Suits Fic: Gravity
Title: Gravity
Rating: PG
Category: Donna Paulsen/Harvey Specter.
Spoilers: None.
Warnings: Character death.
Disclaimer: Owned by others.
Author's Note: For the donna_harvey comment fic-a-thon in response to enemeriad's prompt that Donna dies and Harvey realises what an ass he was/falls in love with her. (And I don't know what you've done, missy, but your angst is obviously contagious).
==
He regrets a lot of things in the end once it's too late for change and the weeks following have bled into months that end up the same in their dull monotony.
The case though, that's an easy win. It feels like a mockery the two days he spends in court - so many years of life and friendship, and nothing of who she was even matters. It's how she died, not why, and he paints broad swaths of irrefutable guilt with all of his anger like it's some kind of emotional substitute. He wins, and no one is surprised.
Outside the courthouse, Donna's mother stands by his side, her hand finding his. She waits quietly for the car as his fist loosens in her grasp and he marvels at her calm strength. So much of Donna came from her, and he thinks she probably knows, and is proud.
"What's next?" she asks, and it takes him a long minute to realize she's not asking for herself.
His gaze settles on the building across the way. "More of the same."
"The best closer in the city?" she says with a fond smile.
Those memories feel forever ago. "Not anymore."
Her hand briefly tightens on his. He glances at her and is stunned by how familiar he is with the expression on her face - it's something straight out of Donna's arsenal.
"Well, Harvey," she remarks matter-of-factly. "You better get on that."
--
Donna's will is simple as though all the complications and nuances and layers to her stop mattering in death. He stays angrier longer than he should, like it's her fault it's all she left behind.
But finally he stops reading it as a whole, gives up trying to fit the paragraphs together into a familiarity he craves. She leaves him the can opener - it's one sentence for an object that goes back to the very beginning. And her explanation is simple: I have a feeling you'll need it.
There's a joke built into the message.
It took only one win for the can opener to become a ritual, and superstitions naturally cropped up after. This many years later, he doesn't remember exactly how it had come about, or really who was even the first to plant the seed, but they'd spent that moment on without can openers in their kitchens. At the time it had made sense to avoid using a can opener for its original purpose lest they jinx the whole thing. So until pop-top lids came around, they'd each devised a couple of semi-ingenious tricks to open canned goods - the spoon being Donna's particular favorite.
It's bittersweet - the memory and the reality. It's not a ritual without her, but he can't bring himself to take the can opener home. He puts it in a drawer at his desk - tries not to lose time to the past each time he sees it.
--
He drinks too much for a while. There's nothing enjoyable in it, only oblivion, and he returns too quickly to awareness with sour bile at the back of his throat and leftover memories of stark nightmares that have no meaning.
It's Louis, oddly, that makes a difference. He shows up at Harvey's office door, long after the floor has shut down for the night, with a 25-year old bottle of Macallan in hand.
"In Donna's honor," Louis offers. And Harvey surprises himself by not turning Louis away, feels Donna watching him through the glass from a desk that's no longer hers.
Together they get drunk off scotch with Charlie Parker on the sax for company, and reminisce over the years they've shared. It's comfortable, more laughs than sorrow, and it's a moment Harvey could never have imagined sharing with Louis previously.
Conversation veers toward Donna on occasion, but quiet wins each round. So they speak only in abstracts.
"I'd have done things differently," Louis says to himself at some point, and it hits Harvey like a bullet. The comment wasn't meant for him, but it feels wildly appropriate. Despite their history, despite everything, he can't help but feel like somehow he let Donna down. It gnaws at him constantly, the sense that she was disappointed with him in the end, that she had expected more.
"I tried-, Harvey starts, but it already sounds like a lie, and nothing else comes out.
--
Donna's mother sounds strong on the phone, broken only in ways too deep for most to comprehend.
"You have to stop being angry with her," she says, but it's gentle. There's so much of Donna in her it's both comforting and painful.
"I'm not sure I want to," he admits. He's not sure he even knows how.
"Oh Harvey," she says softly and he can almost see her sad smile. "Letting go of anger isn't synonymous with letting go of her."
Logically he knows this, but it still feels like an impossibility. "I think I owe it to her."
It sounds completely inane. But then he hears her laugh, and it's kind and knowing and eases the tightness in his chest.
"Donna always said you were noble," she tells him.
He smiles at that.
--
It takes another month, but he comes to the realization on his own. He figures it was about time.
"I'm in love with her," he tells Louis, the revelation finally declared.
Louis just blinks, and waits as though there's more to come.
--
He knows she knew.
It wouldn't surprise him if she'd known for years. He never once doubted she could keep his confidence.
Perhaps he should have been more specific.
-Fin
Rating: PG
Category: Donna Paulsen/Harvey Specter.
Spoilers: None.
Warnings: Character death.
Disclaimer: Owned by others.
Author's Note: For the donna_harvey comment fic-a-thon in response to enemeriad's prompt that Donna dies and Harvey realises what an ass he was/falls in love with her. (And I don't know what you've done, missy, but your angst is obviously contagious).
==
He regrets a lot of things in the end once it's too late for change and the weeks following have bled into months that end up the same in their dull monotony.
The case though, that's an easy win. It feels like a mockery the two days he spends in court - so many years of life and friendship, and nothing of who she was even matters. It's how she died, not why, and he paints broad swaths of irrefutable guilt with all of his anger like it's some kind of emotional substitute. He wins, and no one is surprised.
Outside the courthouse, Donna's mother stands by his side, her hand finding his. She waits quietly for the car as his fist loosens in her grasp and he marvels at her calm strength. So much of Donna came from her, and he thinks she probably knows, and is proud.
"What's next?" she asks, and it takes him a long minute to realize she's not asking for herself.
His gaze settles on the building across the way. "More of the same."
"The best closer in the city?" she says with a fond smile.
Those memories feel forever ago. "Not anymore."
Her hand briefly tightens on his. He glances at her and is stunned by how familiar he is with the expression on her face - it's something straight out of Donna's arsenal.
"Well, Harvey," she remarks matter-of-factly. "You better get on that."
--
Donna's will is simple as though all the complications and nuances and layers to her stop mattering in death. He stays angrier longer than he should, like it's her fault it's all she left behind.
But finally he stops reading it as a whole, gives up trying to fit the paragraphs together into a familiarity he craves. She leaves him the can opener - it's one sentence for an object that goes back to the very beginning. And her explanation is simple: I have a feeling you'll need it.
There's a joke built into the message.
It took only one win for the can opener to become a ritual, and superstitions naturally cropped up after. This many years later, he doesn't remember exactly how it had come about, or really who was even the first to plant the seed, but they'd spent that moment on without can openers in their kitchens. At the time it had made sense to avoid using a can opener for its original purpose lest they jinx the whole thing. So until pop-top lids came around, they'd each devised a couple of semi-ingenious tricks to open canned goods - the spoon being Donna's particular favorite.
It's bittersweet - the memory and the reality. It's not a ritual without her, but he can't bring himself to take the can opener home. He puts it in a drawer at his desk - tries not to lose time to the past each time he sees it.
--
He drinks too much for a while. There's nothing enjoyable in it, only oblivion, and he returns too quickly to awareness with sour bile at the back of his throat and leftover memories of stark nightmares that have no meaning.
It's Louis, oddly, that makes a difference. He shows up at Harvey's office door, long after the floor has shut down for the night, with a 25-year old bottle of Macallan in hand.
"In Donna's honor," Louis offers. And Harvey surprises himself by not turning Louis away, feels Donna watching him through the glass from a desk that's no longer hers.
Together they get drunk off scotch with Charlie Parker on the sax for company, and reminisce over the years they've shared. It's comfortable, more laughs than sorrow, and it's a moment Harvey could never have imagined sharing with Louis previously.
Conversation veers toward Donna on occasion, but quiet wins each round. So they speak only in abstracts.
"I'd have done things differently," Louis says to himself at some point, and it hits Harvey like a bullet. The comment wasn't meant for him, but it feels wildly appropriate. Despite their history, despite everything, he can't help but feel like somehow he let Donna down. It gnaws at him constantly, the sense that she was disappointed with him in the end, that she had expected more.
"I tried-, Harvey starts, but it already sounds like a lie, and nothing else comes out.
--
Donna's mother sounds strong on the phone, broken only in ways too deep for most to comprehend.
"You have to stop being angry with her," she says, but it's gentle. There's so much of Donna in her it's both comforting and painful.
"I'm not sure I want to," he admits. He's not sure he even knows how.
"Oh Harvey," she says softly and he can almost see her sad smile. "Letting go of anger isn't synonymous with letting go of her."
Logically he knows this, but it still feels like an impossibility. "I think I owe it to her."
It sounds completely inane. But then he hears her laugh, and it's kind and knowing and eases the tightness in his chest.
"Donna always said you were noble," she tells him.
He smiles at that.
--
It takes another month, but he comes to the realization on his own. He figures it was about time.
"I'm in love with her," he tells Louis, the revelation finally declared.
Louis just blinks, and waits as though there's more to come.
--
He knows she knew.
It wouldn't surprise him if she'd known for years. He never once doubted she could keep his confidence.
Perhaps he should have been more specific.
-Fin