orders like he expected her to follow them, had apparently forgotten or never known that manners don't cost, and seemed to think that her name was an unnecessary use of oxygen. He was every bad date and boss she'd ever had multiplied exponentially by fact that he was brilliant and beautiful and clearly so much more than even he knew, which.
(Okay, so maybe she fell a little.)
"Donna, open the door."
No. She sips her wine and considers walking away, considers sitting down on her sofa and turning on her TV and raising the volume until she can't hear him standing outside her door, all patient and breathing and waiting for her to open up and invite him in like nothing happened today.
"Donna."
She doesn't move.
He didn't want her to stay. She understands that now. If he had -- if he had fought for her --
It wouldn't have changed anything, of course. She still would have had to leave, still would have lost her job, but, well.
She would have known.
"Okay, one? It's Donna. Use it. Two? While there are over five hundred thousand words in the English language, 'please', 'thank you', and 'I'm sorry' should in no way be considered obsolete or optional additions. Three --"
"You know, as interesting as this is not?" he says, cutting her off with an extremely pointed look at his watch. "I have a meeting with the --"
She shakes her head. "Not for another five minutes. You have time. Also? That watch is still set to PDT. Now. Three? Your tie."
Finally a crack in his expression; he glances down at his tie and then back up at her, all puzzled and affronted. "What's wrong with my tie?"
The sixties called for it back, she thinks. Reaching out she flicks the end between her fingers and smirks. "Nothing," she promises. "If you like skinny."
"Skinny is a smart choice," he says, his expression locking back into the one she's seen him use twice now when he's cross-examining someone he thinks is wrong. "It makes me look --"
"New," she finishes. "Young. Green." All things, she knows, he's fighting hard to avoid as he becomes the best Assistant District Attorney ever in the smallest possible amount of time ever.
"You have been my secretary --"
"Personal assistant."
"-- for all of about two minutes --"
"Three days."
"-- so what gives you any kind of --"
From behind her, she picks up the small bag sitting on her desk and dangles it in front of him. "One 'I am not new, young or green' tie, straight from Hermès. I used your credit card but you should really look into getting a corporate account; my Donna Specter signature is still a work in progress."
He takes the bag from her with a look that is undeniably the most grateful look she's seen him give (even if his features don't actually move), his other hand already loosening his current tie. "I love you," he says and his tone is so somewhat awed and definitely serious that for a moment she almost, almost believes him.
She nods, smiles. "I know."
(She knows nothing, absolutely nothing at all.)
"What do you want me to say?"
Staring at her door, she thinks of all the things she doesn't want him to say.
She doesn't manipulate him very often and it's not because he usually knows (and how? she is an exceptional actress) but because it's easier (and more fun) to give him honesty; to see his eyes widen with appreciation when she startles him with something that someone else would have probably hidden or lied about, to see his mind backflip and come back even stronger with a response that's just barely on the right side of wit and decency, to --
She regrets not going to him the moment she found the memo.
She regrets not talking to him before she destroyed it.
She doesn't regret the fact that her first instinct was to protect him.
Her wine glass is empty and her feet are starting to ache from standing in front of her door and she wants to sit down but she knows (she knows) he's still standing on the other side of it and she'll be damned if she's going to be the one who walks away first again.
For all their late nights and early mornings, conferences out of state, rituals and wagers and barters, it is a new pair of Manolo Blahniks and a discarded file box that has them pressed against the archive stacks one quiet Tuesday afternoon, her fingers curling around the metal shelf for balance and his weight heavy on her back. He leans into her with one hand gripping her hip and his other palm-flat on her abdomen, his breath hot on the side of her neck.
"Are you okay?" he asks softly.
Her heart is racing, the adrenaline from her almost-fall slip-sliding into too sharp awareness as he doesn't let her go, doesn't step back, doesn't stop tightening his hold on her. She can feel the length of his body against hers, the warmth of his chest and thighs through the thin layer of her dress, the faint brush of his lips on her skin as he talks and --
Talking.
"Fine," she manages, drawing in a breath that absolutely accidentally pushes her back against him, "I'm fine. I --"
His mouth settles on the curve of her shoulder without warning, all heat and pressure and deliberateness, and she has just enough oxygen left in her brain to think, oh, when the unmistakable clunk of the new paralegal's heels (Rachel, she remembers, her name is Rachel) sound outside the Archives room door and the handle starts to click open and --
He lets her go.
You let me go, she thinks. You stood there, by the elevator, and pressed the goddamned button for me like you were security escorting me from the premises, like I was nothing more than a secretary to you --
"Donna."
She's been standing here so long, waiting him out, waiting for him; she probably couldn't move now even if she wanted to. She waits for him to order her to open her door again.
"I couldn't do it, okay?" he says instead. "I tried. Jessica said she was going to tell you and I tried to tell her no, to tell her that it was going to be me, that it had to be me, and I just... couldn't. I couldn't because every time I thought about it, thought about standing there in front of you, telling you that it was over, that you had to leave --" He cuts himself off, clears his throat. Pauses. "I couldn't do it."
Harvey, she thinks, surprised.
"Donna," he says, quiet and soft, barely audible, barely the Harvey she knows. "Please."
He's texting on his phone when she opens her door which, okay, yes, it reduces the impact of everything he just said but... not by much. This Harvey she knows.
"You never get to ask me that question," she says as he tucks his phone away. "Ever."
"Not even if --"
"Ever."
"Fine." Stepping across the threshold, he stands in front of her. "It is unlikely that I will be able to fix what you did."
A sharp little pain, but. "I know."
"Unlikely," he repeats, reaching out and taking the empty wine glass from her hand. He places it on the table beside her door. "But not impossible. Mike is --"
"Really not somebody I want to talk about right now." She takes a step closer to him and feels the heat from his body against hers.
His hand rises to brush her hair off her shoulder, his fingers light on her skin. "I do respect you, Donna." He meets her eyes, direct and serious. "I need you to know that."
Her hands move to his chest, fingers curling into the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer. "Harvey..."
"Mmm?" His palm is on the side of her neck, his thumb tracing her jawline. His other hand moves to her hip, anchoring her against him.
She smiles. "Shut the goddamned door."
The End
FEEDBACK: Always appreciated. *g*
SUMMARY: She knows nothing, absolutely nothing at all.
RATING: PG
CLASSIFICATIONS: Donna/Harvey
SPOILERS: post-Sucker Punch (2x07)
ARCHIVING: Do not archive. Thank you.
NOTES: Unbeta'd.
FOR: phrenitis, for all the usual reasons. ♥
WORDS: 1,551
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Don't sue.
Copyright anr; August 2012.
The Cracks in the Sidewalk by anr
When she opens her door, twelve hours and change after the mock, she is not not surprised to see Harvey standing on the other side of it.
"You didn't answer the question," he says by way of greeting.
Oh hell no. With a withering look, she closes the door on his stupidly handso-- "Wait," she says, halting the door's swing. "Which question?" Louis asked two, after all. Would you and do you...
"Do you --"
She slams the door shut.
The first time she met Harvey --
She didn't fall head over heels, didn't get swept off her feet, didn't curl her toes or play victim to any other happily-ever-after lower limb clichés. He was arrogant, charming, smug, handsome, vain, witty, shallow, intelligent, cocky and entirely too in love with himself. He gave orders like he expected her to follow them, had apparently forgotten or never known that manners don't cost, and seemed to think that her name was an unnecessary use of oxygen. He was every bad date and boss she'd ever had multiplied exponentially by fact that he was brilliant and beautiful and clearly so much more than even he knew, which.
(Okay, so maybe she fell a little.)
"Donna, open the door."
No. She sips her wine and considers walking away, considers sitting down on her sofa and turning on her TV and raising the volume until she can't hear him standing outside her door, all patient and breathing and waiting for her to open up and invite him in like nothing happened today.
"Donna."
She doesn't move.
He didn't want her to stay. She understands that now. If he had -- if he had fought for her --
It wouldn't have changed anything, of course. She still would have had to leave, still would have lost her job, but, well.
She would have known.
"Okay, one? It's Donna. Use it. Two? While there are over five hundred thousand words in the English language, 'please', 'thank you', and 'I'm sorry' should in no way be considered obsolete or optional additions. Three --"
"You know, as interesting as this is not?" he says, cutting her off with an extremely pointed look at his watch. "I have a meeting with the --"
She shakes her head. "Not for another five minutes. You have time. Also? That watch is still set to PDT. Now. Three? Your tie."
Finally a crack in his expression; he glances down at his tie and then back up at her, all puzzled and affronted. "What's wrong with my tie?"
The sixties called for it back, she thinks. Reaching out she flicks the end between her fingers and smirks. "Nothing," she promises. "If you like skinny."
"Skinny is a smart choice," he says, his expression locking back into the one she's seen him use twice now when he's cross-examining someone he thinks is wrong. "It makes me look --"
"New," she finishes. "Young. Green." All things, she knows, he's fighting hard to avoid as he becomes the best Assistant District Attorney ever in the smallest possible amount of time ever.
"You have been my secretary --"
"Personal assistant."
"-- for all of about two minutes --"
"Three days."
"-- so what gives you any kind of --"
From behind her, she picks up the small bag sitting on her desk and dangles it in front of him. "One 'I am not new, young or green' tie, straight from Hermès. I used your credit card but you should really look into getting a corporate account; my Donna Specter signature is still a work in progress."
He takes the bag from her with a look that is undeniably the most grateful look she's seen him give (even if his features don't actually move), his other hand already loosening his current tie. "I love you," he says and his tone is so somewhat awed and definitely serious that for a moment she almost, almost believes him.
She nods, smiles. "I know."
(She knows nothing, absolutely nothing at all.)
"What do you want me to say?"
Staring at her door, she thinks of all the things she doesn't want him to say.
She doesn't manipulate him very often and it's not because he usually knows (and how? she is an exceptional actress) but because it's easier (and more fun) to give him honesty; to see his eyes widen with appreciation when she startles him with something that someone else would have probably hidden or lied about, to see his mind backflip and come back even stronger with a response that's just barely on the right side of wit and decency, to --
She regrets not going to him the moment she found the memo.
She regrets not talking to him before she destroyed it.
She doesn't regret the fact that her first instinct was to protect him.
Her wine glass is empty and her feet are starting to ache from standing in front of her door and she wants to sit down but she knows (she knows) he's still standing on the other side of it and she'll be damned if she's going to be the one who walks away first again.
For all their late nights and early mornings, conferences out of state, rituals and wagers and barters, it is a new pair of Manolo Blahniks and a discarded file box that has them pressed against the archive stacks one quiet Tuesday afternoon, her fingers curling around the metal shelf for balance and his weight heavy on her back. He leans into her with one hand gripping her hip and his other palm-flat on her abdomen, his breath hot on the side of her neck.
"Are you okay?" he asks softly.
Her heart is racing, the adrenaline from her almost-fall slip-sliding into too sharp awareness as he doesn't let her go, doesn't step back, doesn't stop tightening his hold on her. She can feel the length of his body against hers, the warmth of his chest and thighs through the thin layer of her dress, the faint brush of his lips on her skin as he talks and --
Talking.
"Fine," she manages, drawing in a breath that absolutely accidentally pushes her back against him, "I'm fine. I --"
His mouth settles on the curve of her shoulder without warning, all heat and pressure and deliberateness, and she has just enough oxygen left in her brain to think, oh, when the unmistakable clunk of the new paralegal's heels (Rachel, she remembers, her name is Rachel) sound outside the Archives room door and the handle starts to click open and --
He lets her go.
You let me go, she thinks. You stood there, by the elevator, and pressed the goddamned button for me like you were security escorting me from the premises, like I was nothing more than a secretary to you --
"Donna."
She's been standing here so long, waiting him out, waiting for him; she probably couldn't move now even if she wanted to. She waits for him to order her to open her door again.
"I couldn't do it, okay?" he says instead. "I tried. Jessica said she was going to tell you and I tried to tell her no, to tell her that it was going to be me, that it had to be me, and I just... couldn't. I couldn't because every time I thought about it, thought about standing there in front of you, telling you that it was over, that you had to leave --" He cuts himself off, clears his throat. Pauses. "I couldn't do it."
Harvey, she thinks, surprised.
"Donna," he says, quiet and soft, barely audible, barely the Harvey she knows. "Please."
He's texting on his phone when she opens her door which, okay, yes, it reduces the impact of everything he just said but... not by much. This Harvey she knows.
"You never get to ask me that question," she says as he tucks his phone away. "Ever."
"Not even if --"
"Ever."
"Fine." Stepping across the threshold, he stands in front of her. "It is unlikely that I will be able to fix what you did."
A sharp little pain, but. "I know."
"Unlikely," he repeats, reaching out and taking the empty wine glass from her hand. He places it on the table beside her door. "But not impossible. Mike is --"
"Really not somebody I want to talk about right now." She takes a step closer to him and feels the heat from his body against hers.
His hand rises to brush her hair off her shoulder, his fingers light on her skin. "I do respect you, Donna." He meets her eyes, direct and serious. "I need you to know that."
Her hands move to his chest, fingers curling into the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer. "Harvey..."
"Mmm?" His palm is on the side of her neck, his thumb tracing her jawline. His other hand moves to her hip, anchoring her against him.
She smiles. "Shut the goddamned door."
The End
FEEDBACK: Always appreciated. *g*