Anniversary
Title: Anniversary
Rating: PG
Characters: Harvey/Donna (Suits)
Summary: She thinks about crying, but starts to laugh instead, looking over at Mike. "Harvey always was terrible with dates."
Author's Note: I haven't written any fic in ages, and I've certainly never written anything from Suits, so we'll see how this goes.
Anniversary
She finds herself remembering their wedding.
It was small, not many people were there, which seemed odd for a man as well-off and well-known as he, but it was small. She seems to remember him saying something about knowing that her family couldn’t afford a big wedding. Not that her family helped pay for it, but he never knew that. She told him that the reason she was in debt was because of college, and the way she behaved in college, but in truth it was the flowers, and the dress, and the catering. Even a small wedding can cost a lot of money.
He refused to see her until she walked down the aisle, even though she wanted to get the pictures done ahead of time. He told the photographer “NO” three times over, and when she poked her head in to his dressing room to try and get him to come take pictures, he screeched and covered his eyes. She gave him shit about it for years, but she never forgot the look on his face when she came down the aisle.
His vows made her cry, and they made her laugh when he promised to “never look at another woman again.” Everyone in the room laughed, because they knew him, but she laughed because she knew him better than anyone, and she knew that he hadn’t looked at another woman in years. He’d been staring at her through a glass wall when he thought she wouldn’t notice but she did; she noticed. ‘Course, she noticed everything.
Her vows were short, much shorter than his, and he made her write them down later. He came home with the three simple phrases tattooed on his upper arm, which was out of character, but seemed to show his growth. “I will always love you. I will always support you. I will always call you on your shit.” The people watching them get married thought she was being funny, but their vows matched who they were. She was short and to-the-point, and though he was too, he was long-winded when he needed to be, and when he wanted to be. He was long-winded when he wanted to make sure she understood how much he loved her.
The reception is a blur; she has always found that, though she remembers his one-time Associate and her friend dancing too close in the corner, and the moment when he tried to shove cake in her face and got a look instead. He plopped the cake that was resting in his palm on the plate next to the cake that their guests were going to eat, and she fumed for a minute until he dotted frosting on her nose and told her to relax. “No one cares but you,” he whispered, “and if they don’t want to eat it, I’ll eat it off of you later.”
She found herself disappointed when the cake was gone by the end of the night.
On the way out to Southampton for the first few nights of their honeymoon, she made him pull off of I-495 so that she could get food, and he chastised her for not eating at the reception. When she told him he would get her food or would sleep in the car, he pulled in to a McDonalds and dragged her inside, resting his head on her shoulder, arms wrapped around her waist from behind while she ordered her usual, still in her wedding dress. When he stole a fry from across the table, she threw a ketchup packet at him.
“You’re going to have to learn to share,” he said, “married people share.”
“Married people share my ass,” she said, shoving three fries into her mouth.
“Sexy,” he laughed, “and actually,” he stood, reaching for her with one hand and picking up her tray with the other, “your ass belongs to me.”
When they arrived in Southampton, he swept her off of her feet and carried her over the threshold and up the stairs, though he nearly dropped her on the way. When they found themselves in the master bedroom, his white shirt on the floor and her stepping out of her dress, he let out a sigh and grinned.
“Mrs. Specter, you are beautiful.”
“Mrs. Specter.”
“Mrs. Specter.”
“Donna,” Rachel’s soft voice brings her back, her old friend sitting across from her and clutching at her hands. “Donna, the doctor is here.”
She looks up, her hair, now turning white-blonde, falling out of her face. “How is he?” She rasps, and Rachel squeezes her hand. Mike is sitting between them, and looks white as a sheet.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Specter, we did everything we could.”
Rachel sucks in a breath and Donna looks over at her, anger flashing across her face. “You’re sorry? He’s barely 60 years old, what could possibly have killed him?”
“If we’d caught the stroke sooner…” Donna pulls away from Rachel, her face saying all the words she can’t. Rachel stands, walking away from the table with the doctor, and Mike reaches for Donna.
“How am I supposed to catch a stroke when my husband is out running in Central Park?” Donna snaps, looking at Mike. “What am I supposed to do, keep tabs on him every second?”
“That’s not what he meant. He just meant…”
“I don’t care.” She stands, gathering her things. “I want to see him.”
“Donna, he’s…”
“I don’t. Care. I want to see him.”
Mike nods and stands, walking her over to the doctor. She walks back to the room with the Ross’, but goes in alone, throwing her bag and jacket on top of Harvey’s feet when the door shuts.
“What is wrong with you? Huh?” She snaps, standing over him. He looks significantly older than he had just two hours before, when he tied his shoes in his standard double knot, kissed her full on the mouth, and promised to return in an hour. “Who dies from a stroke at 60?!” She stares down at him, angry, and then lets out a labored sob, collapsing in the chair next to his bed. “Who dies from a stroke at 60?” She repeats, reaching for his hand. It’s cold and doesn’t feel like him, but she hopes that holding his hand will keep her from throwing herself on top of him.
It’s silent, for how long she isn’t sure, and then she takes a breath and squeezes his hand. “I love you, Harvey Specter. You goddamn son-of-a-bitch.” She inhales sharply and stands, leaning over to press a kiss to his lips. “I will always love you. I will always support you. I will always call you on your shit.” She whispers, brushing hair out of his face. “Don’t you ever forget it.”
She lets Rachel lead her back to their car, lets them drive her home, and lets them come inside. Rachel insists on cooking, so Donna lets her, dragging herself up the stairs to their bedroom. She pulls on one of Harvey’s sweaters and sits down on the edge of the bed, staring at the picture from their wedding on his bedside table; his face covered and hers poking through the dressing room doorway.
“Donna?” Mike comes in to the room, leaning against the dresser. “I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t kill him, Ross.”
“No, but…I’m sorry. That he’s gone and…that it happened today.”
His voice cracks and then she remembers. The reservation they should be getting ready for. The wrapped record she has sitting in the bottom of her underwear drawer. Their anniversary.
She thinks about crying, but starts to laugh instead, looking over at Mike. “Harvey always was terrible with dates.”
Rating: PG
Characters: Harvey/Donna (Suits)
Summary: She thinks about crying, but starts to laugh instead, looking over at Mike. "Harvey always was terrible with dates."
Author's Note: I haven't written any fic in ages, and I've certainly never written anything from Suits, so we'll see how this goes.
Anniversary
She finds herself remembering their wedding.
It was small, not many people were there, which seemed odd for a man as well-off and well-known as he, but it was small. She seems to remember him saying something about knowing that her family couldn’t afford a big wedding. Not that her family helped pay for it, but he never knew that. She told him that the reason she was in debt was because of college, and the way she behaved in college, but in truth it was the flowers, and the dress, and the catering. Even a small wedding can cost a lot of money.
He refused to see her until she walked down the aisle, even though she wanted to get the pictures done ahead of time. He told the photographer “NO” three times over, and when she poked her head in to his dressing room to try and get him to come take pictures, he screeched and covered his eyes. She gave him shit about it for years, but she never forgot the look on his face when she came down the aisle.
His vows made her cry, and they made her laugh when he promised to “never look at another woman again.” Everyone in the room laughed, because they knew him, but she laughed because she knew him better than anyone, and she knew that he hadn’t looked at another woman in years. He’d been staring at her through a glass wall when he thought she wouldn’t notice but she did; she noticed. ‘Course, she noticed everything.
Her vows were short, much shorter than his, and he made her write them down later. He came home with the three simple phrases tattooed on his upper arm, which was out of character, but seemed to show his growth. “I will always love you. I will always support you. I will always call you on your shit.” The people watching them get married thought she was being funny, but their vows matched who they were. She was short and to-the-point, and though he was too, he was long-winded when he needed to be, and when he wanted to be. He was long-winded when he wanted to make sure she understood how much he loved her.
The reception is a blur; she has always found that, though she remembers his one-time Associate and her friend dancing too close in the corner, and the moment when he tried to shove cake in her face and got a look instead. He plopped the cake that was resting in his palm on the plate next to the cake that their guests were going to eat, and she fumed for a minute until he dotted frosting on her nose and told her to relax. “No one cares but you,” he whispered, “and if they don’t want to eat it, I’ll eat it off of you later.”
She found herself disappointed when the cake was gone by the end of the night.
On the way out to Southampton for the first few nights of their honeymoon, she made him pull off of I-495 so that she could get food, and he chastised her for not eating at the reception. When she told him he would get her food or would sleep in the car, he pulled in to a McDonalds and dragged her inside, resting his head on her shoulder, arms wrapped around her waist from behind while she ordered her usual, still in her wedding dress. When he stole a fry from across the table, she threw a ketchup packet at him.
“You’re going to have to learn to share,” he said, “married people share.”
“Married people share my ass,” she said, shoving three fries into her mouth.
“Sexy,” he laughed, “and actually,” he stood, reaching for her with one hand and picking up her tray with the other, “your ass belongs to me.”
When they arrived in Southampton, he swept her off of her feet and carried her over the threshold and up the stairs, though he nearly dropped her on the way. When they found themselves in the master bedroom, his white shirt on the floor and her stepping out of her dress, he let out a sigh and grinned.
“Mrs. Specter, you are beautiful.”
“Mrs. Specter.”
“Mrs. Specter.”
“Donna,” Rachel’s soft voice brings her back, her old friend sitting across from her and clutching at her hands. “Donna, the doctor is here.”
She looks up, her hair, now turning white-blonde, falling out of her face. “How is he?” She rasps, and Rachel squeezes her hand. Mike is sitting between them, and looks white as a sheet.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Specter, we did everything we could.”
Rachel sucks in a breath and Donna looks over at her, anger flashing across her face. “You’re sorry? He’s barely 60 years old, what could possibly have killed him?”
“If we’d caught the stroke sooner…” Donna pulls away from Rachel, her face saying all the words she can’t. Rachel stands, walking away from the table with the doctor, and Mike reaches for Donna.
“How am I supposed to catch a stroke when my husband is out running in Central Park?” Donna snaps, looking at Mike. “What am I supposed to do, keep tabs on him every second?”
“That’s not what he meant. He just meant…”
“I don’t care.” She stands, gathering her things. “I want to see him.”
“Donna, he’s…”
“I don’t. Care. I want to see him.”
Mike nods and stands, walking her over to the doctor. She walks back to the room with the Ross’, but goes in alone, throwing her bag and jacket on top of Harvey’s feet when the door shuts.
“What is wrong with you? Huh?” She snaps, standing over him. He looks significantly older than he had just two hours before, when he tied his shoes in his standard double knot, kissed her full on the mouth, and promised to return in an hour. “Who dies from a stroke at 60?!” She stares down at him, angry, and then lets out a labored sob, collapsing in the chair next to his bed. “Who dies from a stroke at 60?” She repeats, reaching for his hand. It’s cold and doesn’t feel like him, but she hopes that holding his hand will keep her from throwing herself on top of him.
It’s silent, for how long she isn’t sure, and then she takes a breath and squeezes his hand. “I love you, Harvey Specter. You goddamn son-of-a-bitch.” She inhales sharply and stands, leaning over to press a kiss to his lips. “I will always love you. I will always support you. I will always call you on your shit.” She whispers, brushing hair out of his face. “Don’t you ever forget it.”
She lets Rachel lead her back to their car, lets them drive her home, and lets them come inside. Rachel insists on cooking, so Donna lets her, dragging herself up the stairs to their bedroom. She pulls on one of Harvey’s sweaters and sits down on the edge of the bed, staring at the picture from their wedding on his bedside table; his face covered and hers poking through the dressing room doorway.
“Donna?” Mike comes in to the room, leaning against the dresser. “I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t kill him, Ross.”
“No, but…I’m sorry. That he’s gone and…that it happened today.”
His voice cracks and then she remembers. The reservation they should be getting ready for. The wrapped record she has sitting in the bottom of her underwear drawer. Their anniversary.
She thinks about crying, but starts to laugh instead, looking over at Mike. “Harvey always was terrible with dates.”