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Suits Fic Bits: Donna/Harvey Fic-A-Thon - tranquility... best achieved in chaos
Suits Fic Bits: Donna/Harvey Fic-A-Thon
Just collecting the fic bits from the first donna_harvey Fic-A-Thon:

Prompt: Everything around us was once deemed impossible.

She likes to remind him of their first month together - how it was anything but harmonious and uncomplicated. How he tried to fire her twice though he didn't have the authority; how she cut up that godawful Burberry tie he loved; how he railed against her filing system because she didn't use it with the other associates; or, how she pocketed an easy $100 for guessing his password in a single try.

She reminds him that he called her impossible. He won't deny it, although he'll say some things don't change even if they both know that the word's meaning has.

And from time to time, every few years or so, he'll bring up that first solo case, the one where he drew the short straw and spent the rest of the day only responding to questions in terse one or two word answers. He'll say something about those late nights they put in - how they ate takeout Thai for three dinners in a row and washed it down with cheap American beer, or how she was the only one in the office to put down money on a win.

He won't say thank you because that's not how they've ever worked. But he'll talk about the champagne she bought with the winnings, how he said maybe you'll do and she'd rolled her eyes and taught him a thing or two about flattery.

So when he passes by her desk, says thirteen years today like it's a comment about the weather, she knows everything he means by it - thirteen years of insight and too many memories to even remember them all anymore. But she just says, you're lucky I still put up with you and hands him his messages.

And later, at some point in the day, he'll fire her for being impossible, and she'll ignore it like she hasn't even heard him. Just for old times' sake.


Prompt: Hold on, to me as we go / As we roll down this unfamiliar road

"If I leave," he says, and stops. It's meant to turn into a question, but betrayal bites at his tongue because he's indebted to Cameron and there are lines he's not going to cross.

"When you leave," she corrects like it's a sure thing, and he tries to ignore the flare of anger that ignites. They've been over this before - maybe only a few times over the last month, but each argument is verbal warfare where honesty is a lethal weapon; they both know too well how to make the other bleed.

"Not really my point," he says before they go down that familiar path.

She looks at him sternly, but he thinks there's some sympathy there too this time. "You have to decide eventually, Harvey."

He doesn't answer because she's right, of course, and has been since long before he even caught on to the corruption. It's impossible to ignore now - the way it mars Cameron's judgement, pervades the entirety of the DA's office.

"He'll win," she adds in his silence, "if you try to fix this case."

And he had been planning that very thing, so the comment stings just like he expects she meant it to. He shakes his head in frustration. "So I just walk away?"

She looks at him curiously, and then shrugs. "Only one other option."

"I'm not reporting him," he says with finality. There are very few definites in his life, but of those he will defend adamantly - he owes Cameron that much.

He waits for her why the hell not or the sarcastic your loyalty is admirable barbs she's taken to using. Now that they've ventured down this road again anyway, he knows what to expect.

"You'll need me," she tells him, and it's not even close to something he was anticipating she'd say.

He blinks. "What?"

"You'll need me," she repeats, straightforward. "If you leave."

It isn't even a question in his mind, and he briefly wonders if he should feel guilty that he'd simply assumed. His every day consists of her, so ingrained he forgot it's the both of them making this decision.

"So," he says. "When we leave."

"Champagne?" she asks, and glances at her watch casually.


Prompt: What are we waiting for? Why don't we break the rules already?

They’re sober, so that surprises him.

He never really wondered all that often – at first because it seemed inappropriate, and later because everything about the way they were was too familiar – but add up the thoughts across thirteen years and unexpectedly it was actually a lot of times, a legitimate fantasy. But no matter how he might have imagined the press of her lips or how her tongue would glide over his, it was always infused with the peppery finish from a Carmenere, or a smooth smokiness from a single malt whiskey, or even with the faint spicy kick that would linger from his bourbon.

He supposes he always assumed they’d need the excuse. Or something like liquid courage.

But after thirteen years, maybe reasons and bravery and all those hows and whys are irrelevant. It’s simply because it suddenly feels like the most natural thing in the world.

He lacks words in the moment, so that’s another surprise. Too full of everything he wants to articulate – so many, so very many words available to him, and he tries to gather them up, put them in order like a well laid out argument, but he’s never truly realized the impossibility of words before. That there are too many that mean exactly the same thing, and not enough for thank you or love.

And he doesn’t say those either, of course. All his words sound like feelings, and he doesn’t want to know why - just wants to kiss her.

So he does, and then he’s thankfully back in recognizable territory. Her kiss in return is softer than he expected – thirteen years building up a lot of tension in his mind – but, her mouth opens to his as he’d hoped, her quiet moan rolling over his tongue as her hands catch at his jacket.

The kiss is painfully short, more a promise than a finish, but they’re standing in the middle of his office after all.

“I always thought-,” she starts, trails off.

“Alcohol?” he guesses.


And apparently it surprises them both. Then he thinks about what that means.

“So. You thought about…?” He leaves it vague, tries not to be curious because it really doesn't matter.

“What?” she asks, looking at him knowingly, an eyebrow rising. “Breaking the rules? Crossing the line?”

He smirks. Thirteen years and he knew better than to ask that question. “Forget it.”

“We should talk about this,” she says, teasing. “Are you having feelings?”

He sighs because this is what he puts up with, and he really should have seen it coming. He points to the door. “Out.”

She leaves him with a saucy wink, and that exit is pretty much right on the money.


Prompt: Insomnia.

The text pings quietly, a brief incoming tone that interrupts the silence. He doesn't bother to wonder who it's from - no matter what setting he gives the phone, unless he powers it off fully or removes the damn battery, she's had some sort of exclusive override profile set up on his phone for years. Her doing, of course.

That she knows he's awake is no surprise - he's well aware his insomnia is predictable right now, loss and grief still keeping close company beside him in the early morning hours when time slows down and thoughts catch up. The how she knows is easy, but it's been over three weeks since the funeral, two cases closed and Hardman removed since, so he does wonder why right now.

He reaches for the phone on the nightstand, looks at the message.

a philly cheesesteak

At first he doesn't get it - is momentarily puzzled and amused by her 3am thoughts - and then comprehension arrives from out of nowhere, hits him like a punch in the gut. The memory isn't one he's thought about in decades and he knows he has never shared the story with anyone. How she knows these details about his life is almost frightening, like he's an open book available for anyone to read.

The phone chimes again and this time he's wary.

he said to ask

He should have known, and he stares at the ceiling in the dark, shakes his head. She always had gotten on extremely well with his dad - probably amassing a database of childhood secrets and stories over the years - no doubt contributed to willingly by Gordon. Even the things he tries to hide she almost always figures out.

i was about seven, he writes, and thinks about that late night at the bar with the soft music playing in the background, a sip of beer in his belly, feeling for the first time like a man. dad was trading stories with the guys. said, only three things you need in life, son. baseball, jazz, and...

He smiles, remembers the moment clearly now - the way he'd been so eager for the knowledge, wanting so badly to live up to expectation.

and I looked down at the sandwich in front of me and said, a philly cheesesteak?

The guys had laughed, teased Gordon mercilessly for that one. Is that what you call her? But those remarks had all been over his seven-year old head then, and he remembers the pats on the back, how he'd grinned with pride for a week.

dad just looks at me with a big smile and says, you got it, kid. nothing quite like the love of a philly cheesesteak.

The memory is fond - not bittersweet or painful the way he expected it would be. It's a surprising relief - one of the best memories, nearly forgotten, but just as meaningful.

He waits for a response, but it's a long time coming - minutes ticking by as his eyes get heavy, and he's starting to wonder if she's fallen asleep when his phone pings again.

smart man

He knows Gordon had built a special relationship with her - their phone calls during baseball season alone were long discussions and arguments and game recaps that he could hear from his office. So he knows there's a reason his dad left that story in a message to her.

why now, he asks, doesn't elaborate because he knows she'll understand.

It doesn't take long this time, the response quick.

i was hungry

He falls asleep laughing.


Prompt: I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.

He meets her in Cabo at some dive bar off Lázaro Cárdenas when he’s three sheets to the wind and blowing a whistle. It’s not a proud moment, and shortly after she cuts him off for the night with seltzer water (no ice), although she lets him keep the whistle.

“Use it to call a cab,” she suggests, and he’s captivated by her sideways smile and the way her red hair is dark auburn in the light, pulled into a rough ponytail with loose strands curly and sticking to her face and neck in the heat.

He wants to say something intelligent, but law terminology defaults in his liquor haze, and instead he ends up saying something like, the defendant has no history of alcohol abuse. It’s obviously not his finest hour, but it earns him a laugh, and he’d happily quote everything he knows about the law back to her for the rest of the night if she’d let him.

Instead, she leans over the bar, presses a bruising kiss to his mouth – a moment so perfect, he still has his eyes closed when she whispers in his ear.

“If you can remember this in forty minutes,” she says, her voice liquid warmth, “come find me when my shift’s over.”

He knows, knows he holds out for at least half the time – remembers making note of the hour on his watch, refusing to leave the bar to pee until his bladder forced him under no uncertain terms to the bathroom, begging someone to remind him later about something…

He wakes at the hotel with one shoe on, a nasty hangover and a flurry of dreams that don’t make any sense, and the imprint of a whistle pressed deep in his cheek.


Prompt: your eyes shine even in the smoke

It was dusk, closer to evening than twilight, the city steel-grey as if the night's rain had washed the color away. Inside the bar, piano music played, a mournful jazz number that sounded like summer's swan song. I drank while I listened, but the brandy in front of me was poor company. It was the kind of bleak end to a day that usually brought trouble.

The bar was dim owing to the cigarette smoke and burnt out light near the door, but the moment I laid eyes on her, she had my complete attention. She was all legs, a redheaded knockout in a slim black dress that accentuated her curves. Her lips were pressed together determinedly as if she held a secret in check. It made her look regal. There’d been a fair share of women in my bed through the years, but I was willing to bet she was in a league of her own.

She made her way to the bar paying no mind to the stares. I could count on one hand the number of dames who'd passed through the joint, and none could lay claim to her beauty. Everything thing about her was pleasing to the eye.

I inclined my head when she stopped beside me. She looked distressed, and experience told me it wasn't anything as simple as worry over a husband keeping some side company. There was always more to the story if it came in on a set of legs like hers.

"Your drink?" I said, and waived Mikey over to help her. The bar wasn't more than half full, but even Mikey was likely to forget some manners given the novelty of the situation.

"Whiskey, neat."

I admired the choice. A whiskey drinking woman was hard to find.

Mikey poured her drink without a word. I looked at her hand around the glass, fingers long and slender, as pale as porcelain. They didn't tremble. With looks like hers and no ring on her finger, she was turning out to be a bona fide mystery, and god help me, I was interested.

She turned her head a little and looked at me. It was a steady level look. I got the sense I was being evaluated.

"What's your drink?" she asked.

"I own the bar, sweetheart. They're all my drink."

"In that case," she said, and emptied the glass with a slight grimace as she swallowed, "you can buy me another."

She had spirit, I liked that. I nodded at Mikey to refill her glass.

"I know who you are, Mr. Specter. Your reputation precedes you," she said.

I wasn't surprised. She looked like the kind of woman who knew how to be resourceful. She looked like a woman with knowledge.

"I've retired from that business," I said.

"I'll make it worth your while." She slid an envelope to me. It was unmarked and thin. "I've been accused of evidence tampering, a missing memo on a high profile case. It's a cover-up, and innocent people's livelihoods are on the line. I've gathered evidence, but I need a closer, Mr. Specter."

"Closers are a dime a dozen in this town."

"I want the best."

She was steadfast, her brows pulled together with serious focus. It was exceedingly attractive. I opened the envelope. Inside was a crisp sheet of paper, a resume.

"This isn't my usual fee," I said drolly.

"You'll need an assistant."

"For one case?"

She declined to answer.

Her resume was impeccable. Three of the city's top firms were listed, and it was no surprise that her recent predicament stemmed while under employment with Daniel Hardman. I knew from unfortunate acquaintance there were few tactics Hardman considered off limits.

"I work alone," I told her.

She smiled, a corner of her mouth curled upward. "Maybe that's been the problem."

Her breadth of knowledge was truly impressive. I'd buried the past well when I left Dennis Cameron behind. Or so I had thought.

I finished off my brandy, thinking. I knew I was courting disaster even entertaining the idea of taking her case, but I was already caught up in the challenge. A fight with Hardman could get the blood boiling.

She must have read my expression because she held out a hand. "I won't take no for an answer."

I had a feeling this was true.

"This is a temporary arrangement, Ms. Paulsen," I said to remind her. Her hand was warm and confident in mine, her skin smooth as silk.

"Come now, Mr. Specter." She smiled with an air of playfulness. "We should be honest with one another, should we not?"

And right then I knew I was in trouble.

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