Suits Fic: Complex & Lingering
Yup. There's no coming back now. I officially love these two too much.
Title: Complex & Lingering
Rating: PG-13
Category: Donna Paulsen/Harvey Specter
Spoilers: Season Two, All In
Disclaimer: Owned by others.
==
"O you whom I often and silently come where you are, that I may be with you;
As I walk by your side, or sit near, or remain in the same room with you,
Little you know the subtle electric fire that for your sake is playing within me."
-- Walt Whitman, 'O You Whom I Often And Silently Come'
==
He shows up at her door at some inhumane hour, his knock quiet but insistent, and she knows he won't go away if the five messages he's already left on her phone are any indication. That she's still awake is beside the point.
She's halfway through unlocking the door when she realizes she's in nothing but a tank top and cotton shorts, her feet bare and hair tied up in a loose ponytail that's been long forgotten. She stops for a moment, and can practically hear Harvey waiting with his patient impatience just outside the door.
It's not vanity - they've both seen each other in varying states of undress outside the work environment over the years - but rather, pride. Donna may be spending a lot of time with Judge Judy and friends, and reacquainting herself with some old standby guys named Ben and Jerry lately, but she wouldn't exactly say she's been moping, despite what her present appearance indicates.
Decided despite herself, she opens the door. "Hi Harvey."
One glance tells her enough. How he worked late (the slightly tired and glassy-eyed look he gets when he's poured over documents late into the night), how he went home (his tie a bit too loose like he'd taken it off and then put it back on, and shirt wrinkled from the couch), and how he's missed her (the way his eyes hold hers just a touch too long).
"Donna." His voice is calm, detached in that way of his she knows well.
"It's extremely late," she notes.
He has the decency to look somewhat abashed before he shrugs. "You could have answered my calls."
It's her turn to return the gesture. "I was very busy."
She leaves him there and heads to the kitchen, trusts he'll follow, and grabs two glasses while he selects a wine. He meets her at the counter and she gets a look at the bottle - the Brunello.
It catches her by surprise and her mouth goes dry. She can feel Harvey watching her closely, and tries to school her reaction.
She hasn't thought about the Brunello in awhile - buried in the depths of her wine cooler for years - but she remembers the taste; it is the wine to which all others are compared and fail. Her first and only trip to Italy with Harvey, and that bottle they'd brought back was still around. He had been so serious about it - only when I say so - damn the man.
She turns to face him and hands him the wine opener. "You do the honors."
There's something in his expression - a suppressed smile maybe - but he's standing too close and the lighting makes it difficult to read him accurately. Then it's gone, the bottle open and a glass in her hand.
The first sip is in silence, and memories flood as the wine hits her tongue - cherry, the wood furniture in the suite, vanilla, the slip of silk and lace, blackberry, sweet and tart mixed in a kiss - the exquisitely smooth finish is just how she remembers. She closes her eyes against the past.
Beside her, Harvey clears his throat. "I fired the temp today."
"I heard."
He turns to her in surprise. "Did Rachel tell you?"
"Louis, actually."
"Louis?"
She smiles. "He left a message. Something about an over-eager, people-pleaser?"
"He had flowers," Harvey says in a tone caught somewhere between shock, embarrassment, and offense. She can't help but laugh at that.
"In two days he's made a complete mess of my calendar," he adds disgustedly. "I accidentally ended up on a call with Peter of Franklin-
"Franklin Cohen & Bach, yes," she interrupts.
"Exactly, and you know what that means. Even the filing system is now alphabetical. Alphabetical! For Christ's sake."
He stands there for a moment looking at the wine on the counter, and it pains her to see him this way - her doing, no matter the reasons. Then he slides past her to the living room, his hand ghosting against her back as he passes.
She follows with the bottle and joins him on the couch. It's incredibly quiet, the city asleep, and she's haunted by the remembered flavors of Tuscany in her mouth.
"I gambled with a company yesterday." He sounds angry, but she's not sure if it's directed at himself, or her.
"I heard."
He smirks. "Louis?"
"Rachel."
He tops off their glasses, and stares at the label, the bottle twisting slowly in his hands.
"I don't have a plan," he states softly to her.
"Harvey. Hey," she says and waits for him to look at her. "I know that, and it's okay."
"Damn it, Donna. It's not okay. What are you going to do? What am I supposed to do?"
She doesn't have the answers he wants, and knows he's not really asking. She watches as he sips at his wine - the scene so familiar it actually catches at her breath.
She points to the side table to her right. "I've picked up knitting."
He glances over. "A sock?"
"A hat," she corrects. "I think."
"A hat," he repeats, and she can hear the amusement behind his words. "I need to see this."
He's suddenly leaning over and across, body pressing into hers as he grabs the half finished knitting project from the end table. She gives him a look, and his quick smile isn't even remotely apologetic.
"Well, you weren't helping," he explains with a practiced innocence.
It's when he attempts to put it back that the humor respite fades, and she's aware of the beating of her heart flickering rapidly where his body touches hers. He stops moving back, stills against her, and she closes her eyes as his lips graze the skin at her shoulder.
The years ripple and blur, and she feels his mouth hot at her neck, fingers tracing patterns on the inside of her thigh.
The Brunello was many things - a past and a promise - and though it was mostly just a memory, it was their toast to change.
She meets his eyes, his face so close and his hands teasing the bare areas of her skin.
"I'll fix your calendar," she says, liking the way he watches her mouth.
He smiles quizzically.
"Remote access."
This earns her a pinch to the side, but her hands have been busy too, and she removes his tie, sneaks hands past his now unbuttoned shirt to slide them along his chest to his shoulders and help him shrug out of it.
When he goes to kiss her, she pulls back slightly. "I'm not finished."
"Donna." His mouth is so close she can feel his lips moving ever so lightly against hers.
"I'll fix your calendar," she repeats, "but no more firing temps."
Harvey frowns.
She captures his leg with hers, arches just enough that she shifts beneath him, pressing them much closer. The contact sends her blood rushing and Harvey's hand tightens painfully on her hip.
"There's no one else I want," he says, voice almost a groan.
She kisses him then, savoring the moment though she's long past saving. It's slow but urgent, demanding - lips, tongue and teeth with the Brunello flavoring everything between, and his hand splayed over her collarbone.
He sits back, pulls her to him and settles her in his lap as she swings a leg over his. His hands play at her hips, thumbs slowly circling the skin at her waist.
"I'll fix this." He is so serious and determined.
"Harvey." She touches the side of his face gently. "Don't promise what we both know you can't deliver."
He looks frustrated, helpless. "So what now? I'm forced to hire someone else, and you, you're what - knitting?"
"You have a winter hat to look forward to."
"Donna, I'm serious." He kneads strong fingers into the muscles of her lower back. "I can't just move on."
"You do when we're talking about evidence tampering."
"They can't prove you were in possession of something that won't turn up," he says, but he looks pained.
"And any lawyer worth a damn will rip that apart and Hardman will still have you over the fire." She hates that what she's done has hurt him, more now than ever before - regrets on the surface sharp and many. "Look, you're Harvey Specter at Pearson Hardman - there are a hundred and one assistants out there just waiting for the job."
She takes a breath to gain control of her voice before it betrays her. "You don't lose, Harvey."
He thinks it through and she watches as something occurs to him, the way he freezes as it plays out in his mind.
"Harvey..." She knows his looks, and this one is trouble.
He comes back to reality, and she can tell by the way he moves his hands to her stomach - fingertips touching her ribs and brushing the undersides of her breasts - that he's thought up something indeed.
"Oh you're not going to like it at all," he tells her.
"Harvey, what are you pla-"
He cuts her off with a kiss - one definitely more playful and teasing than before. He draws her tank top over arms she raises obligingly, his hands catching at the band in her hair, loosing it and letting her hair drop and tumble down her back as her shirt hits the floor. Harvey's looking at her in a way she had forgotten - awe and desire along with a possessiveness that brings a smile to her face.
"Do I even want to know?" she asks.
He shakes his head, but he's smiling.
"Just... don't do anything foolish, Harvey."
"I can't promise that," he admits, and she knows that's true enough.
She reaches for her wine, Harvey watching her drink, his hands full with her breasts. She leans down to kiss him, the Brunello rich and velvety.
"And tonight?" She remembers this question from Tuscany, although it was the other way around and so many years ago.
His fingers are knotted in her hair, and he gives it a little tug. "You're not going anywhere."
-Fin
Title: Complex & Lingering
Rating: PG-13
Category: Donna Paulsen/Harvey Specter
Spoilers: Season Two, All In
Disclaimer: Owned by others.
==
"O you whom I often and silently come where you are, that I may be with you;
As I walk by your side, or sit near, or remain in the same room with you,
Little you know the subtle electric fire that for your sake is playing within me."
-- Walt Whitman, 'O You Whom I Often And Silently Come'
==
He shows up at her door at some inhumane hour, his knock quiet but insistent, and she knows he won't go away if the five messages he's already left on her phone are any indication. That she's still awake is beside the point.
She's halfway through unlocking the door when she realizes she's in nothing but a tank top and cotton shorts, her feet bare and hair tied up in a loose ponytail that's been long forgotten. She stops for a moment, and can practically hear Harvey waiting with his patient impatience just outside the door.
It's not vanity - they've both seen each other in varying states of undress outside the work environment over the years - but rather, pride. Donna may be spending a lot of time with Judge Judy and friends, and reacquainting herself with some old standby guys named Ben and Jerry lately, but she wouldn't exactly say she's been moping, despite what her present appearance indicates.
Decided despite herself, she opens the door. "Hi Harvey."
One glance tells her enough. How he worked late (the slightly tired and glassy-eyed look he gets when he's poured over documents late into the night), how he went home (his tie a bit too loose like he'd taken it off and then put it back on, and shirt wrinkled from the couch), and how he's missed her (the way his eyes hold hers just a touch too long).
"Donna." His voice is calm, detached in that way of his she knows well.
"It's extremely late," she notes.
He has the decency to look somewhat abashed before he shrugs. "You could have answered my calls."
It's her turn to return the gesture. "I was very busy."
She leaves him there and heads to the kitchen, trusts he'll follow, and grabs two glasses while he selects a wine. He meets her at the counter and she gets a look at the bottle - the Brunello.
It catches her by surprise and her mouth goes dry. She can feel Harvey watching her closely, and tries to school her reaction.
She hasn't thought about the Brunello in awhile - buried in the depths of her wine cooler for years - but she remembers the taste; it is the wine to which all others are compared and fail. Her first and only trip to Italy with Harvey, and that bottle they'd brought back was still around. He had been so serious about it - only when I say so - damn the man.
She turns to face him and hands him the wine opener. "You do the honors."
There's something in his expression - a suppressed smile maybe - but he's standing too close and the lighting makes it difficult to read him accurately. Then it's gone, the bottle open and a glass in her hand.
The first sip is in silence, and memories flood as the wine hits her tongue - cherry, the wood furniture in the suite, vanilla, the slip of silk and lace, blackberry, sweet and tart mixed in a kiss - the exquisitely smooth finish is just how she remembers. She closes her eyes against the past.
Beside her, Harvey clears his throat. "I fired the temp today."
"I heard."
He turns to her in surprise. "Did Rachel tell you?"
"Louis, actually."
"Louis?"
She smiles. "He left a message. Something about an over-eager, people-pleaser?"
"He had flowers," Harvey says in a tone caught somewhere between shock, embarrassment, and offense. She can't help but laugh at that.
"In two days he's made a complete mess of my calendar," he adds disgustedly. "I accidentally ended up on a call with Peter of Franklin-
"Franklin Cohen & Bach, yes," she interrupts.
"Exactly, and you know what that means. Even the filing system is now alphabetical. Alphabetical! For Christ's sake."
He stands there for a moment looking at the wine on the counter, and it pains her to see him this way - her doing, no matter the reasons. Then he slides past her to the living room, his hand ghosting against her back as he passes.
She follows with the bottle and joins him on the couch. It's incredibly quiet, the city asleep, and she's haunted by the remembered flavors of Tuscany in her mouth.
"I gambled with a company yesterday." He sounds angry, but she's not sure if it's directed at himself, or her.
"I heard."
He smirks. "Louis?"
"Rachel."
He tops off their glasses, and stares at the label, the bottle twisting slowly in his hands.
"I don't have a plan," he states softly to her.
"Harvey. Hey," she says and waits for him to look at her. "I know that, and it's okay."
"Damn it, Donna. It's not okay. What are you going to do? What am I supposed to do?"
She doesn't have the answers he wants, and knows he's not really asking. She watches as he sips at his wine - the scene so familiar it actually catches at her breath.
She points to the side table to her right. "I've picked up knitting."
He glances over. "A sock?"
"A hat," she corrects. "I think."
"A hat," he repeats, and she can hear the amusement behind his words. "I need to see this."
He's suddenly leaning over and across, body pressing into hers as he grabs the half finished knitting project from the end table. She gives him a look, and his quick smile isn't even remotely apologetic.
"Well, you weren't helping," he explains with a practiced innocence.
It's when he attempts to put it back that the humor respite fades, and she's aware of the beating of her heart flickering rapidly where his body touches hers. He stops moving back, stills against her, and she closes her eyes as his lips graze the skin at her shoulder.
The years ripple and blur, and she feels his mouth hot at her neck, fingers tracing patterns on the inside of her thigh.
The Brunello was many things - a past and a promise - and though it was mostly just a memory, it was their toast to change.
She meets his eyes, his face so close and his hands teasing the bare areas of her skin.
"I'll fix your calendar," she says, liking the way he watches her mouth.
He smiles quizzically.
"Remote access."
This earns her a pinch to the side, but her hands have been busy too, and she removes his tie, sneaks hands past his now unbuttoned shirt to slide them along his chest to his shoulders and help him shrug out of it.
When he goes to kiss her, she pulls back slightly. "I'm not finished."
"Donna." His mouth is so close she can feel his lips moving ever so lightly against hers.
"I'll fix your calendar," she repeats, "but no more firing temps."
Harvey frowns.
She captures his leg with hers, arches just enough that she shifts beneath him, pressing them much closer. The contact sends her blood rushing and Harvey's hand tightens painfully on her hip.
"There's no one else I want," he says, voice almost a groan.
She kisses him then, savoring the moment though she's long past saving. It's slow but urgent, demanding - lips, tongue and teeth with the Brunello flavoring everything between, and his hand splayed over her collarbone.
He sits back, pulls her to him and settles her in his lap as she swings a leg over his. His hands play at her hips, thumbs slowly circling the skin at her waist.
"I'll fix this." He is so serious and determined.
"Harvey." She touches the side of his face gently. "Don't promise what we both know you can't deliver."
He looks frustrated, helpless. "So what now? I'm forced to hire someone else, and you, you're what - knitting?"
"You have a winter hat to look forward to."
"Donna, I'm serious." He kneads strong fingers into the muscles of her lower back. "I can't just move on."
"You do when we're talking about evidence tampering."
"They can't prove you were in possession of something that won't turn up," he says, but he looks pained.
"And any lawyer worth a damn will rip that apart and Hardman will still have you over the fire." She hates that what she's done has hurt him, more now than ever before - regrets on the surface sharp and many. "Look, you're Harvey Specter at Pearson Hardman - there are a hundred and one assistants out there just waiting for the job."
She takes a breath to gain control of her voice before it betrays her. "You don't lose, Harvey."
He thinks it through and she watches as something occurs to him, the way he freezes as it plays out in his mind.
"Harvey..." She knows his looks, and this one is trouble.
He comes back to reality, and she can tell by the way he moves his hands to her stomach - fingertips touching her ribs and brushing the undersides of her breasts - that he's thought up something indeed.
"Oh you're not going to like it at all," he tells her.
"Harvey, what are you pla-"
He cuts her off with a kiss - one definitely more playful and teasing than before. He draws her tank top over arms she raises obligingly, his hands catching at the band in her hair, loosing it and letting her hair drop and tumble down her back as her shirt hits the floor. Harvey's looking at her in a way she had forgotten - awe and desire along with a possessiveness that brings a smile to her face.
"Do I even want to know?" she asks.
He shakes his head, but he's smiling.
"Just... don't do anything foolish, Harvey."
"I can't promise that," he admits, and she knows that's true enough.
She reaches for her wine, Harvey watching her drink, his hands full with her breasts. She leans down to kiss him, the Brunello rich and velvety.
"And tonight?" She remembers this question from Tuscany, although it was the other way around and so many years ago.
His fingers are knotted in her hair, and he gives it a little tug. "You're not going anywhere."
-Fin