Fic: Heartlines
Title: Heartlines
Category: Suits
Word Count: 3000ish
Ratings: T for language
Spoiler: Nope, set in the future.
Note: I managed to write a POV for Donna here... And, again, I have NO idea what I am doing. As always. I never know what I'm doing when I write. And, unfortunately, it seems that I've lost my already limited habilities to write anything in the past two weeks. But I forced my way through this one, it ended up not sucking in it's completness, but it's kind of ooc, I'm really sorry for that. I wrote it listening to Bublé's version of I'm Your Man, though the name relates to Florence + The Machine's Heartlines. Both of them work well to help setting the mood for the story.
And sorry for mistakes. I have the impression that the english language is not my best friend...
Disclaimer: They're not mine. any of them. I mean, the words are, but...
Summary: So there was I, after having remarkably good days turned into smudged mascara by a series of unfortunate events.
On FF.net
Bad weeks at work were hell, but the good ones were actually worse. In the corporative world, having a good week usually meant you had to kill yourself to have it. So there was I, after having remarkably good days turned into smudged mascara by a series of unfortunate events. I laid down on the couch using my favorite shirt, hair still damp from the shower, and feeling like I had a truck repeatedly passing through me. In fact, that shirt wasn't even mine. Big red letters spelled HARVARD, and for some reason, there was nothing like the familiarity of it. That was once good, but now I was only torturing myself by wearing that. The fabric felt heavy. There was too much emotional weight on it; psychological shit that was always too true for me to like it, but that I couldn't ignore. That has been my favorite piece of clothing for years, decades. It wasn't mine by accident, I had to fight for it. I conned it out of Harvey just because I liked it - just because I could. It was a reminder of how, if I pressed the right buttons, he'd bend in my direction and do whatever I said. That happened a long time ago, back in the DA's office, our early, happy, days. Closing my eyes I wondered if that was one of those moments, when I just needed to find the right thing to say.
We've been fighting over every single paper clip that hit the floor, and mostly we had no idea why. There had been moments when I had motives to commit crimes against our relationship, and I was pretty sure he might've had his too. It didn't mattered. The moments where there was no motive at all seemed to be a lot more relevant, and none of us would back down. We were both too proud to say that we were sorry. So, regardless of psychologic my surrender to the romantic disaster of the day, I was mad at him.
Anger was a lot more easier to deal than that weird constriction in my chest.
The whole reason why I was wearing his shirt was because I missed him. I haven't seen him much for a month, and it's been days since we had and actual conversation. Weeks, maybe, that we couldn't stop yelling at each other. I missed how easy the first months of our relationship had been. The look in his eyes, his laugh, his teasing. That shirt, the one I was wearing, I was wearing because I could feel his perfume, even it not being there. I could feel his embrace, and, honesty, it was just what I wanted right now, beside everything that happened.
To be really honest I would have to say I needed it, but, hey, I'm Donna, I don't need anything. There was a part of me that snorted at herself in the mirror, because it was the wrong time for romantic melodramas, and I should stop being stupid. The other part felt like that was no drama at all.
I heard the door opening and closing, and I heard his footsteps, and I was scared. I could see what was going to happen; we'd say shit we didn't mean, we'd laugh ironically, we'd be pleased to see each other grasping for an argument. He'd walk away, sleep in the office, I'd be in bed alone again, controlling myself not to shred a single tear. I wouldn't demean to the levels of crying myself to sleep. Not even when I wanted to, not even for him.
But when he sat by my side, I had water under my eyelids, and was breathing to fast to fool him into thinking I was sleeping. I wouldn't fool my 4 years old niece, in that state. Jesus, that was ridiculous.
Congratulations, Harvey Specter, today you get to see me cracking.
I knew he wasn't buying it, but still, he ran one finger on my cheek, without a word, a sound. As he knew what would happen if he spoke. As he was just thinking the same as I was. A drop fell off my left eye, I thanked god that it was the side he couldn't see. All of that silence was comfortable, that scene that seemed to be taken out of a play meant too much. He ignored it, and kept caressing me. I ignored it, kept my terribly-played-sleeping-beauty part.
I wasn't amazed to find myself hating the contact of his skin, though. It was impossible to forget what happened just that evening. The one detail to ruin a good week. I've seen Harvey do some shit to prove a point, but flirting with that random blonde? I mean, c'mom, everyone knew he was one for brunettes - and that I was a freaking exception. Every single soul at Pearson Hardman knew that. Harvey and his secretary are together. Common knowledge for ages. Still a topic for gossip.
So how the fuck did that happen?
Finally, he went too far. As if everything that had been going wrong wasn't enough. It made me think on how many times he did it and I wasn't there to direct him a death glare - only too receive a guilty look in reply. All the times he'd done worse. Could this be the slap in the face I needed to realized this is what it was all about? Those weeks we've been screaming our lungs out at each other - could that be me subconsciously telling myself that he was cheating on me?
The actual word reverberated in my head like I just thought about killing someone, making me shiver and blowing my cover. Even then, I somehow managed to be more disappointed about his lack of creativity than his probable unfaithfulness.
Blonde? Seriously, Harvey?
I sighed, deeply, and made sure to take his hands off my face.
"Donna, I-" He tried, finally.
"Shut up. I really don't want to hear your voice tonight." I countered, ignoring the way my voice broke "In fact, I don't want to hear your voice before hell freezes over."
"You're being childish."
"Are you deaf?" I turned in the sofa to face him. "In that case, is there any chance I can swap it for mute?"
Maybe, just maybe, that was a joke I shouldn't have made.
His lips formed a thin line, and I felt my throat burning just by looking at his face. But it was quite hart to take it seriously. I realized he was a mess. Wrinkled suits, askew tie, hair pointing to every direction possible; untidy in his completeness. I granted myself a sly curve of lips. He looked way worse than me.
"What?" He noticed my amusement.
"Nothing. Just appreciating the fact that that blonde won't be able to endure you looking this bad for as long as I do."
Harvey rolled his eyes and snorted. And that was all. No witty replies, no joke about how that wasn't true. Just silence, again, as he leaned on the couch by my side, ignoring the way my legs got caught behind his back. He slid a finger between his collar and the tie knot, in an almost desperate attempt to get rid of it.
"You won't even deny it?" I tried.
Harvey shrugged, tossed the tie aside, nonchalantly to its destination - the floor.
"You won't believe it, anyway."
"Try me."
He took a deep breath before opening his mouth, knowing that, whatever were his next words, I was to immediately invalidate them.
"I am not cheating on you."
"She was sitting in you lap." I stated, plainly.
"She didn't know I was committed to someone."
"Do I need to repeat it?"
"She fell." Before I could say anything, he continued "Purposely, yes, but-"
"Oh, my god, do you even think before speaking?"
"Donna, she wasn't Pearson Hardman, and not every woman in Manhattan knows I'm with you."
"Did it ever occur to you that you should've told her?!"
"And now I'm going to welcome every single woman in my office with a 'hey, I'm not single' greeting, is that it?"
I prepared a maybe in response, but I wasn't ready to lighten up the conversation just yet.
"So you've waited until you had your mouth in her ear to tell her that, yeah, that makes perfect sense."
"Donna, I hadn't had my mouth..." He said, voice lowered. He held his breath for a second, interrupting himself, and releasing it while his fingers pressed against his eyes. "Fuck." He whispered to himself. His hands went through his hair, head thrown back to the couch.
We fell in silence again. I wondered if that was a recurrent theme, now. The loss of words was never something to happen between us, at any given moment, and I found myself worried. Nobody said it was going to be easy. We both knew, when we started this, that that would be low points, but did we predict it this low? Back when I first woke up to found him in bed, by my side, it wasn't hard to imagine that we would argue about everything. But for me to question his faithfulness... An year ago, I'd laugh at myself for even thinking about it. Trust was the whole base for us.
Not that suddenly, I had tears in my eyes again, and my chest was so tight I couldn't breath straight. Being with him was once so delightful, and now something's changed, and I had no idea how to get back what we had. It was all we didn't wanted. For it to change. For us to destroy the great thing we had just because we couldn't keep our hands to ourselves. I found myself mad because we were stupid, and because, yes, I was right, we couldn't go back.
Have I made the wrong choice, at that night, an years ago, when I let him kiss me?
"Donna, I am not cheating on you." He said, finally. "I'm done arguing about it, about everything... I just-" He was looking up, fingers entwined at the top of his head, as if not really knowing what to say. "You know, I'm tired of this." He paused to take a breath. It was perfectly understandable, what he said. We were both thrown in the couch, not even having the strength to make up good punch lines. The laziest argument we had in our lives. I acknowledged, then, that his awful looks and his hesitation to say anything were reflexes of how he felt about the whole thing. He's never been good with feelings, but managed to summarize things perfectly in just a few words: "I miss you."
If I was at the brink of tears, now I didn't had much control about them. My eyes flood; I really started crying - silently. Still, I couldn't help myself to wonder about the bad things. The images of him with his tongue down that bitch's mouth were probably half of the reason of my tears, anyway. Every passing moment they became stronger and I cried even more. Finally, I looked worst than him. My chest was heavy, it was impossible to breath normally, and I fought sobs as my eyes and throat burned.
It was pretty masochist of me to bring the subject back, but I had to:
"Have you ever...?" I said, controlling myself to keep my voice from breaking too much.
"What? Cheated on you?" He chuckled, almost amused. "For Christ's sake, Donna, of course not!"
His words and reaction were so spontaneous, so full of sure, it felt like I asked him if the sky was green. I knew his laying, and that was not it.
"I wouldn't have the balls to do it, and it's me who we're talking about in he-" He started, and it only made me want to cry even harder. I tried to use the shirt I was wearing to clean my face, but there was no use; I was all covered in water again in seconds. I let out a sob and he turned to face me, cutting his own speech. "Oh, c'mom, don't cry. Don't do this."
I closed my eyes as tightly as I could, and bit my lower lip.
I'm sure he intended it to be soothing, and it was actually sweet, but when his fingers touched my face to wipe away the water that fell off my eyes I broke into tears and sobs like a child. That was an ugly and unpredicted scene. I covered my eyes with my forearm. It didn't worked that well to hide my shame. I was having an emotional breakdown in front of Harvey and nothing could change that fact.
"It's really that bad?." He said, hesitantly. "I really gave you motive to seriously think about it?"
I didn't say anything, just swallowed the weird sound that was about to leave my throat again.
"Look, I'm so-"
"Shut up!" I interrupted, and could barely understand my own words. "I really, really, don't need to cry anymore, now."
He laughed, whole-heartedly, at my displeasure in hearing his apologies. I myself didn't understand why I didn't like it. Maybe it was just weird to hear it from him. It felt too out-of-character, and though I could use the comfort of being an exception to his uncaring-self, I took preference in keeping it inside our standards. It was enough to have one of us baring emotions like we did it all the time.
"Seriously, hear me out." The hand that was in my cheeks made it's way to my tights, and he spoke while I tried to calm myself down. His thumb moved over me in an absent caress. "You don't just act like a broadway star, you have the timing of one. I swear I expected the girl 'tripping on her heels' just as much as you did. Which is not at all, just to be clear."
Harvey had me chuckling at that.
"You were trying to kill me with your telekinetic powers before I could even understand what was happening. I could never cheat on you, Donna." He said. "Trust me."
It was not an affirmative. He was asking for it.
I remembered when it finally happened - when we finally happened. He had me sat in his table, fingers skillfully going through the buttons in my shirt as fast as the laws of physics allowed him and mouth locked in mine in a deep, desperate, kiss. At some point I snapped out of that haze of lust in which we've been immersed and pushed him away just enough to look into his eyes. I was terrified about the consequences of it. He saw that. He said 'Well be fine. Trust me' and I did. Not because I wanted, what I wanted was to him to step away realizing that we shouldn't be doing that, but because his response came with a smile; an honest smile I've seen in his face not more than three times since we've met. He meant it, that kiss, those words, the unbuttoning.
I took a breath and my arms uncovered my eyes, cleaning the trails that the tears made in it way down in the process.
The first thing I saw was his smile, subtle in his face. It asked for permission to grow, it plead my forgiveness, my acceptance. Our eyes met instantly, like we've been avoiding since he arrived.
"I'm pretty sure this trust will be my downfall," I said. "but I do. I always did."
He bared his teeth for me just a flash before I realized my lower lip was caught between them. His body fell heavy on top of mine, fitting perfectly. His warmth made me withdraw a breath I didn't know I was holding; our breathing mixed together, hot puffs of air caressing my skin. I felt his heart beats accelerating when he parted my lips with his tongue, invading my mouth and exploring it in a manner that was altogether new and familiar. Hands where between my shirt and my skin and fingers danced in my ribs. I clawed at him, nails digging into the skin in the base of his neck. I needed him. His touch, his taste, the way he moved his hips against mine. Compared to that, our disagreements mattered very little. I found myself aching for everything I didn't have for that whole month, regretting every word, every time I should've said things and I didn't, or the times I said them and that I should've kept my mouth shut.
Harvey broke the kiss to play with my mouth. He bit my lower lip, hurting just a little, tugging it with his tong and sucking on it lightly. Fingers were tangled in my hair and skirting my bra. Fast hands. I used to wake up to that on weekends, or even wednesdays or mondays, when he felt inspired enough to deal with the commentaries on our shameless late appearances in the office. It usually lead to me moaning in his ears and arriving at work with purple spots on my lips and neck, because I didn't had the time to properly hide them with make-up. That and a big smile on my face.
Only relief could be described as what I was feeling when realizing I'd have that again.
He released my lips and, much for my surprise, buried his face in my neck. His mouth touched my skin, but just for a chaste kiss. I completely relaxed under him, let the grip he had on me tighten in a hug that I returned in equal intensity. He freaking meant it: he missed me. Enough to let it show that easily.
With his ears near my mouth and his sigh turned away from me, I pressed him against me until my knuckles were white.
"You're mine, you're hearing me?" I whispered. "Just mine."
"Possessive, aren't we?" He answered, and trailed kisses up my neck until his gaze met mine, just for a second. I loved the way he smiled so easily at that. I loved how he kept kissing me, softly. I loved how he didn't released his grip on me at any moment. "Never figured you for the jealous type."
"Well, I am. And you're Donna Paulsen's property, so don't you ever try anything too funny, ok?"
His smile grew again.
Oh, what the hell, I loved him. All of him.
"Ok. I'm yours, then. Gladly, willingly, yours." And though we both thought I would be one brave enough to say it first, he was the one to break through our natural resistance to it. "I love you."
"Oh, you did't just-." I tried, with a disapproval pout.
"What, now?" He cut, pursed lips and skeptical look.
"The whole scene was already too dramatic and cheesy for us." I half-joked, raising an eyebrow. "You managed to make it even worse."
He took a deep breath and held it for a second. And just as fast as he was on top of me, he sat straight again on the couch and left a certain feeling - the one of something's missing, or something's wrong. I knew that it would go away as soon as his weight was over me again.
"You're right. So let me lighten up the mood by pointing out that this shirt is mine, and that I want it back. You should give it to me. Right now."
"Oh, should I?" I rose to sit by his side. "So you want your shirt back...?"
"Yes, I do."
"Than come and take it." I said, and bolted toward our bedroom.
I was two steps from the mattress when his hands fell on my hips, just there. And the feeling was gone, just as I expected. Then his chest hit my back. He enlaced my waist, hands going beneath my shirt. He nipped the base of my neck, where it met my left shoulder.
"And just because of that..." He pulled my shirt off. "...I'm topping tonight."
"Yeah, I'm not so sure about that..."
Category: Suits
Word Count: 3000ish
Ratings: T for language
Spoiler: Nope, set in the future.
Note: I managed to write a POV for Donna here... And, again, I have NO idea what I am doing. As always. I never know what I'm doing when I write. And, unfortunately, it seems that I've lost my already limited habilities to write anything in the past two weeks. But I forced my way through this one, it ended up not sucking in it's completness, but it's kind of ooc, I'm really sorry for that. I wrote it listening to Bublé's version of I'm Your Man, though the name relates to Florence + The Machine's Heartlines. Both of them work well to help setting the mood for the story.
And sorry for mistakes. I have the impression that the english language is not my best friend...
Disclaimer: They're not mine. any of them. I mean, the words are, but...
Summary: So there was I, after having remarkably good days turned into smudged mascara by a series of unfortunate events.
On FF.net
Bad weeks at work were hell, but the good ones were actually worse. In the corporative world, having a good week usually meant you had to kill yourself to have it. So there was I, after having remarkably good days turned into smudged mascara by a series of unfortunate events. I laid down on the couch using my favorite shirt, hair still damp from the shower, and feeling like I had a truck repeatedly passing through me. In fact, that shirt wasn't even mine. Big red letters spelled HARVARD, and for some reason, there was nothing like the familiarity of it. That was once good, but now I was only torturing myself by wearing that. The fabric felt heavy. There was too much emotional weight on it; psychological shit that was always too true for me to like it, but that I couldn't ignore. That has been my favorite piece of clothing for years, decades. It wasn't mine by accident, I had to fight for it. I conned it out of Harvey just because I liked it - just because I could. It was a reminder of how, if I pressed the right buttons, he'd bend in my direction and do whatever I said. That happened a long time ago, back in the DA's office, our early, happy, days. Closing my eyes I wondered if that was one of those moments, when I just needed to find the right thing to say.
We've been fighting over every single paper clip that hit the floor, and mostly we had no idea why. There had been moments when I had motives to commit crimes against our relationship, and I was pretty sure he might've had his too. It didn't mattered. The moments where there was no motive at all seemed to be a lot more relevant, and none of us would back down. We were both too proud to say that we were sorry. So, regardless of psychologic my surrender to the romantic disaster of the day, I was mad at him.
Anger was a lot more easier to deal than that weird constriction in my chest.
The whole reason why I was wearing his shirt was because I missed him. I haven't seen him much for a month, and it's been days since we had and actual conversation. Weeks, maybe, that we couldn't stop yelling at each other. I missed how easy the first months of our relationship had been. The look in his eyes, his laugh, his teasing. That shirt, the one I was wearing, I was wearing because I could feel his perfume, even it not being there. I could feel his embrace, and, honesty, it was just what I wanted right now, beside everything that happened.
To be really honest I would have to say I needed it, but, hey, I'm Donna, I don't need anything. There was a part of me that snorted at herself in the mirror, because it was the wrong time for romantic melodramas, and I should stop being stupid. The other part felt like that was no drama at all.
I heard the door opening and closing, and I heard his footsteps, and I was scared. I could see what was going to happen; we'd say shit we didn't mean, we'd laugh ironically, we'd be pleased to see each other grasping for an argument. He'd walk away, sleep in the office, I'd be in bed alone again, controlling myself not to shred a single tear. I wouldn't demean to the levels of crying myself to sleep. Not even when I wanted to, not even for him.
But when he sat by my side, I had water under my eyelids, and was breathing to fast to fool him into thinking I was sleeping. I wouldn't fool my 4 years old niece, in that state. Jesus, that was ridiculous.
Congratulations, Harvey Specter, today you get to see me cracking.
I knew he wasn't buying it, but still, he ran one finger on my cheek, without a word, a sound. As he knew what would happen if he spoke. As he was just thinking the same as I was. A drop fell off my left eye, I thanked god that it was the side he couldn't see. All of that silence was comfortable, that scene that seemed to be taken out of a play meant too much. He ignored it, and kept caressing me. I ignored it, kept my terribly-played-sleeping-beauty part.
I wasn't amazed to find myself hating the contact of his skin, though. It was impossible to forget what happened just that evening. The one detail to ruin a good week. I've seen Harvey do some shit to prove a point, but flirting with that random blonde? I mean, c'mom, everyone knew he was one for brunettes - and that I was a freaking exception. Every single soul at Pearson Hardman knew that. Harvey and his secretary are together. Common knowledge for ages. Still a topic for gossip.
So how the fuck did that happen?
Finally, he went too far. As if everything that had been going wrong wasn't enough. It made me think on how many times he did it and I wasn't there to direct him a death glare - only too receive a guilty look in reply. All the times he'd done worse. Could this be the slap in the face I needed to realized this is what it was all about? Those weeks we've been screaming our lungs out at each other - could that be me subconsciously telling myself that he was cheating on me?
The actual word reverberated in my head like I just thought about killing someone, making me shiver and blowing my cover. Even then, I somehow managed to be more disappointed about his lack of creativity than his probable unfaithfulness.
Blonde? Seriously, Harvey?
I sighed, deeply, and made sure to take his hands off my face.
"Donna, I-" He tried, finally.
"Shut up. I really don't want to hear your voice tonight." I countered, ignoring the way my voice broke "In fact, I don't want to hear your voice before hell freezes over."
"You're being childish."
"Are you deaf?" I turned in the sofa to face him. "In that case, is there any chance I can swap it for mute?"
Maybe, just maybe, that was a joke I shouldn't have made.
His lips formed a thin line, and I felt my throat burning just by looking at his face. But it was quite hart to take it seriously. I realized he was a mess. Wrinkled suits, askew tie, hair pointing to every direction possible; untidy in his completeness. I granted myself a sly curve of lips. He looked way worse than me.
"What?" He noticed my amusement.
"Nothing. Just appreciating the fact that that blonde won't be able to endure you looking this bad for as long as I do."
Harvey rolled his eyes and snorted. And that was all. No witty replies, no joke about how that wasn't true. Just silence, again, as he leaned on the couch by my side, ignoring the way my legs got caught behind his back. He slid a finger between his collar and the tie knot, in an almost desperate attempt to get rid of it.
"You won't even deny it?" I tried.
Harvey shrugged, tossed the tie aside, nonchalantly to its destination - the floor.
"You won't believe it, anyway."
"Try me."
He took a deep breath before opening his mouth, knowing that, whatever were his next words, I was to immediately invalidate them.
"I am not cheating on you."
"She was sitting in you lap." I stated, plainly.
"She didn't know I was committed to someone."
"Do I need to repeat it?"
"She fell." Before I could say anything, he continued "Purposely, yes, but-"
"Oh, my god, do you even think before speaking?"
"Donna, she wasn't Pearson Hardman, and not every woman in Manhattan knows I'm with you."
"Did it ever occur to you that you should've told her?!"
"And now I'm going to welcome every single woman in my office with a 'hey, I'm not single' greeting, is that it?"
I prepared a maybe in response, but I wasn't ready to lighten up the conversation just yet.
"So you've waited until you had your mouth in her ear to tell her that, yeah, that makes perfect sense."
"Donna, I hadn't had my mouth..." He said, voice lowered. He held his breath for a second, interrupting himself, and releasing it while his fingers pressed against his eyes. "Fuck." He whispered to himself. His hands went through his hair, head thrown back to the couch.
We fell in silence again. I wondered if that was a recurrent theme, now. The loss of words was never something to happen between us, at any given moment, and I found myself worried. Nobody said it was going to be easy. We both knew, when we started this, that that would be low points, but did we predict it this low? Back when I first woke up to found him in bed, by my side, it wasn't hard to imagine that we would argue about everything. But for me to question his faithfulness... An year ago, I'd laugh at myself for even thinking about it. Trust was the whole base for us.
Not that suddenly, I had tears in my eyes again, and my chest was so tight I couldn't breath straight. Being with him was once so delightful, and now something's changed, and I had no idea how to get back what we had. It was all we didn't wanted. For it to change. For us to destroy the great thing we had just because we couldn't keep our hands to ourselves. I found myself mad because we were stupid, and because, yes, I was right, we couldn't go back.
Have I made the wrong choice, at that night, an years ago, when I let him kiss me?
"Donna, I am not cheating on you." He said, finally. "I'm done arguing about it, about everything... I just-" He was looking up, fingers entwined at the top of his head, as if not really knowing what to say. "You know, I'm tired of this." He paused to take a breath. It was perfectly understandable, what he said. We were both thrown in the couch, not even having the strength to make up good punch lines. The laziest argument we had in our lives. I acknowledged, then, that his awful looks and his hesitation to say anything were reflexes of how he felt about the whole thing. He's never been good with feelings, but managed to summarize things perfectly in just a few words: "I miss you."
If I was at the brink of tears, now I didn't had much control about them. My eyes flood; I really started crying - silently. Still, I couldn't help myself to wonder about the bad things. The images of him with his tongue down that bitch's mouth were probably half of the reason of my tears, anyway. Every passing moment they became stronger and I cried even more. Finally, I looked worst than him. My chest was heavy, it was impossible to breath normally, and I fought sobs as my eyes and throat burned.
It was pretty masochist of me to bring the subject back, but I had to:
"Have you ever...?" I said, controlling myself to keep my voice from breaking too much.
"What? Cheated on you?" He chuckled, almost amused. "For Christ's sake, Donna, of course not!"
His words and reaction were so spontaneous, so full of sure, it felt like I asked him if the sky was green. I knew his laying, and that was not it.
"I wouldn't have the balls to do it, and it's me who we're talking about in he-" He started, and it only made me want to cry even harder. I tried to use the shirt I was wearing to clean my face, but there was no use; I was all covered in water again in seconds. I let out a sob and he turned to face me, cutting his own speech. "Oh, c'mom, don't cry. Don't do this."
I closed my eyes as tightly as I could, and bit my lower lip.
I'm sure he intended it to be soothing, and it was actually sweet, but when his fingers touched my face to wipe away the water that fell off my eyes I broke into tears and sobs like a child. That was an ugly and unpredicted scene. I covered my eyes with my forearm. It didn't worked that well to hide my shame. I was having an emotional breakdown in front of Harvey and nothing could change that fact.
"It's really that bad?." He said, hesitantly. "I really gave you motive to seriously think about it?"
I didn't say anything, just swallowed the weird sound that was about to leave my throat again.
"Look, I'm so-"
"Shut up!" I interrupted, and could barely understand my own words. "I really, really, don't need to cry anymore, now."
He laughed, whole-heartedly, at my displeasure in hearing his apologies. I myself didn't understand why I didn't like it. Maybe it was just weird to hear it from him. It felt too out-of-character, and though I could use the comfort of being an exception to his uncaring-self, I took preference in keeping it inside our standards. It was enough to have one of us baring emotions like we did it all the time.
"Seriously, hear me out." The hand that was in my cheeks made it's way to my tights, and he spoke while I tried to calm myself down. His thumb moved over me in an absent caress. "You don't just act like a broadway star, you have the timing of one. I swear I expected the girl 'tripping on her heels' just as much as you did. Which is not at all, just to be clear."
Harvey had me chuckling at that.
"You were trying to kill me with your telekinetic powers before I could even understand what was happening. I could never cheat on you, Donna." He said. "Trust me."
It was not an affirmative. He was asking for it.
I remembered when it finally happened - when we finally happened. He had me sat in his table, fingers skillfully going through the buttons in my shirt as fast as the laws of physics allowed him and mouth locked in mine in a deep, desperate, kiss. At some point I snapped out of that haze of lust in which we've been immersed and pushed him away just enough to look into his eyes. I was terrified about the consequences of it. He saw that. He said 'Well be fine. Trust me' and I did. Not because I wanted, what I wanted was to him to step away realizing that we shouldn't be doing that, but because his response came with a smile; an honest smile I've seen in his face not more than three times since we've met. He meant it, that kiss, those words, the unbuttoning.
I took a breath and my arms uncovered my eyes, cleaning the trails that the tears made in it way down in the process.
The first thing I saw was his smile, subtle in his face. It asked for permission to grow, it plead my forgiveness, my acceptance. Our eyes met instantly, like we've been avoiding since he arrived.
"I'm pretty sure this trust will be my downfall," I said. "but I do. I always did."
He bared his teeth for me just a flash before I realized my lower lip was caught between them. His body fell heavy on top of mine, fitting perfectly. His warmth made me withdraw a breath I didn't know I was holding; our breathing mixed together, hot puffs of air caressing my skin. I felt his heart beats accelerating when he parted my lips with his tongue, invading my mouth and exploring it in a manner that was altogether new and familiar. Hands where between my shirt and my skin and fingers danced in my ribs. I clawed at him, nails digging into the skin in the base of his neck. I needed him. His touch, his taste, the way he moved his hips against mine. Compared to that, our disagreements mattered very little. I found myself aching for everything I didn't have for that whole month, regretting every word, every time I should've said things and I didn't, or the times I said them and that I should've kept my mouth shut.
Harvey broke the kiss to play with my mouth. He bit my lower lip, hurting just a little, tugging it with his tong and sucking on it lightly. Fingers were tangled in my hair and skirting my bra. Fast hands. I used to wake up to that on weekends, or even wednesdays or mondays, when he felt inspired enough to deal with the commentaries on our shameless late appearances in the office. It usually lead to me moaning in his ears and arriving at work with purple spots on my lips and neck, because I didn't had the time to properly hide them with make-up. That and a big smile on my face.
Only relief could be described as what I was feeling when realizing I'd have that again.
He released my lips and, much for my surprise, buried his face in my neck. His mouth touched my skin, but just for a chaste kiss. I completely relaxed under him, let the grip he had on me tighten in a hug that I returned in equal intensity. He freaking meant it: he missed me. Enough to let it show that easily.
With his ears near my mouth and his sigh turned away from me, I pressed him against me until my knuckles were white.
"You're mine, you're hearing me?" I whispered. "Just mine."
"Possessive, aren't we?" He answered, and trailed kisses up my neck until his gaze met mine, just for a second. I loved the way he smiled so easily at that. I loved how he kept kissing me, softly. I loved how he didn't released his grip on me at any moment. "Never figured you for the jealous type."
"Well, I am. And you're Donna Paulsen's property, so don't you ever try anything too funny, ok?"
His smile grew again.
Oh, what the hell, I loved him. All of him.
"Ok. I'm yours, then. Gladly, willingly, yours." And though we both thought I would be one brave enough to say it first, he was the one to break through our natural resistance to it. "I love you."
"Oh, you did't just-." I tried, with a disapproval pout.
"What, now?" He cut, pursed lips and skeptical look.
"The whole scene was already too dramatic and cheesy for us." I half-joked, raising an eyebrow. "You managed to make it even worse."
He took a deep breath and held it for a second. And just as fast as he was on top of me, he sat straight again on the couch and left a certain feeling - the one of something's missing, or something's wrong. I knew that it would go away as soon as his weight was over me again.
"You're right. So let me lighten up the mood by pointing out that this shirt is mine, and that I want it back. You should give it to me. Right now."
"Oh, should I?" I rose to sit by his side. "So you want your shirt back...?"
"Yes, I do."
"Than come and take it." I said, and bolted toward our bedroom.
I was two steps from the mattress when his hands fell on my hips, just there. And the feeling was gone, just as I expected. Then his chest hit my back. He enlaced my waist, hands going beneath my shirt. He nipped the base of my neck, where it met my left shoulder.
"And just because of that..." He pulled my shirt off. "...I'm topping tonight."
"Yeah, I'm not so sure about that..."