Notes:

RE-BETA'D! Sorry for some...missing words and stuff! EEk! (Got too excited on the first chapter)

The finale absolutely destroyed me. Good thing is that the character of Donna Paulsen deserves a rebirth now.

And a rebirth she shall have.

LIFE - By Atheniandream

Tell me no lies,

Just hold me close, don't patronize

Don't patronize me.

Cause I can't make you love me

If you don't

You can't make your heart feel

Something it won't

Here in the dark

These final hours

I will lay down my heart

I feel the power but you don't

No, you don't

Cause I can't make you love me, If you don't.

Bon Iver - I Can't Make You Love Me

~ "I love you, Harvey." ~

The rebirth of Donna Paulsen, came in several stages.

The first, was avoidance.

She didn't seek out Mike. Or Rachel. Or her Mother. Not even her sister.

She surmised that they would no doubt have a sad smile for her, a smile of acknowledgement. Of understanding.

Like everybody knew that this was going to happen.

And she couldn't bare to watch them watch her.

To pity her, like he had.

So instead, she quietly drank her friday night away, dulling the feelings that brimmed her eyes, and constricted her chest with some medium priced wine that ended up tasting of salt.

She swore never to be this lost ever again.

And to never give this much to another living person. Not even a cat...

Saturday morning woke with a sharp crack, of grey sky, and buzzing traffic and a very moist pillow accompanying a muddled nightmare.

It was to be expected, considering the week. Or whatever.

She stretched the knots out of her back and rose heavily from the bed, padding into the kitchen and flicked on the coffee maker; her head pounding adequately to it's own rhythm, syncopated against her mismatched heart.

She looked about her apartment, recent memories lighting and impulse, to strike her suddenly like she was about to dodge a moving train.

She had to remove anything to do with them. And him. Immediately.

First order of the day was shopping, as she pulled on some jeans and scraped her hair back into a ponytail. She vowed to use her own money only; and thanked to god that his credit card was lying, lonely and discarded in the drawer of her old desk. It saved her having to cut it up, for one thing. And at least that way it was ready for the next impressionable moron to take claim of it and misuse it accordingly.

She scoured fifth avenue all morning, a coffee in hand (chai tea latte, the vanilla usual now a distant an deliberate memory) and bought new dresses to match her new Boss. She even ditched her maroon nails, getting a manicure of pale peach.

It felt good. It felt right. It felt necessary.

When she returned home later in the day, the newly bought pile of clothes stared at her like the beginning of a task waiting to be finished.

Then she collected every Marni bag he'd ever bought her. Every single beautiful and now tainted one; placing them very carefully in a plastic bag, and walked them downtown to the nearest Goodwill, smiling evenly at the delighted older women when she handed them over.

She didn't regret it for a second.

It wasn't spite. She just… needed to not feel like she was made up of pieces of him anymore.

When she returned to her apartment, it still wasn't enough. She scrutinised the lounge, noticing the picture of them both on her mantle piece. She emptied out the photo, ignoring their smiles and ease with one another, placing it in between her bills in her desk drawer until a decision could be made as to what to do with it. She dashed the idea to burn it a la friends like he was some old flame.

He wasn't.

And the fact swept up her emotions like a persian rug, flooding her into overdrive; replacing the dull ache and untempered thirst for alcohol. She reigned it in, by examining her work wardrobe next. Anything too provocative, went to the back of the closet, and things that went with Louis's attire came to the front. She painstakingly choose a new pallet.

Her shoes...she could not live without and would not part with.

Note to self:

Never let a man buy your shoes…

Not Ever.

It was a new outlook. Forced, but necessary.

Drastic but desperately overdue.

When she spied herself in the mirror hours later, she nearly thought about cutting her hair, or changing the shade, until dodgy images of her with brown hair popped into her head.

She sharply dashed the idea.

He loved Brunettes. She would never be one. Not ever.

And like that, it became a rule. For a second, she thought idly about having a perm, until her past experiences altered her to the fact that perms were very out of fashion.

Perhaps she'd bring them back. Perhaps not.

But one thing would never change...she was Ginger through and through and she would celebrate it.

After that, she challenged the mirror to best her at every opportunity. To dare to even question the redhead in her.

And she swore there and then, to also never drink Macallan 18 again. Or any other whiskey for that matter. She'd always hated it. And that would forever be her reply to anyone offering it. Him or otherwise.

From now on it would be Martinis. With olives. Lot's of them. And no margaritas...

The only thing she did keep, was a record that he had given her. A very special record.

And only because it was Gordon's. And she would always remember him as a charming, thoughtful man. So separate from his confused and polarising older son.

She even threw the can opener away, until the sad look of it in her kitchen bin caused her to reach for it protectively. She mentally scolded herself, taking it all the way downstairs to the dumpster by her apartment, the rush of cold air creeping up her loose-wool covered arms. She looked at it for a moment, before throwing it into the metal box, the clank of finality reaching her ears like beautiful music.

It was done.

Permanent.

Like yesterday's decision.

This wasn't some well placed whim that she'd make him bend to.

This was an eradication of Harvey Specter from her immediate life for the sake of her own sanity, salvation and sacrality.

And for the first time in a very long time, a heaviness lifted. Albeit gradually.

A heaviness she didn't even know she possessed.

She couldn't even dare to think about their last conversation. She had tuned out his eyes, the colour and collusion in them, his stance, his shoulders and the words he had said...except the ones that mattered.

He was not in love with her.

He was happy with the way things were.

He didn't want her like she somehow had wanted him.

They would be her mantra day after day, until the days blurred and she suddenly forgot why she had needed all of it in the first place.

Somewhere into the evening, amidst another glass of wine she realised that she wanted to take acting classes again. She had started her career with Harvey in the hope of continuing it. That juvenile dream ditched along the way. For him.

It wasn't his fault, of course. But it was a fact. She had lost her way in him.

Now, after everything, she could be about fixing her life. About fixing herself.

Because as much as she didn't want to admit it to anyone, it was time to admit to herself at least, that she... had...let her world go.

She didn't even exist anymore. And that had to change. Stat.

She was aware that the likelihood of her getting a good role was far beyond slim. But she wagered that Louis would fiercely support that idea - being a fellow thespian - and the chance of meeting a producer in her current circles could happen if she networked enough and leveraged herself.

She planned to take the year out - next year - and have a role by the beginning of that time.

Something meaty, and dramatic. Rangy. Something to sparkle in...

And this was her goal.

A goal she would push for. A dream she should be allowed to have.

The trouble began...with a knock at the door. As it often does.

She frowned the moment her head left the pillow, five more wraps coming soon after, as she gathered herself for the inevitable chink in her evening.

She tried first with reason and supposition. Her greatest qualities. She leaned into the door warily. "Harvey...go home." She said through the hardwood, sighing to herself at the current situation.

She didn't even need to conjure up an image of him on the other side. Probably drunk. Most likely here for the last shot at keeping her.

"Donna?" She heard him question. "Open the god-damn door." She heard him say, a slight slur in his voice.

"No way." She called back, rolling her eyes, an immediate anger at his presence.

She waited for a beat. It stretched for what felt like a mile.

"Donna. Please." He said. Again. The man who repeated himself for lack of feeling...

It only riled her further, so much so she yanked the door open, her face livid when she realised that it had only gotten him what he wanted. Like always.

She had finally grown tired of this game.

She took in his loosened tie and crinkled suit. Wherever he'd been, he was dressed for work but hadn't been so much as within twenty metres of the place. She was sure it was yesterday's suit.

"What could you possibly want?" She asked him, her face unpleased to say the least.

His eyes roamed hers slowly, her lips, her eyes and vaguely past the waist area. He straightened against the doorjamb.

"Can I come in?" He asked, cocking his jaw.

"No you may not. What do you want?" She narrowed her eyes at him.

"Can we not have this discussion out in the hall?" He inferred, giving her a tired look.

"You're not coming in Harvey, so out with it." She said, folding her arms stubbornly, her eyes observing him with a pin-head fine scrutiny.

"Donna, I'm begging you - and you know I don't beg - ...don't do this." He said, shaking his head as the words came rambled and too rushed for his drunken mouth.

She could have asked why. The old her would have. The old her would have pressed him for answers and something tangible.

The new her was not allowed. "Harvey. I've made my decision. I'm sorry." She said, leaning on her back foot.

His eyes twitched, looking to both of hers before his mouth moved. "I took you for granted." He said.

"You did."

"I was selfish."

"You were."

"I didn't know you felt that way. About me."

She gave him that one. He really did just seem that stupid. She'd given him too much credit before.

"Well I do. So," She said, gaurded.

"I need to fix this." He said, half to himself, before looking back to her, his eyes pearly with untempered feeling.

"You can't Harvey." She said, retreating. This wasn't going to end well...

"Why are you doing this?" He asked then, a sudden, and more telling drunkenness about him then.

"I'm not trying to punish you, Harvey." She answered for him.

"That's sure as hell what it looks like." He reamed off, giving her a look.

"I'm the secretary that's in love with you, Harvey." She said, watching the words hang, cliff like, one after the other like lemmings as it chiselled at the mask of irreverence on his handsome face. "And I can't be that person anymore." She said, reigning in a pinker of breath that threatened to undo her.

"Donna, I…" His voice stuck, words like glue pushing at his chest until he sighed, a huff escaping his lips.

"You can't fix it." She said, starting to close the door. "I'm sorry," She told him, closing the door fully, just as his hand slapped against it.

He'd missed the chance to catch it in his drunken stupor. That was unusual for a man who had a lightning reflex.

The idle thought, a wondering if he'd been drinking since yesterday fleeted past her mind.

He could hold his liqour. Worse things had happened, she reasoned.

Their interchange kept her up until the sun rose, and the dusky morning had beckoned her, finally, into a somewhat sleep.

Sunday was harder.

Closer to Monday.

The death of the famous Harvey Specter was a slow one.

Two days earlier:

His heart was beating ten to the dozen, hammering out of his chest like it threatened to leave him standing there.

She was leaving him.

She was…leaving. Leaving him for Louis.

"Donna...Donna, please." He quietly pleaded, the words drifting out in between a panicked breath.

"I love you, Harvey." She said, matter-of-factly. Like a reason, or an excuse. It didn't matter either way.

His world was falling down, fast.

He didn't even hear her footsteps disappear down the hall for all the dissonance her words created.

She was in love with him.

He…

Suddenly his mouth ran dry, his legs glued to the spot by the sheer weight of her words.

He dropped his head, releasing the breath he'd been forcibly holding since she'd said the words. He looked down to see a slight shake in his hand. He lashed out, whipping around to walk to the window, bracing himself against the window pane just for something to temper his scattered unease.

For a second he daren't look out. Too afraid to see her on the street below, leaving him and drifting farther than ever.

He looked out, flat faced into the pitch blackness; that ultra frame of dark peeking out between glass front buildings like the dawn of a warning.

Things were about to change. He could feel it in his core. A game changer. A turning of the dice as it came crashing down, onto and through his life, mowing his perfect little world into a flat line.

He looked back to the desk, unoccupied outside. The one that was hers. Still.

He had a feeling that she would never again sit in that chair. That she would never again stand so proudly beside him.

The thought made him nauseous in the worst possible way.

Harvey Specter cried a silent tear for the woman he wasn't in love with. The tear second only to his father's passing.

He gripped the window pane, and waited for it to pass. Waited, until the dullness of a tired frown settled on his face.

Getting drunk was hard, when emotion kicked in. He hated it. Hated the way it controlled him and told him when he was ready to submit instead of letting him make the choice.

Two bottles of Macallan later and he still couldn't seem to drop.

He put on his father's record, a special one he only kept at home, for moments...nothing like this, in fact. Hoping it would sooth him only to remind him of the fact -

Gordon Specter had adored Donna Paulsen. Revelled in her every time they spoke on the phone.

At the time it had been a bugbear, but one met with an ignorance as she would pass the phone to him with a self satisfied smirk.

Now it made him wonder… how long had she loved him...

Had she always loved him? Or had it come on gradually?

The Mock trial? The Other Time? Before that? After Scottie?

He didn't even know where to start looking for answers.

So...he continued to drink, until Friday turned to Saturday, and suddenly he was looking at a vivid orange and flame coloured morning.

He recounted the approximate colour of her hair as it stood between clouds, and just for a second, lingered on that 'set on fire' red of hers; the way it moved with conviction when she walked...before drinking the thought away with a flash of liquid brain adler and a heavy swallow.

He woke up in his clothes in the early afternoon. Having completely missed Saturday, even though he was dressed for it. He woke with a stumble like a bear with a headache and lurched to the bathroom, liquid bile and hollowness emptying out into the toilet, before gargling with mouthwash. He caught his reflection in the mirror, the hollow rings around his eyes and that dry powdery look to his skin.

He felt like re-heated shit. At least his insides were starting to match his outsides. That was something at least. Something accomplished for the day. Tick.

He looked towards the coffee machine, the need for a little sugar and black motor oil beckoning him. Half a cup later and that awful sloshing in his stomach continued to rear it's ugly head like a reminder for the weekend.

So he picked up another bottle. Toasting his giant fuck up into the waning saturday light until the sun was finally done with him, and his eyes could finally follow suit.

He woke up in the middle of the night with an impulse. A bad one.

But the first legitimate decision since he'd left the office.

He was going to her place.

He just about made it down the hall and past his doormen, his arrogant swagger the only thing holding him upright as he hailed a cab and tried to look less drunk than he was.

He made it to her apartment. Miraculously.

The 206 loomed with it's golden letters like a warning.

'Do not come here' 'You are not welcome. Specifically you, Harvey 'dickhead' Specter' they said.

But he really didn't give a shit at this point, having followed a whim to get here in the first place.

So he's stick it out, this silent objection that his prescence had encouraged.

He stared the door down. But no words actually formed.

So he knocked.

Nothing. Not a whisper.

He groaned, impatient and frustrated as he knocked again.

"Harvey...go home." He heard her say.

He cursed her ability to guess. She didn't even have a peephole. It was fucking ridiculous, he thought to himself.

"Donna?" He said. "Open the god-damn door!" He demanded, the solid panel making him agitated, like his biggest obstacle.

"No way." She called back roughly.

He clenched his fists, her stubbornness shooting to his core. Then her words flashed across his mind. Her declaration-come bittersweet regret and all at once he felt entirely deflated by it.

"Donna. Please." He pleaded, softer then.

Suddenly the door flew open, her hair messed and her features dewy. Somehow he imagined his name written with an angry marker pen all over her.

"What could you possibly want?" She said. Not even a question. An implication. An accusation.

He looked at her, disarmed by the reality; her lack of war paint and razor stilettos. That softness about her that he seldom saw. Seldom let himself see.

"Can I come in?" He asked, feeling ironically unwelcome in the narrow hall.

"No you may not. What do you want?" She barked back.

"Can we not have this discussion out in the hall?" He offered, lowering his tone to something more encouraging.

"You're not coming in Harvey, so out with it." She said, folding her arms stubbornly, her eyes unyielding and darker than he'd ever seen them.

He sighed, the dread of a missed finish line looming over him.

"Donna, I'm begging you - and you know I don't beg - don't do this." He begged, shaking his head.

But she looked back at him with this deadness, this ire. "Harvey. I've made my decision. I'm sorry." She said, leaning back and further into her apartment.

His eyes twitched, looking to both of hers before his mouth moved. "I took you for granted." He said.

He willed her to see that he meant it. Truly.

"You did." She nodded, a confirmation of the fact.

"I was selfish." He continued.

"You were." Another nod.

"I didn't know you felt that way. About me." He said, delicately.

"Well I do. So," She said.

Her stoney demeanour chipped at him like it never had before.

She wasn't his Donna anymore.

He could see it somehow, in the lines of her face. In the sound of her.

"I need to fix this." He said, half to himself, before looking back to her, trying to stem the unnatural flow that threatened him once more.

What was happening to him? He thought.

The End, he realised, later.

"You can't, Harvey." She said, retreating. And this ending wasn't going to go well.

"Why are you doing this?" He asked then, an anger spiking at her. How dare she be so well-tempered with him in the moment where he felt like he was being pulled apart...

"I'm not trying to punish you, Harvey." She countered, levelling with him like she could read his thoughts.

"That's sure as hell what it looks like." He defended, the anger solidifying on his tongue to a venomous degree.

"I'm the secretary that's in love with you, Harvey." She said then.

And then he saw it. The pain. Painted like a slash across her pretty, pale face. "And I can't be that person anymore." She said, reigning in a pinker of breath that seemed to threaten her.

"Donna, I…" His voice stuck, words like glue pushing at his chest until he exhaled, a huff escaping his lips without the balls to back it up.

"You can't fix it." She said, starting to close the door. "I'm sorry," She told him, starting to close the door. His reflexes were too slow as he tried to stop her, his hand connecting with the door, flush as it shut him out in fluid motion.

He did everything in that moment not to punch through her door, his hands balling into fists and his eyes pressured with unkempt emotion.

It only dawned on him then,

That he'd been a very selfish bastard.

Now he was a very lost, selfish bastard.

Notes: I want to keep it as fresh and dark and real as I can. Please don't expect quick fixes. I'm just working through the characters at this point. And as always, feed the kitty. Oh and chocolate because the finale gave me emotional whiplash ;-)