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abvjTitle: It Takes a Fool
Summary: Rachel and Donna drink wine, watch Mad Men and commiserate over the men in their lives.
Rating: pg
Author's Notes: 1,333 words. Set after the events of Sucker Punch. As always: con-crit is both welcome and appreciated. All mistakes are mine. These characters, however, are not.
Rachel shows up the night after the trial run, all sheepish smiles and slight hesitation when Donna pulls the door open angrily without checking to see who it is. She is half-expecting Harvey, already has her diatribe memorized and ready to go, the words burning for release as they catch in her throat. But it isn’t Harvey and both the relief and disappointment at that fact intermingle and linger somewhere deep. She ignores it; buries it. Her attorney said she shouldn’t have contact with anyone at the firm until this whole mess is settled, but Donna is so sick and tired of all the goddamn lawyers telling her what to do and what to say, and Rachel isn’t a lawyer, not yet, so Donna just smiles tightly and opens the door wider for her to come in.
“I brought reinforcements,” Rachel grins, holding up a pizza box and a bottle of Donna’s favorite wine – a local merlot from upstate that always leaves red stains on her teeth.
Heading to the kitchen, Donna grabs two glasses and some plates while Rachel struggles with the cork for a few minutes before it finally pops. They fill their glasses a little too high, both of them already giggling a little when the liquid threatens to slosh over the edge as they drink. Conspiratorially, they clink their glasses together, toasting to good wine and better friends, and Donna finds herself thankful for Rachel’s presence in a way she can’t seem to put into words.
They don’t talk about the trial. They don’t talk about work. They don’t talk about the law or Pearson Hardman. They do talk about sixties fashion as Mad Men plays out on the screen of Donna’s TV, and discuss at length how more people should appreciate Betty Draper Francis and whether or not they love Don Draper for being a magnificent bastard or in spite of it. They don’t talk about Mike or Harvey until they do. Until Donna catches sight of Rachel out of the corner of her eye as she checks and re-checks the phone clutched in her left hand, sighing a little every time the blank screen just stares up at her in response.
There is an unspoiled innocence in Rachel that Donna feels a fierce need to protect, that makes her want to warn Rachel against men like Mike and Harvey.
“The thing with guys like them,” Donna finds herself saying when they’ve finished one bottle of wine and are steadily working their way through another. She fills her glass too high again, and this time the liquid does spill over, splattering like blood against the fabric of her white couch. “Guys like them – they build you up. And you give and you give and they take and they take until…” she pauses, trailing off because it’s unfair, really, lumping Mike in with Harvey, because they are two completely separate animals.
Similar, but separate, and the anger over this entire situation, the anger at Harvey still presses into her skin and lingers, and Donna doesn’t like to act when she’s angry. Nothing good ever comes of it – she knows from firsthand experience.
But Rachel knows the words Donna has left unsaid, is always one step further ahead than most people suspect. “There’s nothing left?” she supplies. She pushes her glasses up her nose with the hand that isn’t curled around the crystal wineglasses, the ones Harvey’s corporate card paid for in lieu of a housewarming present two apartments ago. She is careful not to look at Donna.
Letting out a whoosh of air, Donna’s lips curl around the rim of her glass. “Yeah,” is all she says.
There is a stretch of silence, the TV playing softly in the background, before Rachel murmurs, “I’m sorry about today.”
The words come out in a rush, like she’s been holding them in, choosing the right moment to unload them, and Donna suspects there may be some truth to that.
With an adamant shake of her head, Donna says, “It’s not your fault.”
“Louis –”
“It’s not his fault, either.” As an afterthought, Donna adds, “Even though I am definitely inclined to let him think otherwise.”
Rachel gives her a tight smile, and Donna knows her friend is placing the blame solely on Harvey’s shoulders. It’s not entirely fair, not at all that easy, but Donna doesn’t stop her, doesn’t try to persuade her otherwise. It’s complicated and it’s messy, and it is mostly her own fault, but she will never apologize for what she did. Not to Rachel, not to Harvey, not to anyone. She has been protecting Harvey for so long now that it’s something akin to second nature, but admitting that aloud leaves open the opportunity to question the why.
The truths that single question would bring about are ones she isn’t ready to face. Not today. Not alone.
“You do, don’t you?” Rachel asks very carefully, after a long stretch of silence.
There is no accusation, no maliciousness intended within her words, and if Rachel were anyone else, Donna may have found it irritating, would have smiled thinly and murmured you don’t have a right to ask me that with just the perfect amount of bite to her tone. But they have a friendship that has spanned half of a decade. They have seen each other through break-ups and losses and Donna’s shoulder had been the one that Rachel cried on the first and second time she failed her LSATs and Rachel had been the one to bring sushi and liquor when Donna’s last boyfriend moved out two weeks before Christmas.
So the question lingers between them, and for a moment Donna starts to believe that maybe, just maybe, if she does say it, if she does admit there is something between her and Harvey that transcends normal and friendship and the boundaries they’ve tried so incredibly hard to define and maintain, the tightness in her chest would lessen just slightly. But then she remembers things in spurts and gasps – the memories of their beginning now hazy, the edges blurred by time. Donna remembers all too clearly how handsome and arrogant and cocky and unbelievably sure of himself he was, more so than any person she had ever met. She remembers how, even when he had no right, he demanded the attention of every single person within a room upon entering it. Harvey was who he was without any shame or reservation and has never once tried to apologize for it.
It is one of the many things they have in common.
In all the years she has known him, he hasn’t changed one bit. Not for her, not for himself, not for anyone. Donna has spent an inordinate amount of time trying to figure out if she should hate him for it, or if she should be thankful that he is the one unyielding constant in her life.
“I – there was a time…” Donna starts, then stops herself immediately thereafter. The laughter that catches in the back of her throat isn’t bitter or angry, just heavy with resignation. There was a time, she knows, where the gentle hum of maybe lingered at every turn. But that was years before, and they are no longer those people. She knows this, she is at terms with this, and that time is so insignificant in the general scheme of who they are, that it doesn’t even matter. Not now, not after everything they’ve been through since.
What does bother her, what cuts far deeper than she would like, is that she doesn’t know how to define them anymore.
Sobering quickly, her eyes focus on the way the tips of her fingers turn pearl-white as the grip the glass between them. “It’s not that simple,” she says quietly, and it is almost the whole truth.
Rachel’s smile curls bitterly at the corners. “It almost never is,” she murmurs.
They pour themselves some more wine and toast to that too.
Summary: Rachel and Donna drink wine, watch Mad Men and commiserate over the men in their lives.
Rating: pg
Author's Notes: 1,333 words. Set after the events of Sucker Punch. As always: con-crit is both welcome and appreciated. All mistakes are mine. These characters, however, are not.
Rachel shows up the night after the trial run, all sheepish smiles and slight hesitation when Donna pulls the door open angrily without checking to see who it is. She is half-expecting Harvey, already has her diatribe memorized and ready to go, the words burning for release as they catch in her throat. But it isn’t Harvey and both the relief and disappointment at that fact intermingle and linger somewhere deep. She ignores it; buries it. Her attorney said she shouldn’t have contact with anyone at the firm until this whole mess is settled, but Donna is so sick and tired of all the goddamn lawyers telling her what to do and what to say, and Rachel isn’t a lawyer, not yet, so Donna just smiles tightly and opens the door wider for her to come in.
“I brought reinforcements,” Rachel grins, holding up a pizza box and a bottle of Donna’s favorite wine – a local merlot from upstate that always leaves red stains on her teeth.
Heading to the kitchen, Donna grabs two glasses and some plates while Rachel struggles with the cork for a few minutes before it finally pops. They fill their glasses a little too high, both of them already giggling a little when the liquid threatens to slosh over the edge as they drink. Conspiratorially, they clink their glasses together, toasting to good wine and better friends, and Donna finds herself thankful for Rachel’s presence in a way she can’t seem to put into words.
They don’t talk about the trial. They don’t talk about work. They don’t talk about the law or Pearson Hardman. They do talk about sixties fashion as Mad Men plays out on the screen of Donna’s TV, and discuss at length how more people should appreciate Betty Draper Francis and whether or not they love Don Draper for being a magnificent bastard or in spite of it. They don’t talk about Mike or Harvey until they do. Until Donna catches sight of Rachel out of the corner of her eye as she checks and re-checks the phone clutched in her left hand, sighing a little every time the blank screen just stares up at her in response.
There is an unspoiled innocence in Rachel that Donna feels a fierce need to protect, that makes her want to warn Rachel against men like Mike and Harvey.
“The thing with guys like them,” Donna finds herself saying when they’ve finished one bottle of wine and are steadily working their way through another. She fills her glass too high again, and this time the liquid does spill over, splattering like blood against the fabric of her white couch. “Guys like them – they build you up. And you give and you give and they take and they take until…” she pauses, trailing off because it’s unfair, really, lumping Mike in with Harvey, because they are two completely separate animals.
Similar, but separate, and the anger over this entire situation, the anger at Harvey still presses into her skin and lingers, and Donna doesn’t like to act when she’s angry. Nothing good ever comes of it – she knows from firsthand experience.
But Rachel knows the words Donna has left unsaid, is always one step further ahead than most people suspect. “There’s nothing left?” she supplies. She pushes her glasses up her nose with the hand that isn’t curled around the crystal wineglasses, the ones Harvey’s corporate card paid for in lieu of a housewarming present two apartments ago. She is careful not to look at Donna.
Letting out a whoosh of air, Donna’s lips curl around the rim of her glass. “Yeah,” is all she says.
There is a stretch of silence, the TV playing softly in the background, before Rachel murmurs, “I’m sorry about today.”
The words come out in a rush, like she’s been holding them in, choosing the right moment to unload them, and Donna suspects there may be some truth to that.
With an adamant shake of her head, Donna says, “It’s not your fault.”
“Louis –”
“It’s not his fault, either.” As an afterthought, Donna adds, “Even though I am definitely inclined to let him think otherwise.”
Rachel gives her a tight smile, and Donna knows her friend is placing the blame solely on Harvey’s shoulders. It’s not entirely fair, not at all that easy, but Donna doesn’t stop her, doesn’t try to persuade her otherwise. It’s complicated and it’s messy, and it is mostly her own fault, but she will never apologize for what she did. Not to Rachel, not to Harvey, not to anyone. She has been protecting Harvey for so long now that it’s something akin to second nature, but admitting that aloud leaves open the opportunity to question the why.
The truths that single question would bring about are ones she isn’t ready to face. Not today. Not alone.
“You do, don’t you?” Rachel asks very carefully, after a long stretch of silence.
There is no accusation, no maliciousness intended within her words, and if Rachel were anyone else, Donna may have found it irritating, would have smiled thinly and murmured you don’t have a right to ask me that with just the perfect amount of bite to her tone. But they have a friendship that has spanned half of a decade. They have seen each other through break-ups and losses and Donna’s shoulder had been the one that Rachel cried on the first and second time she failed her LSATs and Rachel had been the one to bring sushi and liquor when Donna’s last boyfriend moved out two weeks before Christmas.
So the question lingers between them, and for a moment Donna starts to believe that maybe, just maybe, if she does say it, if she does admit there is something between her and Harvey that transcends normal and friendship and the boundaries they’ve tried so incredibly hard to define and maintain, the tightness in her chest would lessen just slightly. But then she remembers things in spurts and gasps – the memories of their beginning now hazy, the edges blurred by time. Donna remembers all too clearly how handsome and arrogant and cocky and unbelievably sure of himself he was, more so than any person she had ever met. She remembers how, even when he had no right, he demanded the attention of every single person within a room upon entering it. Harvey was who he was without any shame or reservation and has never once tried to apologize for it.
It is one of the many things they have in common.
In all the years she has known him, he hasn’t changed one bit. Not for her, not for himself, not for anyone. Donna has spent an inordinate amount of time trying to figure out if she should hate him for it, or if she should be thankful that he is the one unyielding constant in her life.
“I – there was a time…” Donna starts, then stops herself immediately thereafter. The laughter that catches in the back of her throat isn’t bitter or angry, just heavy with resignation. There was a time, she knows, where the gentle hum of maybe lingered at every turn. But that was years before, and they are no longer those people. She knows this, she is at terms with this, and that time is so insignificant in the general scheme of who they are, that it doesn’t even matter. Not now, not after everything they’ve been through since.
What does bother her, what cuts far deeper than she would like, is that she doesn’t know how to define them anymore.
Sobering quickly, her eyes focus on the way the tips of her fingers turn pearl-white as the grip the glass between them. “It’s not that simple,” she says quietly, and it is almost the whole truth.
Rachel’s smile curls bitterly at the corners. “It almost never is,” she murmurs.
They pour themselves some more wine and toast to that too.
