Goats and Caterpillars

Summary: Donna and Harvey are trapped in an elevator and things don't go the 'suggestive' route Donna is expecting (darvey established).

An: I'm not even sure what this is haha. It was originally going to be a one-shot attempt at angsty/humor but now I'm thinking there's scope for a second chapter? Also, all the Yankees stats are real, I did my homework :P

The elevator creaks ominously, the lights flickering as Donna pulls her manicured nail off the alarm button and takes a step back in-line with Harvey. 'Jeff' the friendly but seemingly dimwitted maintenance guy hadn't offered them much in the way reassurance, aside from they're 'working' on the problem and it 'should' be fixed soon.

She's expecting some kind of quip from Harvey, either witty or sexual but the only sound he makes is a soft fast murmur to himself.

"336, 333, 314..."

Her brows knit together in confusion and she angles toward him with a quirk of her lips, "what are you-"

"Yankees batting averages." He snaps the explanation at the sealed doors- like it's not big deal they're trapped in a metal box hanging thirty-seven floors in the air, strung up by cables no bigger than his thumb and forefinger squeezed together.

The walls groan again, no doubt sweating with the increasing heat, and he tries to swallow the panic closing around his throat. "304... 292, 290..."

He continues to push the numbers out under his breath, clenching and un-clenching his fists and she stares at the odd behavior, circling back through every fact and piece of information she's learned about him over the years. She would know if he had a fear of small spaces... but then again it's not like they've ever been stuck in one before and she gently tests the observation. "You're claustrophobic?"

"Don't be ridiculous." It comes out harsher than intended and he rolls his shoulders trying to loosen the tension that's building. He isn't, not really. He just doesn't like the idea of being confined in a tiny cage that could ultimately lead to a harrowing and crushing death which honestly, seems perfectly rational and reasonable as far as he's concerned.

"283, 280..."

The repetitive count continues and she might not have picked up on this before but she definitely knows when he's lying and clutches her bag under her arm with a confused frown. She's Donna, she doesn't miss things and this seems like a huge faux pas for her character. "No..." she shakes her head directing the comment more at herself than him, "you're scared of hospital food, that creepy sign swinger dressed as a sandwich on 52nd/3rd, suspension bridges and I know you don't like goats-"

"Donna." He grinds out her name, fingers tugging at the knot in his tie in an attempt to focus on anything other than the images she's conjuring. "Really not helping."

It's expelled beneath a strained wheeze and her eyes widen realizing he's not kidding.

"Shit, I didn't-" she fumbles over the apology, placing her bag on the floor and using both hands to steady his shoulders. He's suffered from panic attacks in the past but she's never witnessed one and settles on his glassy gaze, her voice calm and focused as she tries to guide him through it. "I'm here... I'm right here, just breathe.'

He nods, a squeak in his throat the only sound that spills around them. He was doing fine, handling himself and then she had to go and mention the fucking sandwich man. "I'm good-" he forces the reassurance out, her light touch and concerned gaze stealing the weight of his anxiety. For some reason it's more important that he be okay for her than to not be and his breathing slows on instinct, his body responding to the internal command.

It takes a few seconds before she's fully able to believe him but she doesn't let go, sliding her fingers up to brush the beads of sweat from his forehead. She feels like an idiot for doubting him and smooths his hair back with a small smile.

"I'm scared of caterpillars."

He holds her gaze, swallowing the residual panic knotted in his throat so he can take her in properly. She's flushed, clearly worried, but there's also a hint of guilt behind her quirked lips and he clasps her hand bringing it back down. "No, you're not." He finds his answer in the sheepish shake of her head and honestly he could care less about the impending danger of plummeting to their deaths. She makes him feel safe, like nothing else exits outside of them, and when a buzzing hum sends the cart back into motion he barely notices.

"We don't ever talk about this."

There's a lightheartedness to the request and her grins spreads wider at the gentle take-back of control. "Anyone asks, we were having sex." She hooks an eyebrow up, her slender fingers reaching to adjust his tie. They're definitely going to talk about what happened, that much is a given, but for now they need to do what they do best; kick ass at the office and figure out how to be the best versions of themselves at home.

Because as difficult as it may seem, confronting their fears is how they move forward.