Title: Works No Longer In Progress, 2013
Rating: G through PG-13
Warnings: There's one instance of dubcon due to sex pollen, and some descriptions of injuries.
Notes: Every year I do a post of all the bits of fic I couldn't find a place for. Some stand alone pretty well; most are just starts I don't have the interest or energy to finish.
Also available at AO3.
This is a sort of Sherlock Holmes conceptual sequel I was playing around with, where Sherlock Holmes' son was an American musician and the actual deductive power of the pair was John Watson's son, who had been mentored his whole life by the elder Holmes.
I met John Watson for the first time on a tour of Europe, after the war. The tour was to raise money for an American society of concerned citizens who were trying to get as many refugees as possible across the pond, where the war had touched us much more lightly.
I'd performed that night in London, and I was sitting in my makeshift dressing room packing away my things when a young man entered with a violin case.
"Mr. Abra," he said, offering his hand. "My name is John Watson."
"No relation?" I joked, and he sighed.
"Son, I'm afraid," he said.
"Christ, I'm sorry -- "
"It's of no consequence, and would have come out in a moment anyway," he said, setting the violin-case on the vanity. "Sherlock Holmes was my godfather."
I raised my eyebrows. "I assume you know who my mother was."
"The Woman," he said, with a small smile. "Elaine Abra. Yes. I was sorry to hear of your loss," he added.
"She had a good life," I replied. It was true; my mother died in bed with a man twenty years younger than she was, and left me more than enough money to live comfortably, and to pursue my music. "I hear your godfather passed during the war."
"Hence my mission," he said, unlocking the case. "I couldn't get over to America during the war, but I swore when it was ended I'd make sure you received your inheritance."
"My inheritance!"
"Yes," he answered, and opened the case.
It lay there, gleaming darkly in the low electric light, a thing of perfect beauty: the Holmes Stradivarius. Any Strad is well-respected amongst musicians, but this was the infamous instrument that Sherlock Holmes had played, a lifelong companion to a man who could have been a brilliant musician himself if he hadn't chosen a different pursuit. I stared at it in awe.
"He wished you to have it," Watson said.
I kept my hands steady as I reached for it, taking it out of the case with infinite care. Someone -- probably Watson -- had looked after it the past few years, and when I plucked a string it was untuned but beautiful.
"I'm afraid it comes with some rather unsettling news," he said. I looked up from the Strad, and he offered me a letter. "Mr. Holmes asked me to deliver the violin and this letter to you."
"Do you know what it says?" I asked, reluctantly putting the Strad back in its case.
"In a general sense. Sherlock Holmes was your father."
It wasn't a complete shock to me. That the son of Elaine Alba would be a musician wasn't unlikely, but that he should show an affinity for the violin...well. Remarks had been made. Still, I always thought it was nonsense. Sherlock Holmes, after all, was an infamous misogynist.
"Hence the Strad," I murmured, setting the letter aside.
"Indeed." He looked uncomfortable. "Well. There you are then."
"Wait -- " I said, as he turned to go. "Just like that?"
"Like what?" he asked. I stood.
"Well, I mean, that's all you had to say?"
"Mr. Abra, I've been waiting three years to deliver on a promise I made to my dying godfather. I'm really not sure what else there is to tell you."
"But you knew him -- and your father knew my mother."
"Passingly," he admitted.
"Don't you think we should...talk about things?"
"I'd really rather not."
"Well, at least come to the show tomorrow night," I said. "I'll play the Strad."
"With all due respect, Mr. Abra, I've heard it before," he replied, and turned to leave again.
"I'll leave a ticket for you at the box office!" I called after him, but he was gone.
It wasn't exactly a great first meeting, I admit.
***
When I was a child, my mother used to take me on tours with her. First with a nanny, then with a tutor, always with my music instructors, we would pack up and travel around Europe while she sang and I watched from the footlights. When I was ten or eleven, and the word prodigy was starting to get thrown around, I'd sometimes perform with her. I saw all the big cities of Europe as they recovered from the Great War. I spoke German fluently, French passingly, and I knew my way around Paris before I was old enough to be allowed out into it alone.
But mostly I was raised in America, in New York, and I served in the American army in the second war. I was an American with European manners; a wealthy man whose mother had been an entertainer, not a society wife; a musician who had never starved for his art. I felt I was an outsider, a man who seemed everything he wasn't.
And now I was the son of an Englishman, not the only father I had known, who died when I was young. The great Englishman, Sherlock Holmes. The letter was brief; nothing more than an acknowledgement of paternity, and an explanation that it was dangerous for it to be known, and besides my mother hadn't wished me to know until she was dead.
People will tell you that I played the Strad for the first time at dinner that night. They'll tell you they were there, but if everyone who said they were there was actually there, I'd have been playing to a pretty packed house. Besides, I hadn't had time to restring or tune the Strad, or practice on it at all.
But I suppose the legend doesn't hurt.
The first time I played it in front of an audience was the following night, the second concert. I'd spent the day rehearsing on it, and it was a wonderful instrument, but until that evening I didn't know how wonderful.
I never had anywhere I was going with this one; I just thought the idea of Rory's "Roman" past influencing him was cool.
Rory talks in his sleep sometimes.
He never used to do that, before, she's pretty sure anyway. Before the Doctor, before the end of the universe. They've been shagging since they were teenagers, and she never remembered him talking in his sleep before. Maybe she's a lighter sleeper now.
At first Amy thought it was nonsense babble, but it's not. She's been able to pick out a few words, enough to know he's making sense -- just not in English.
Rory talks in his sleep. In Latin.
It shouldn't even be in Latin. They're inside the TARDIS most nights, so even if he is speaking Latin she should hear English. She wonders if he actually is speaking Latin all the time and she just hears English, but surely if that were the case she wouldn't hear Latin when he's asleep.
This being an interdimensional time traveler is complicated stuff.
Once upon a time I thought about writing a Nero Wolfe fanfic. One of the policies Rex Stout had about his creations was that they kept up with the times but didn't age, so if you set a Nero Wolfe fic in the modern day, they'd still be the same age and would have flawlessly adapted to things like cellular phones and eating local (which Wolfe did anyway).
Nero Wolfe likes to make an impression. That's why he keeps the big brownstone on West 35th Street in New York, and it's why he wears a suit every day even though he never leaves the big brownstone. Some people think he likes to give the impression he's eccentric, but the truth is it's not an impression. He is eccentric. He's also a genius, so he gets away with it most of the time.
I'm not a genius, but I like to make an impression too. I wear a suit every day and I do leave the brownstone, which is peculiar when you think about it because the outside world's a lot harder on Thomas Pink than the brownstone is. Still, it gets the point across, and people like to talk to a man in a suit. It's also why I get a haircut every week and drink a lot of milk, because I hear it's good for you.
Wolfe buys his milk, along with butter, cheese, eggs, and the occasional chicken, from a little place upstate that's certified organic and I think they give the cows names or something. Maybe it makes the cows happy. I'm a city dweller, so I couldn't tell you. They deliver every Thursday. You might think this is an irrelevant detail, but you don't know the story and I do, so you'll just have to trust me.
Thursday's also my night to go out, because after a long and thorough study of the habits of New York's criminal element I've discovered that almost nobody ever gets murdered on a Friday morning. Premeditators like to do it on a Saturday when the body won't be discovered for a few days, and impulsive types usually lose it over something that happened on a weekend.
All of this is leading up to the fact that there I sat on the Thursday in question, a little past nine at night, watching Fritz dress birds for what he calls frite du polle rustique and I call southern fried chicken. I was not in a suit, because during the day my life, my soul, my smartphone, and my time belong to Nero Wolfe, but after dinner concludes around eight in the evening on Thursday nights, Archie Goodwin is a free man. Besides, nobody wears a suit to go clubbing.
SUITS
This was never really going anywhere; I just thought it would be fun to write Harvey's Sexual History for some reason.
Harvey discovered boys while he was at Harvard, at which point he became part of a long and honourable tradition of "guys who discovered boys at Harvard".
Technically he didn't discover he was bi, really, so much as he was kidnapped into the revelation by a second-year student who grabbed him in the law library one night, yanked him into the men's room, locked the door, and went down on him.
"It's Harvey, right?" the second-year student (Harvey can't remember his name) asked, right before undoing his fly.
"Yeah -- yeah," Harvey breathed, in a mixture of arousal and mild panic. When it was done he shyly offered a hand job in return, which the judges awarded a 9.8; would have been perfect ten but he cut himself some slack for post-orgasmic haze.
Harvey Specter is, after all, nothing if not a gentleman in bed (or bathroom).
In the days that followed, he discovered there were men everywhere, which distracted him from pre-exam nerves and helped him score third in the class cumulatively in his first semester. Jessica yelled at him for not scoring higher, but Harvey took it with aplomb; it wasn't the first time she'd yelled at him and would not by far be the last.
It helped that the second year who'd abducted him into the law library bathroom and an entirely new sexual orientation also had a tendency to kiss and tell, because finding guys with which to experiment would otherwise have required a lot more tact and discretion. As it was, Harvey found himself invited to all kinds of interesting post-term parties, and for the next few months he got cruised in the law library stacks more often than he cared to recount, which was startling if gratifying.
He didn't always put out, of course. Nobody wants to be the slut of Harvard Law. But a few escalating encounters here and there, with both genders, led to his having a certain cachet. One didn't sleep with Harvey Specter; one achieved him. It was a lesson he easily went on to apply to his professional life.
His professional life, which as Senior Partner included an associate of his very own.
Of course, Mike Ross was the prettiest and smartest of all the associates, so it was only right that he should be Harvey's.
This was based on a prompt someone linked me to, but as I never got to the porn, I never posted it.
The bar was wood, and slick from age and polish. The glass tumbler slid along it easily, silently, and the two fingers of scotch in it barely sloshed as it came to a stop.
Mike, who'd been leaning back on the bar exchanging lazy insults with Kyle, looked up when it halted at his elbow, barely nudging the fabric of his suit.
"Speedbump," Kyle snorted into his highball.
"Hey," Mike called, leaning back a little further to catch the bartender's eye. "Who's this for?"
"You, blue-eyes," the bartender called back, and winked at him.
Mike shook his head. "I thought this was a cash bar. I'm not carrying."
"What are your student loans like?" Kyle asked. "I hear you still live in a roach motel."
"Hey, when Mommy and Daddy stop paying your rent, hit me back," Mike told him, annoyed, and then turned back to the bartender, offering to slide the drink back. "Sorry, man."
"On the house," the bartender said, ignoring two or three handwaves for drinks as he ambled over. He looked like he was about Mike's age, maybe a little younger; short dark hair, brown eyes, a tattoo of some kind barely peeking out from under the starched white collar of his uniform. "You're with the lawyers, right? All you guys drink scotch like it's some kind of badge of honor. Don't worry, it's top shelf," he added. "Your pals are bringing in enough to spot you."
"Hey, thanks," Mike answered, lifting to sip it. It was smooth -- not quite as smooth as Harvey's, on the rare occasion Harvey had deemed him acceptable enough to share a drink, but it went down nice, plus it gave him something to do with his hands.
Pearson Hardman and a couple of other firms, most notably Bloch, Smith, and Young (Mike didn't make the Crosby, Stills, and Nash jokes he wanted to) had rented the bar for the evening on the premise that, the fiscal year closing, they'd all probably be shedding a few associates soon, and also might be looking to scoop up some bargains. It was a mercenary form of networking, one Mike didn't much enjoy, especially since the partners from every firm seemed to have formed an exclusionary grownup table, claiming one end of the bar and the few booths for themselves and effectively throwing up a wall against the Associates.
He was supposed to be making small talk with associates from other firms, men and women he'd someday face off against, perhaps -- all part of Harvey's "getting it". But he'd already schmoozed a few and after them even Kyle was a welcome break.
"Taking the rough trade home?" Kyle asked, as the bartender walked off.
"Jealous?" Mike grinned, sipping again.
"Bet you fifty bucks I can land a partner tonight," Kyle said, scanning the partners at the other end of the room.
"You're a creep, Kyle."
"So you're in?"
"No," Mike said, and turned back to the bar.
"Loser," Kyle muttered. Mike figured Kyle would spend Monday telling everyone he owed Kyle fifty bucks, but it was worth it to make him go away. He finished his drink and set it down, startling when it was swept away almost immediately. The bartender who'd called him 'blue eyes' winked, leaning on the other side of the bar.
"Why were you making time with that asshole?" he asked.
"I work with him. I have to pretend I don't want him dead," Mike replied.
"Lawyers." The bartender shook his head. "I'm Rich, by the way."
"Mike," Mike answered, shaking the offered hand.
"Well, Mike, you could make time with me," Rich said, grinning. "Smile pretty and I'll pour you another scotch."
Mike blinked at him.
"This is the part where you ask me what time I get off," Rich added helpfully.
"Oh -- hey, no, that's cool and all, but I'm not like that," Mike said.
"Really?" Rich asked, grinning.
"No, I mean -- I don't really...pick people up," Mike stammered.
"Mmhm. But you are like that?"
"I, uh." Mike stared, unused to such direct seduction.
"That's what I thought. Catch you in a while, Mike," Rich said, and went to fill a drink order down at the partners' end of the bar. Mike saw Harvey glance his way, then drift back into a conversation with someone.
He pushed off from the bar, intending to find Howard and either mock him for drinking cosmopolitans or save him from eternal wallflowerhood. He was halfway there when a waitress zipped past, placed a drink in his hand, and said "From Rich," with a lewd smile. Mike stared at the drink, perplexed.
"Who's Rich?" Rachel asked, appearing with possibly supernatural timing next to him. "New beau? I didn't know you swung that way."
"The bartender," Mike said. "He told me to ask him what time he gets off."
"Hmm. Usually the answer is 'half past nice try', but if he set you up, maybe you're going to get lucky," she said. She glanced around. "At least someone is."
"You're outnumbered by men by like...three to one," Mike pointed out.
"Half of whom I work with, the other half of whom have already tried to see down my shirt," Rachel said. Mike studied it; he could see how it might pose a challenge to lesser men. "Ugh, now you're doing it."
"No! I was just -- " he broke off as she swept away. He sighed and looked around for Howard, but Howard had already gone back to the bar, and Mike didn't want to actually encourage Rich.
Great. Ditched by the wallflower. Nice night.
He wished Harvey wasn't over there chatting and laughing with the partners. He got why it was that way, of course he understood, but half the point of working for Pearson Hardman was getting to work with Harvey, getting to learn from him, and Harvey was a master of social situations like this. He could be picking up pointers by the shovelful.
He nursed the second drink, half to keep his wits about him and half to prevent Rich from sending him another. It worked for a while, long enough for Mike to meet-and-greet with a few more associates from other firms, who moaned about the Harvard Clubhouse and seemed interested in hearing about the cases he'd worked. Apparently Pearson Hardman was progressive, by some standards; some of the associates from the other firms had been out of law school for a year and still hadn't handled a single case themselves.
He found himself back at the bar to drop off his glass, but Rich spotted him and before Mike could stop him, another was sitting on the bar.
"I saw you get shot down by the lady lawyer," Rich said. "Guess her gaydar's not broken."
"Look, this is flattering and all, I guess? So...thank you? But no thanks," Mike said, pushing the drink back at him. Rich eyed him, and Mike pushed away through the crowd, heading for the narrow hallway that led to the bathrooms. He'd take a moment, dig some cash out of his wallet, and slip out quietly, catch a cab home. At this rate, nobody would notice -- certainly not Harvey. As he edged his way past the partners, he heard Harvey laugh at some joke, and the sound of his voice in reply if not the actual words.
He didn't see Rich flip up the end of the bar to follow him, but he became aware someone else was coming down the hallway as he reached the men's room door; when he put an arm out to open it, he felt a hand on his elbow. He turned, startled.
"Go ahead," Rich said, nodding at the door. "My relief's on, we can be quick."
Mike let go of the knob. "Go on ahead."
"Aw, c'mon. Look, I'm not going to out you to those assholes, if that's what you're worried about," Rich said.
"I'm not -- "
"Then come on. If not now, when, you know?" Rich said. "Unless you want to wait. I bet you have a sweet place."
"Hey, I didn't mean to give you any mixed signals, but if I did, I'm sorry," Mike said. "It's nothing personal, but I don't want to get off with you in the men's room of the bar, okay? I'm not interested. End of story."
Rich's fingers snapped around his wrist and Mike, after a startled second, said "For real?"
"Are you a virgin?" Rich asked earnestly.
"Am I -- okay, you know what?" Mike said, and clearly he'd gone insane, because the next words out of his mouth sounded crazy even to him. He half-turned, wrist still in Rich's grasp, and pointed to Harvey, barely visible down the hallway. "See that guy? That's my boyfriend. I'm taken."
Rich let him go as he craned his neck to study Harvey. "Wow. Sugar daddy? He's gorgeous. I'm totally okay with a threesome, you know," he added, looking back at Mike, who turned to stare at him incredulously. "It can be a one-time thing."
"At this point I'd rather fuck the douchebag you saw me with earlier," Mike said. "Seriously, back off."
"Aw, you don't mean that. I like shy boys," Rich said.
Mike was opening his mouth to reply when he felt a sudden warm weight on the back of his neck, and heard a voice say, "Michael." He looked around to see Harvey standing there, watching Rich. "Problem here?"
Mike could feel Harvey's thumb working down the side of his neck, rubbing small circles into the muscle. Visible to Rich, and clearly for his benefit.
"Just making small talk," Rich said, and there was a smile on his face, but underneath he had a sudden air of nervousness.
"I don't think we've been introduced," Harvey said, maintaining his gentle grip on Mike's neck. "Harvey Specter. I'm one of the people paying your salary tonight. You are tending bar, right? I rarely forget a face," he added, and he smiled small and dangerous. "
"Mike and I were just talking...possibilities," Rich said, the slouch of his body unmistakable. Mike swallowed hard.
"Really?" Harvey glanced at Mike. "You didn't tell him I'm the jealous type?"
Mike just stared at him.
"Let me put this in perspective," Harvey said, turning back to Rich. "This? Belongs to me. And if that isn't enough incentive to run you off, here's a little lesson in harassment law for you: if you come up on my boyfriend again, I can sue you for your minimal net worth and, more importantly, I can sue your employers, because it's taking place on company property. In fact, you already assaulted him when you grabbed him just now. I should let them know that..." he trailed off, looking around as if he might spot the owner of the bar.
"Hey, he didn't say it was like that," Rich said, holding up his hands.
"Oh, he didn't," Harvey repeated darkly. "Get your ass back behind the bar. Mike, it's time to go."
He tugged gently on Mike's neck, turning him and shifting his hand to the small of Mike's back as they walked away. Mike didn't see where Rich went, but he definitely didn't follow them.
"Thank you," Mike said, as they pushed through the crowd.
"I enjoyed that," Harvey answered. "I so rarely get to play the possessive asshole."
"You're pretty good at it." Mike began drifting towards the door. "I'm gonna go. I appreciate the save."
"Oh, we're not done yet," Harvey replied, hand still on his back, following him. "He sees you leave without me, God knows what he'd do."
"But the partners -- "
"I told 'em I was rescuing my associate. Normally that'd be career suicide, but in a situation like this it just looks like I'm a conscientious shepherd, and it means I don't have to spend another hour listening to Young talk about his golf game. Relax, I'm not going to make you pay for the cab."
They emerged from the bar into the cool New York evening, passing a couple of associates smoking nearby. Harvey, because he was Harvey, held out a hand and a cab just appeared. Mike climbed inside, expecting Harvey to close the door, but instead Harvey shoved him over and climbed in after.
"I was doing fine," Mike said, as Harvey gave the driver his address. "I could have handled it."
"Which is exactly why I didn't show up sooner. Though when he suggested a threesome I just about choked on my drink."
"You were listening?" Mike gaped.
"Of course I was listening. I was eight feet away. You think I don't know everything you do?" Harvey asked. "I've been tracking you all night."
"Why?"
Harvey shrugged, looking out the window. "Comes with the job."
"You didn't think you could have stepped in a little sooner?"
"Like you said, you were doing fine." Harvey turned to look at him. "You think that's the last time someone's going to make a pass at you at one of these things? You're playing in the major leagues now, Mike. All the little triple-As see your suit, they see the way you walk, they see you out with a bunch of lawyers, they think one of two things: great fuck, or rich daddy. If I stepped in every time someone bought you a drink, you'd never learn how to deal with it."
"But you did step in," Mike said.
"If I didn't step in when someone wouldn't take no for an answer, I'd be kind of a dickhead," Harvey told him. "Besides, you brought me into it. That's my boyfriend," he repeated, but it wasn't as mocking as Mike would have expected. "Clear SOS. Before that, I was just enjoying watching your giant brain try to figure out how to get the guy to back off."
"What would you have done?" Mike asked.
"I would have thanked him for that third drink, told him I'd meet him out front once he got off shift, and made a point to be somewhere else once I knew when that was," Harvey said. "Some people aren't interested in listening. Most people will accept the direct approach you tried first." He looked thoughtful. "Though if he hadn't been such a massive asshole, I probably wouldn't have said no, in your shoes."
"Excuse me?" Mike said.
Harvey shrugged. "He was young, attractive, looked bendy, sounded like he wouldn't mind being kicked out in the morning."
"I uh. Didn't know you -- "
Harvey rolled his eyes. "Do I seem like someone who lets gender get in the way of a good time?"
"No..." Mike said, slowly.
"Anyway, it's not like you don't do a once-over, once in a while," Harvey said, leaning back, utterly relaxed. "I've seen you check my ass out."
"I was looking at the cut of your suit!"
"Uh-huh." Harvey seemed to consider him for a moment, and Mike felt a blush creeping up his neck. "Listen, I'm not the kind of guy to ask for repayment for being a decent person or looking after my responsibilities. What I did back there had no ulterior motive. But if you're interested in not making a total liar out of both of us or finding out just how possessive I can be, come up with me. Promise I can be better than that punk could dream of."
Mike's jaw dropped. Harvey gave him a slight smile.
"No pressure. Unlike some people, I don't take rejection as a personal affront."
The cab pulled to a stop. Harvey reached for his wallet.
"In or out?" he asked. "No wrong answer, Mike."
Mike gave him a suspicious look. "You didn't set this all up, did you?"
Harvey snorted. "If I wanted to seduce you that badly, you think I'd need to bribe a bartender to help?"
"Are you paying or what?" the cabbie asked.
"Keep your meter running and keep quiet," Harvey replied.
"Whatever, man."
Mike heard himself say In, before he really thought about it. Like anyone was going to say no with Harvey's intense, dark-eyed stare focused on them.
Harvey smiled, handed the driver a bill, told him to keep the change, and got out of the cab. Mike climbed out feeling almost numb, almost drunk, and felt Harvey's hand in the small of his back again, a point of warmth spreading outward.
"This way," Harvey said in his ear, guiding him into an opening elevator. Mike had been in Harvey's building before, but he hadn't been paying much attention at the time. Now, as the elevator sped upwards, the silence seemed to stretch out and wrap around them, comfortable but anticipatory. When the doors opened, Harvey pushed him gently into the hall, never losing that one point of contact even as he unlocked the front door.
Inside, however, he let Mike go with a suggestive drag of his fingers, walking into a spacious kitchen. Mike drifted past him towards the windows, looking out.
"Pour you a drink?" Harvey asked.
"You have a patio," Mike said. "On the..."
"Fifty-third floor," Harvey offered. "Comes standard. Technically it's a terrace."
Mike pushed open the door and stepped out onto it, expecting a blast of cold wind that never materialized. The terrace was sheltered on both sides, forming a still, quiet little pocket, hundreds of feet over Manhattan.
He heard Harvey follow him out, heard the clink of glasses being set on a table and then a soft clicking noise. He glanced over to see Harvey turning a small metal dial on what looked like a camping lantern on steroids, and suddenly warmth began to flood the terrace. Harvey nodded, satisfied, and then picked up one of the drinks, offering it to Mike. He sipped, feeling awkward, unsure what to do now. Harvey looked amused and loosened his tie, popping the top button of his shirt open.
"You said it comes with the job," Mike said, as Harvey slid the tie off and set it down on the table next to his drink. "What did you mean?"
Harvey rolled his shoulders, shrugging out of his jacket and hanging that on the back of a soft-looking chair. "You're my responsibility. It's my job to ensure you make it to partner without any unnecessary dents or scratches. I get that I suck at it, but it's my first try at this side of the mentorship equation. If it's any consolation, I'm trying hard."
"And that's why you stepped in."
Harvey settled into the chair, slouched, legs spread almost obscenely wide. "That, and I don't like people touching my stuff."
"And I'm your stuff?"
"You can be, if you stop hiding behind the heater." Harvey began unbuttoning his vest.
This was an old Hurt/Comfort I never finished.
As with all wise cyclists, especially those in New York, Mike is prepared for the inevitable: he will be hit by a car.
It's not an option. It will happen. It might be nothing more than doorhandling, or being forced into a curb. It might involve going up on the hood of a car, or every cyclist's nightmare: aggressive bus drivers.
He carries a small first-aid kit in his messenger bag with antiseptic wipes, bandages, and medical tape, which is also useful for patching rips if he goes off the bike and his clothing gets torn. Harvey will kill him if Mike ever shows up to work with pants patched by medical tape, but Mike calculates his odds of sneaking in and stealing a pair of Harvey's spare pants from his office are pretty good, especially if Donna is aiding and abetting. Which she will if Mike shows her bloody knees and scraped palms, because Donna is a goddess but not immune to pathos.
More importantly, in his wallet, there's a piece of paper. It's in case his phone gets trashed when he gets hit. It lists his name, his address, Gram's name and phone number, and his emergency contacts. Until a few months ago that was Trevor and Jenny; Jenny's still on there, but now her name is listed below Harvey's, with Donna's office number and Harvey's cell number. He doesn't like the piece of paper, because it assumes the worst, but he also finds it reassuring.
And he's sort of proud; below his blood type, his doctor's name, and NO KNOWN ALLERGIES there's a line that says I work for Pearson Hardman Law Firm. It practically screams I am not a failure anymore.
So when he gets hit, the last thing that flashes through his mind is how glad he is he updated that piece of paper when Trevor turned out to be a douchebag, and how pissed Harvey is going to be when that phone call comes through.
***
"Mike, don't make me come to your apartment," Harvey says into Mike's voicemail, and leaves the rest unsaid.
It's the fourth voicemail he's left that morning -- seven am, seven-twenty, eight-fourteen, and now at eight-thirty -- and Harvey is seriously pissed off. He can't actually figure out how to punish Mike for being late in any way that Mike will find meaningful and yet won't open Harvey to assault charges, but if Mike doesn't get here by nine he's going to start devoting serious thought to the issue. He has considered setting up a looped text message to hit Mike's phone every two minutes, but technically that's e-harassment.
Eight forty-two. Harvey picks up his phone and is about to dial when Donna appears in his doorway, looking pale.
"What?" he asks, and an uncomfortable amount of worry floods him right before Donna says:
"Mike's in the hospital."
"What?" Harvey asks, thinking guiltily of Voicemail #3, which said "I hope you're in the hospital because otherwise I'll put you there."
"They just called. He was knocked off his bike this morning -- "
"Which hospital?" Harvey asks. Donna looks genuinely shaken.
"St. Mark's."
"Clear my morning," Harvey says, already moving. "Once you're done rescheduling, pack up the relevant files -- you know which ones I need?" he asks, and she nods. "Pack them up and take a cab to the hospital. Use my expense card," he adds, handing it to her. "Call me when you get there and I'll tell you where to go. Wait, before you do that, email Louis and tell him Mike won't be in today. You can copy anyone you think is relevant."
Donna nods, already opening his calendar to begin rearranging his schedule.
"And call his grandmother!" Harvey adds over his shoulder, already on his way to the elevators.
***
The news spreads outwards: Donna emails Louis and copies Rachel. Rachel comes to talk with her in low, worried voices as Donna packs up Harvey's files; she tells the paralegals, who pass word to the admins and associates, who talk among themselves and mention it to the partners that supervise them. Slowly it passes through the company. One of the associates is in the hospital, Harvey Specter's associate is in the hospital, Mike's in the hospital. Louis rides the associates so hard they don't have time to gossip and speculate; that's his job, and if he's worried about Mike or about Harvey because of Mike, well, herding all these cats keeps him occupied.
But while the news spreads, Mike is lying unconscious in intensive care. Harvey is working his way through the hospital, following Mike's paper trail from emergency to triage to treatment to ICU. Donna is in a cab, on her second call of the day to Mike's grandmother, who is sick with worry and so, so grateful for the nice young woman who works with Mike and who promises to tell her as soon as she knows anything, and should she come to St. Mark's, does Donna think?
Donna knows that Mike's Gram is not in the best of health, so she makes the executive decision and says, "No, let's see how he is first -- might just be bumps and bruises, you know?" even though if it were, Mike would have called himself. And as she says it, and promises to call back and hangs up, Harvey is standing in the doorway to Mike's room, speaking with the doctor handling Mike's case, arranging for the room to be 'converted' to a private care room so that there will be no roommates here, no other broken bodies wheeled in to lie next to Mike's.
"Are you his partner, sir?" the doctor asks. Harvey quickly runs down the list of perks being Mike's boyfriend might get him, in a medico-legal sense, and finds no great advantage to lying.
"No," he says. "I'm his boss."
"Well, he must trust you like hell," the doctor says, offering Harvey a slip of paper. It's torn printer paper, folded in quarters, and one sentence, underlined in red, stands out:
In the event I am incapacitated and no family members are available, Harvey Specter is authorized to make medical decisions on my behalf.
"His grandmother's his next of kin," Harvey says. "My secretary's in contact with her. We'll route all decisions through her if possible." He pauses. "Do you know what happened?"
"No," the man says, and nods to a cop standing down the hallway. "But she does."
Donna, breathless, appears at his elbow from the other direction, a file box under one arm.
"I owe you something shiny and expensive," Harvey says. "Get the scoop -- tell her anything she needs to know," he orders the doctor. "She's -- "
"Mike's girlfriend," Donna says smoothly. The doctor eyes her, visibly calculating their age difference. "Problem?"
"Problem?" Harvey repeats. The doctor shakes his head. "Good. I'm going to find out what happened..." he trails off, because the cop down the hall is holding something, dangling by a strap from her hands. Mike's bike helmet.
It's split in half.
***
Mike, bless his safety-conscious uptight little soul, was doing everything right. He was in a bike lane, for Christ's sake, and some overeager tourist in a rental car wanted to turn and didn't want to wait. The car jumped out, Mike swerved, the driver didn't notice, and Mike went up on the hood, smashing his head against the metal, where his helmet cracked. The tourist braked, Mike tumbled off, slamming his head again on the fender (sans helmet) and breaking his leg when he landed.
And then the tourist backed up, pulled into traffic, and drove away.
But they know what happened, because along with a cabdriver who stopped to call for help, there's a young man with the cop, also a tourist, not the guy who hit Mike. The man looks shaken and furious, and he shoves a flip camera into Harvey's hands.
It's on tape. Clear as day, complete with the plate number and rental car sticker, complete with the sickening crunch of Mike's body against steel.
"I mean what a prick!" the young man is practically yelling, apparently grateful that someone other than the stone-faced cop is now around for him to vent on.
"Will he be fine?" the cabdriver asks. There's genuine concern in his voice. "May I go? You have my..." he points to the information in the cop's notebook. "I don't want to be rude, but I have a living to make..." off the cop's nod, he looks between her and Harvey. "Will he be fine?" he repeats. "Will you call and tell me?"
"We already have an alert out for the car, and we're contacting the rental company," the cop is saying.
"Jesus Christ, you tell him for me he's a dickhead!" the young man insists.
Harvey spares a moment to wonder if Mike Ross actually has some kind of guardian angel. The kid charms people like nobody he's ever met, even unconscious, which is just weird, because Mike's frankly not that socially adept.
"Thank you," he says to the cop, and then "I'll call you," to the cabdriver, and then to the young man with the flip camera, "I appreciate you turning this over. Make sure you get a receipt and a business card from the police officer."
After that, things calm down. He gets the case number from the cop and gives her his business card, mentioning casually that he's Mike's attorney. When he gets back to Mike's room, he and Donna confer in low voices, exchanging information until they both know everything.
"Are you going to stay here?" Donna asks. Harvey tilts his head. "Someone should stay here, so if you're not, I will, but if you are, I'll handle the office."
"Go. I'll stay. How's his grandmother?"
"They're arranging transportation for her to come see him, but not until this afternoon. They put her on some anti-anxiety medication, I think," Donna says. She looks almost...distracted.
"What is it?" Harvey asks quietly. Donna glances at Mike.
"Should I clear your afternoon?" she asks.
Harvey mentally scrolls down the list of meetings, updates, court dates, interviews, depositions, networking events, and finds nothing that can't wait a day (well, nothing can wait a day but everything's going to have to, and nobody will die or lose millions of dollars).
"Do that," he says.
***
The day stretches long. Harvey works on what he can, glad of some occupation with the ubiquitous pastel-green Pearson Hardman file folders. Most of the casework has Mike's notes scrawled in the margins. He steps outside a few times to make phone calls, never longer than a minute or two, and charms a hot nurse (what? he's worried, not dead) into bringing him a hospital-issue lunch, which he eats without paying attention, buried in a case.
He's coming back from a phone call with Jessica to discuss some of the finer points of a buyout contract when he sees a woman sitting in a chair -- no, a wheelchair -- next to Mike's bed. Ah, this is the grandmother. He doesn't know her name. She's petting Mike's arm, careful of the IV in his wrist, talking softly.
"You're gonna be just fine, sweetheart, I'm not mad," she's saying softly.
He wonders -- half his mind turning over whether to stay or discreetly fade back into the hall -- whether she was angry with Mike's parents, when they were killed. That makes sense. It occurs to him for the first time that Mike might have been angry too, and that his grandmother wants him to know this won't be a rerun.
Before he can process this, she looks up.
"Can I help you with something?" she asks, curious.
"You must be Mike's grandmother," he says.
"And I think you're the infamous Harvey," she replies. He raises his eyebrows. "The one who works my poor grandson to -- "
They both wince. To death.
"Guilty," he says.
"Well, come in. I thought you might be back," she tells him, waving a hand at the legal briefs spread out over the little tray next to Mike's bed. Her hand grips Mike's, but it's shaking, and he can see the slight glassiness in her eyes -- that'd be the Xanax, or whatever they put her on to stop her from having the kind of freakout anyone would have when their only grandson is unconscious in a hospital.
"I don't know how much Donna told you," he says, pulling a chair up next to hers. "But he'll be fine. There's no evidence of intercranial bleeding, no skull fracture."
"Just a very nasty knock to the head," she murmurs, still petting Mike's arm. "He took a few of those learning to ride his bicycle. Was he wearing his helmet?"
Harvey nods. "Probably what saved his life."
"Along with that thick skull of his," she says, and starts to cry.
Harvey is not mentally prepared for a weeping octogenarian, but he's not a hundred percent inexperienced. He offers her a handkerchief and takes one clammy hand in his, because that is what decent people do. He's very good at pretending to be decent in public.
"He's my baby," she says, weeping. Harvey rubs her palm with his thumb, while wondering when the last time she had a sedative was.
He doesn't reassure her, or even try to soothe her. That's not what she wants. She knows, has been told, that Mike will be fine; him repeating it isn't going to help, so he just sits quietly until she stops crying (thank god). She sniffles and wipes her nose, tucking the handkerchief into her sleeve -- his mother used to do that.
"He talks about you," she says finally, and Harvey slowly lets go of her hand. She smiles damply at him. "Every time he visits. If he's not pissed at you -- then he just complains. Otherwise it's all Harvey said this or Harvey did that."
This is news to him. Of course he dominates Mike's life and rightly so, Mike is his associate, but he would have thought Mike's visits with his grandmother would be a refuge from all that.
"Sometimes he re-enacts parts," she adds, and her smile warms a little. "I don't think he quite has his impression of you down yet."
"Yeah, his Stallone sucks too," Harvey remarks.
***
They don't let her stay very long, which in some ways is a relief for both of them, and a few hours later they try to kick Harvey out too. At some point tonight he will go home, go to bed, get up and shower and handle tomorrow, but when they try to punt him at five he reminds them he's a lawyer, Mike's lawyer, a very important lawyer, someone who could easily find a reason to sue the hospital, and they back right down. Donna brings him a carry-out dinner from Coste, the hot new eatery of the moment, and after he's eaten and put the files in order for tomorrow he just goes and sits with Mike for a bit.
This is all incredibly stupid, there's no point to him being here. Mike, if -- when -- he wakes up, is going to use this in his neverending battle to convince Harvey that caring is a positive act. Tomorrow he has to go to work, he should have gone back to work today.
But he just keeps sitting there, for some reason.
He's contemplating getting up and leaving for the third time, around nine o'clock, when there's a grunt from the bed, and Mike opens one hazy blue eye.
Harvey tilts his head, trying to figure out if Mike's in there or if it's some kind of unconscious tic.
"Trevor?" Mike asks hoarsely.
A few things happen at once. Harvey has a sick, annoyingly emotional moment where he finds the idea that Mike might have forgotten him horrifying; Mike doesn't forget anything, ever. Mike, at the same time Harvey is having his epiphany, looks frightened and worried, like he doesn't want Trevor there or maybe thinks Trevor somehow got him into this. Harvey opens his mouth to say No, it's Harvey, and Mike breathes a sudden sigh of relief.
"Harvey," he says.
He should probably call a doctor or something. Instead he just stares at Mike, who is still trying to focus with his one good eye.
"Car?" Mike offers.
"Tourist," Harvey confirms.
"Fucker," Mike pronounces. His eye slides shut again and then snaps open. "Am I dying?"
"No," Harvey says. He holds up a finger and Mike follows it as he moves it, so he figures the kid is probably conscious enough to comprehend what he's saying. "You hit your head twice, broke your leg. Your bike's totaled. Also you made your grandmother cry."
"Ohhhhh Graaaaam," Mike groans, panic evident.
"She's fine. She knows what happened. Soon as we're done here I'll call her."
Mike's eye is blinking furiously. "It hurts."
"Push through. You'll live."
"It really hurts, Harvey," and there's a desperation in Mike's tone, in the way he uses Harvey's name, that makes him uncomfortable, unsettled.
"I'll get a doctor," he says.
He ends up getting about four, without meaning to, and they fumble around Mike's bed doing things to his associate that can't possibly be comfortable. But Mike's gaining in coherence by the moment, his weird little brain whirring away like always. By the time they've left, a few with suspicious looks at Harvey, Mike is drugged up but still more intelligent than earlier.
"I don't remember," he says, sounding frustrated. "I don't even remember getting up this morning."
"Don't let it get to you, I'm sure you'll live to enjoy Cheerios again at some point," Harvey says.
"But I don't remember," Mike says, distressed. Harvey leans over the bed, doing his best loom.
"It doesn't matter," he tells Mike, firmly.
Mike gives him the best defiant look he can, considering he looks like Mummy #3 in some horror film, head all bandaged up, face black-and-blue. "You said you'd call Gram," he accuses.
"See? Your memory is annoyingly fine as ever," Harvey says. He leans back. "I'm going to call your grandmother, then I'm going home. I'll check in tomorrow before work. Don't let them discharge you unless I'm here."
Mike's smile is goofy, gratified.
"Because we need to make sure they document your injuries," Harvey says carefully.
"You caaaaare," Mike sing-songs. Jesus, he thought it would take at least a day for this shit to set in.
"I'm going now," Harvey informs him.
"You caaaaaare, Harvey caaaaares," Mike's voice follows him out.
At the entrance, he is arrested by the sight of Mike's girlfriend, Jenna or Julie or something, arguing fiercely with a security guard. The guard is twice her size but she's clearly ready to throw a punch. Harvey watches, intrigued, as she takes off her high heels and waves them in his face.
"You see these?" she asks, furiously. "I've been wearing these for twelve hours while he lies dying in the hospital and I had to turn my phone off while I was at work and I just got the call and the cabdriver who brought me here hit on me and it's been a really long day and I want to see him!"
"Visiting hours are over," the guard says implacably.
Harvey could just walk out, but the last thing Mike needs is to wake up tomorrow and find the girl is in jail for assaulting someone, so he steps up.
"Oh, my God," she says, startled. "Mr. Specter."
"I'll handle this," Harvey says, deftly pulling her away from the guard and putting himself between them, and if he takes a high-heel upside the head for this there will be consequences. "Jenna."
"Jenny," she growls.
"Jenny," he repeats. "I just saw Mike, he's not dying."
"I want to see him!"
"That's not going to happen tonight."
"Fuck you!" she spits.
"He's asleep. He's fine. I spoke with him. And the last thing he needs is to be woken up," he continues, subtly backing her towards the door. "The best thing you can do for him right now is let him rest. So what I'm going to do is have my car service take you home, and on the way there I'll tell you what I know."
"But he's -- "
"Not. Dying," Harvey repeats. "And tomorrow at eight in the morning you can see him. Right now, we're leaving, okay?"
She's clearly still angry, but at least she puts the damn shoes back on and lets him herd her into a waiting car. He feels weary, and very old, and also like he's gone through this five or six times already, but they sit in the car and he explains things to her while Ray takes her home. Once they've left her at her door, he calls Mike's Gram's nursing home and leaves a message to be given to her in the morning.
His apartment is peaceful, dark, soothing, all blue light and blond wood. He sets his alarm, has a few mouthfuls of scotch, and sinks gratefully into his bed.
***
By the time Harvey is out of the shower the next morning, he has a dozen messages:
The police want to inform him that they've apprehended the man who hit Mike, and they're arraigning him on charges of vehicular assault, fleeing the scene, and reckless driving.
Jenny calls to ream him out for not helping her get in to see Mike.
Jessica wants to know what Mike's status is because Harvey really can't miss tomorrow, they need him there.
Jenny is sorry she called earlier.
Mike's Gram is thrilled he's awake, glad Harvey called her, looking forward to seeing him again that afternoon.
Donna is bringing breakfast to the hospital and will meet him there.
Jenny wants to know if Harvey will represent Mike when they sue the shit out of this guy.
The police want to know if Harvey is representing one Jenny Griffin, who wants the record of the incident.
The hospital wants to assure him that Mike is continuing to do well.
Jessica seriously needs to know if Harvey will be in, call her now.
Louis wants an update on Mike and whether he thinks Mike will be in today.
"When did I become his point man?" Harvey wonders aloud.
***
When he arrives at the hospital, having called Jessica to assure her he will be there and texted Louis to stop being a prick, Donna and Jenny are sitting with Mike, eating breakfast. Jenny looks one hundred percent less insane and vaguely contrite that she spent the whole night calling him, but Harvey gets it; he's had a few rough nights over the years and done things he shouldn't have, so if they could ignore it that would be fine by him. He tries to convey this to her by not responding much when she talks to him, which seems to work.
Mike is loopy, only about half there, but he's with-it enough to bring up the fact that he's getting discharged that evening, which sparks a lively if somewhat baffling debate.
"I thought I'd come home with you," Jenny says. "You know, look after you for a few days."
"Do the doctors want that?" Donna asks.
"I want it," Jenny says firmly.
"Look, my place is claustrophobic enough," Mike mumbles.
"You can come to my place."
"Maybe."
"Why maybe?"
Then there are significant looks exchanged. The mating habits of young idiots. Donna looks just as fascinated as Harvey.
"Mike, I'm not going to let you roam around your apartment alone with a head wound," Jenny says.
"No, but like...you need to work," Mike says.
"I'll take some time off," Jenny says, but she sounds uncertain. Harvey doesn't even know what she does but he suspects it's not the kind of job where you get FMLA leave.
"I'll be okay," Mike insists.
"What about a home medical aid?" Harvey offers.
All three of them look at him like he's the crazy one here.
"Insurance covers it," he says lamely.
"The point is to have someone who cares about him looking after him," Jenny says. Mike's eyes go kind of unfocused for a second.
"Harvey," Donna says delicately, into the weird silence that follows, "what about your place?"
"What?" Harvey asks, blindsided.
"You have guestroom, you have a maid, there's an in-house restaurant that can send food up, and the guy who lives below you is a neurosurgeon," Donna continues brightly.
"I don't think -- "
"Plus you have that big flat-screen," Donna interrupts.
"I'm fine in my place," Mike protests feebly.
"But she's -- " Harvey begins, because surely a girlfriend is better than him when it comes to crap like this and he'll pay her, goddammit, if he has to, but Donna coughs sharply and both Mike and Jenny look seriously awkward.
"Great, I'll set it up," Donna says. "Harvey, Jessica wants you in her office by nine."
"I should go too," Jenny says reluctantly, rising and kissing Mike on the cheek.
"I'm not kissing you," Harvey informs him, and Mike gives him a wave as he and Donna leave too.
"You would never survive without me," Donna says, once they're on their way to the office.
"What? You just shoved a coma patient on me," Harvey complains. "Why can't his little girlfriend do it?"
"Because she's not his little girlfriend, Mr. Oblivious."
"Since when is she not his girlfriend?"
"Since they broke up two months ago."
Harvey vaguely recalls Mike being unusually cranky, two months ago, but sometimes Mike's just that way. He didn't really think much about it.
"What am I supposed to do with him?" he tries.
"Take him home, feed him when he looks hungry, show him where the DVDs are, and pretend you have feelings."
"That's so much work," Harvey complains.
***
Because Mike will probably be out for at least a few days and Harvey has become used to having someone at his beck and call, he stops at the bullpen after meeting with Jessica and plucks a lucky associate from obscurity to glory and loads him up with Mike's work, telling him to be familiar with all cases by noon (the boy pales, but nods). He has his own work to do, and catch-up meetings from yesterday, and he also has to stay on top of the police report, plus start prepping paperwork for Mike's civil suit, where they will take this asshat to the fucking cleaners.
The guy who hit Mike is some rich snowbird from Florida, which is good, because if he were young or pretty or a single mom or something Mike would probably object to Harvey ruining his life. He hit Harvey's associate with a car and then drove away; he deserves to have his life ruined. Plus, though it would be fun to bill Mike, if he takes the case pro bono it'll go towards his quota and he won't have to take some other pro bono case that Mike will get his big dumb emotions all over.
Boy Associate, Harvey discovers, is useless. He ends up sending him for coffee just to get him to shut up and stop regurgitating information Harvey already knows.
There's too much work and not enough time, which normally would just mean working until nine, but Donna buzzes him at four-thirty to remind him to pick up Mike, and when he walks out of the office she presents him with a paper bag, a backpack, and a battered gym bag.
"Jenny packed some things for him," Donna says, pointing at the gym bag. "Dinner," she adds, pointing at the paper bag. "The files you'll need tonight," and she points at the backpack.
"I want a divorce," Harvey grumbles. Donna pats his cheek, which he can't do anything about because his hands are full.
"Harvey, I'm only going to say this once," she says, smoothing his lapels. (Why all the touching?) "Mike is young, and he's in pain. I know Pearson Hardman is a culture of sadism, but try not to think of him as your associate for a little while, okay? He didn't ask for this or want it."
"Neither did I," Harvey points out.
"You're not the one in a walking cast. You are the one who will anger me if Mike suffers unduly."
Donna knows how to go for the throat.
At the hospital, Mike is sitting alone in a wheelchair in the hallway, dressed in a set of scrubs, battered messenger bag in his lap, watching the door. Harvey has a moment of -- something. It's just so pathetic. Mike's face breaks into a painful smile when he sees him.
It's just as well he had to pick Mike up, considering he has to turn in requests for Mike's medical records and make sure they took pictures of the damage. He hadn't seen Mike's ribs before, but the photos show wide mottled bruises that make Harvey suck air in through his teeth. Outside, a nurse is helping Mike into the town car.
"I'm kind of bummed it's not a real cast," Mike says, as they work their way through downtown traffic. He's studying the boot strapped to his right leg. "More convenient for showers, I guess. Nobody can sign it, though. Maybe I can get some bumper stickers to put on it, like they do on guitar cases."
Harvey ignores Mike's hopefully painkiller-induced rambling, focusing on his phone, where he is sending Donna an email promising dire punishment for getting him into this and yes, he picked Mike up and he's fine.
When they finally reach Harvey's high-rise, the driver unloads the baggage and passes it to the doorman, who promises to send it up. Mike hisses in pain as he climbs out of the car, and against his will Harvey finds himself holding onto his arm to help him balance. He's unsteady on the boot, and it clearly hurts to move.
Despite having spent most of yesterday watching over his wayward associate, Harvey hasn't really taken in all of the injuries at once, didn't like to look at the bed Mike was lying in. Now he has a better view, and it's not pretty: there's a bruise all the way down the side of Mike's face, a bandage kind of hilariously taped to his hair where he had to have stitches in his scalp, yellow marks on his arms from disinfectant, the cast of course, and the bruising all over his ribcage that Harvey now knows without looking is there. He's a mess, a mess flopping down on Harvey's sofa in relief and carefully, stiffly leaning forward to rifle through the gym bag Jenny packed.
"Cool, DVDs," Mike murmurs, sorting through them.
"Guest room's through that way," Harvey says, nodding at the doorway to the room he usually uses as an office -- there's a bed in there, a leftover from his last apartment years ago that got shifted into the office because this place came mostly furnished. He catches Mike's look -- longing, frustration, measuring how far he'll have to walk to get there -- and comes over to the couch. Mike plucks a handful of DVDs and a worn-looking blanket out of the bag as Harvey picks it up.
It's a thoughtful gesture, the bag -- the clothing is mostly t-shirts and loose pants, easy to wear. There's a toiletries kit, a box of cookies, and a plastic bag full of tea bags and cocoa packets.
He emerges from putting it in the bedroom to find Mike has curled up in the blanket, head propped against the arm of the sofa, nose buried in the blanket's fuzz. Harvey begins unpacking the dinner Donna gave him (Italian, nice, he's been craving ravioli) and dishing it onto plates, because after all they aren't savages.
"Water or wine?" Harvey asks, pouring himself a glass of the latter.
"M'not supposed to mix booze and painkillers," Mike replies, muffled.
"Yes, but one of the pleasures of being severely incapacitated by a car is that you get to cheat a little," Harvey says.
"Water's fine," Mike replies. Then, hesitantly, "I would have been okay at my place."
"Hey, don't tell me, I agreed with you. This is by decree of Donna," Harvey says, carrying the plates into the living room and sitting down next to him on the sofa. "Was that a pathetic attempt at thanking me?"
"Yes," Mike groans, sitting up. He settles the blanket back a little and picks at the food. It looks like chewing hurts.
"What did the doctors say about work?" Harvey asks.
"They want me on my ass for a week," Mike mumbles. "I can go back in a day or two, I think."
"Not like that, you can't," Harvey says, pointing at his face. Mike frowns. "We have a reputation to maintain. I'm not going to have you parading around in front of clients looking like you got stomped in a bar fight."
Mike nods, head bowing, and Harvey's about to move onwards when he sees Mike's shoulders jerk. There's a sound like a soft sob.
"Aw, Jesus," Harvey says, because crying, seriously?
But he grabs Mike's head and pulls him carefully over against his shoulder, because he's supposed to be emulating comfort. Mike shakes, face pressed into Harvey's shirt, one hand clutching the fabric against his chest. "The point of that was that you should probably stay on your ass for as long as the doctors tell you."
Mike nods against his shoulder, and Harvey remembers what Donna said about youth and pain.
"You'll be fine," he adds awkwardly.
"Everywhere hurts," Mike says, soft and broken. "And Gram's freaked out and they wrecked my bike -- "
"Your grandmother is a grown woman and under continuous medical care, and your bike was a cheap piece of shit anyway," Harvey says.
"It was my bike."
Clearly there's something deeper going on here, but Harvey has no frame of reference for this, he has no file or briefing or deposition on the emotional status of Mike Ross, so he just rubs his hair soothingly and waits until Mike stops shaking.
"I started prepping a civil suit for you," he offers, as Mike wipes his nose and sits back, looking humiliated and tired. "Believe me, when we're done with the guy who wrecked your bike, you can buy a new bike. Or a car," he adds significantly. "Like a real grown up person."
That gets him a sniffly smile. Mike turns back to his alfredo, cutting the noodles really small.
"There's panna cotta for dessert," Harvey says. "Donna ordered it. Might be easier on your jaw."
"What's panna cotta?" Mike asks.
"It's like very expensive pudding."
So they end up having panna cotta for dinner. Which is kind of fun.
Harvey's putting the dishes in the sink when he catches Mike, out of the corner of his eye, heaving himself up on the end of the couch, making a really game try at standing.
"Going somewhere?" he asks.
"Shower," Mike grunts, but he seems to be walking okay now that he's upright.
"Bathroom's through there," Harvey points. "You need supervision?"
"I hope not," Mike mutters, wo