Suits Big Bang : The Haunting (Or Something Lame Like That) by corsykitty : Rated R : Part 3/6
Part Three
A day passed in relative silence. If Harvey kept Mike closer than normal, well... Harvey was man enough to admit to himself that his emotions ran deeper than he let on, and that he already felt pretty deeply about Mike. He wouldn't face down armed thugs for just anyone. After all, he had a reputation to maintain.
Still, it wasn't until a good-looking man bumped into Mike and his Walkman wailed that Harvey started to realize anything strange was going on. The guy was vaguely familiar, and Harvey tried to place him as he apologized profusely to Mike. The man was wearing a cheap suit, so he probably wasn't a client. Harvey was about to dismiss him as a pedestrian he had seen before when he noticed a sleek black gem of American engineering trying to appear inconspicuous in a sea of cabs. He flashed on the night before and realized this man was at the bar, and also the owner of that car. He gave the encounter no more thought until he and Mike exited the car at the court house and he noticed the Impala, again.
A few more trips around the city and he was sure that he was being tailed. The most likely explanation was an opponent siccing a private investigator on him to dig up some dirt, which wouldn't be a first. It was unusual for a PI to drive such an obvious vehicle, but stranger things had happened (like the flying glass in the stacks.)
He almost had himself convinced that that was the case, until he watched the car park in front of Mike's apartment building as Ray started the drive to his condo. Harvey immediately ordered Ray to turn around and go back. The two men were still sitting in the car when Harvey jumped out and raced up to Mike's apartment. Harvey knocked sedately, knowing that him being freaked out would only exacerbate Mike's reaction for no reason. Well, no reason yet. Ray would call him if they made a move. The door swung open and Harvey pulled a face.
“God, it's even worse inside.” Mike slammed the door in his face. Harvey knocked again.
“Why the hell are you here?” Mike called through the door. “Is insulting me at work no longer enough for you?”
“Let me in.” A thud resounded through the door like Mike had bashed his head against it, but he did open the door. Harvey stepped in and closed and locked it behind him. Mike crossed his arms and glared.
“We're not at work, you can't boss me around.”
Harvey waited a moment, then said, “See how I didn't dignify that with a response?” Mike growled and scrubbed his hands through his hair, then flopped down onto the couch.
“God, why the hell are you here?” he groaned. “You were supposed to go home and let me sleep!”
Harvey sobered and went to a window to check for the Impala. It was still there, and that killed the PI theory. Any decent PI would have taken off when he came back in such a hurry, or at least gotten out of their car and found a place to hide from view so it seemed like a coincidence. They had to be after Mike. He grew angry at the thought of it being because of Trevor again.
“A car has been following us since yesterday night. I thought it was for me, but it's not,” he said as he moved away from the window. Mike gazed at him with apprehension, then went to the window to see what Harvey was looking at. He hadn't noticed anyone following them, but his thoughts had been preoccupied with memories of the stress of the day before. His eyes landed on a vintage vehicle parked across the street and he realized he had, in fact, seen it several times around the city that day. He turned to speak to Harvey, but was immediately derailed by the repressed grin twisting Harvey's mouth. He glared at him suspiciously.
“What now?” Harvey looked at him, then deliberately back to what had caught his attention. It was the doll Joy had given him, sitting on prominent display. Mike slapped a hand against his forehead and dragged it down his face, stretching the skin.
“You really are the doll playing type,” Harvey said, eyes crinkling as he finally let the grin out to play. Mike snorted, too far off his game to formulate an appropriately scathing response. He walked to the fridge and reached for a beer, but Harvey's voice stopped him.
“Don't bother. You're packing a bag and coming back to my place tonight, and you're not going to argue.” Mike slammed the refrigerator door closed and backed himself against it.
“Any other commands, Master?” Mike snidely asked. When his impudence only amused Harvey further he disgustedly pushed away from the fridge and disappeared into his bedroom to comply. He was far too tired to put up a fight about this.
Harvey wandered around the front room looking at the various decorations. It was incredibly obvious that this apartment was owned by a twenty-something year old bachelor. He propped himself against the bedroom's door jamb and lazily regarded Mike sorting through his laundry for something clean to wear. Mike held a ratty old pair of jeans up to check for stains. Slowly, he let his arms fall and bowed his head.
“Do you think they're here because of Trevor?” He sounded very subdued, almost hurt, like this wouldn't just be another betrayal in a long litany of betrayals. “Is this really happening again, after all I've done for him?”
Mike looked to Harvey imploringly, wanting him to say that it wasn't Trevor's fault, that one of their clients was really a mob boss - but Harvey couldn't. It may be what Mike wanted to hear, but it wasn't what he needed, and Harvey always - always - gave Mike what he needed.
“This is what I've been telling you all along. As long as he's in your life, or for that matter, you're in his, this will never stop. He can clean himself up and make it look good, but as soon as things get rough, he'll do what all addicts do; he'll fall right back into his old patterns and try to drag you down with him so that he feels better about failing.”
Mike opened his mouth to interject, but Harvey just spoke louder.
“It's not just your career that he endangers, it's your life. These men are stalking you, Mike, and that never ends well. This is the only way you can expect things to be between you. Now you said that it was time you started relying on me, and that means taking my advice. Tell him to get lost.”
Mike sighed and collapsed onto the edge of his bed, like his strings had been cut.
“It's just not that easy.”
Harvey took a few steps into the room and grabbed up a relatively wrinkle-free suit jacket.
“It's easier than you're making it,” he said, not unkindly now that he'd made his point. “He's not the only guy in your corner anymore, Mike. You come to me.”
Mike rested his head on his hand and sighed. Harvey sat down beside him and gripped the back of Mike's neck.
“When did my life get so crazy? Why is everything going so wrong?”
Harvey, ever the pragmatist, didn't allow Mike to wallow in self-pity any longer. You were supposed to learn the lesson and move on, not stall. That would only bring you crashing down.
“You sure it's not you that's crazy? Because I'm obviously too good to be true.”
Mike glared, and Harvey knew he was trying to kill him with his brain. He clapped Mike on the back and threw the jacket in his lap.
“Hurry it up. We don't know for sure who these guys are or what they want; they could make a move any moment.”
Mike nodded, grabbed the nearest clothes and threw them in a duffel without bothering to check them over. There were no ties anywhere to be seen, so Harvey wandered back out to the main room, assuming it would take a while. He peered out the blinds to find the car still there, its occupants still inside. Harvey hoped it was his presence that was keeping them out, but he couldn't be sure. They were behaving very oddly for a pair of violent criminals, and Harvey didn't like that at all. It was almost as odd a choice of vehicle for a goon as it was for a PI; a cop's eye would be drawn to one so rare. Movement in his peripheral drew his attention to Mike as he left his bedroom, tie clutched in one hand. Harvey curled his lip.
“Different tie. Bring something that hideous into my home and I'll burn it.” He paused. “On second thought, bring the tie.”
Mike fake-laughed and shot him a 'you're so funny' look, sorely tempted to throw the tie at Harvey. Spying a different tie snagged on his entertainment center, he grabbed it and looked around for anything else he'd need. Nothing jumped out at him from the living room, so he moved into the bathroom.
He was leaning over the tub to grab the soap when the door slammed shut behind him.
He whirled around, eyes wide, to find frost spreading over the mirror above the sink, obscuring the view of the room. His breath heaved in his chest as he scanned for objects that could be used as weapons, the glass from yesterday still fresh in his mind. His eyes shot back to the mirror when a small crack splintered its surface. He stepped over the edge and into the tub, backing up slowly until his back was against the tile wall.
His breath stopped altogether as the crack spread, slowly and deliberately. He couldn't look away or call for Harvey, the only bright spot in his awareness that of the soft noise accompanying each growth of that crack. The glass, once free of its frame, spun in the air. It feinted forward and back, notching Mike's heartbeat up with every pass. His tongue darted out to moisten his lips, and he finally broke free of the terror long enough to glance at the door and open his mouth to yell for Harvey. One shard darted out from the rest and cozied up to his neck, killing the cry in his throat. His heart thudded in his chest and he swallowed against a dry mouth, blinking rapidly.
The glass moved against his throat, opening a shallow cut as it dragged from one side to the other. The implication was very clear, and Mike's breath caught, eyes moistening. Was this really going to happen with Harvey less than thirty feet away? The remaining glass by the mirror danced closer, coming to a stop less than a foot away. The piece still resting against his throat shifted so just one tip was resting against his skin while another approached his face, coming so close to his eye that he had to turn his head to escape it. One by one, the rest of the shards imbedded themselves in his clothes, outlining his arms and legs. The one by his eye grazed his cheek from cheekbone to chin, the motion reminiscent of someone tracing a finger down his cheek.
He tried again to yell for Harvey, but the tip of the shard at his throat dug in hard enough that he could feel a trickle of blood trail onto his collar. He squeezed his eyes shut with despair, the certainty that he was going to die opening a yawning hole in his chest.
A clicking from the doorknob brought all movement from the glass to a halt, and Mike's heart skipped a beat in relief. Harvey tapped on the door a couple of times.
“Mike?” He pitched his voice low, worried at the exorbitant length of time Mike had spent in the restroom. When no response was immediately forthcoming, he opened the door a crack to peek inside. He didn't see any sign of Mike through the narrow view, so he swung the door wider.
“Mike?” he tried again.
He quickly spotted Mike trapped against the shower wall by - was that glass floating? He took a cautious step forward and the glass dropped, shattering on impact with the ceramic of the tub. Mike sucked in a great gasp of air, eyes wild and hands shaking as he clapped one to his throat. With no ready alternatives in sight, Harvey tore some toilet paper from the roll to staunch the bleeding of the cut on Mike's cheek.
Mike was breathing like he'd just run a marathon, and Harvey was wondering how much longer his legs would hold him. He reached for the duffel and practically had to pry it loose from Mike's iron grip. He swiped a foot over the glass to clear a path for Mike's sock-clad feet, then took him gently by the wrist to guide him to sit on the toilet seat. Shards of glass came loose from his clothes, raining down around him as he carefully stepped over the lip of the tub. Mike shook him off so he could put the lid down before sitting, and Harvey ripped off some more toilet paper for the wound on Mike's neck.
Harvey knelt before Mike to examine the severity of the cuts, mind refusing to wrap itself around what he had just seen. They weren't too bad, the one on his cheek worse than the relatively small wound at his neck, but they were both too large for a band-aid. He opened the cabinet under the sink and found a fully stocked first-aid kit. He lifted an eyebrow at Mike, who just shrugged in reply. He pulled out some gauze pads, a roll of gauze, medical tape and some Neosporin. The cut on Mike's cheek was the easier of the two to cover, so he dealt with it first. Mike leaned forward on his elbows and tilted his head to grant easier access, but kept one hand clenched compulsively around his throat. He closed his eyes to avoid looking at Harvey, shaken to the core after the events of the last few days and embarrassed at his own emoting. When he'd finished taping the bandage in place, Harvey leaned back on his heels and sighed. He knew what he had to do.
He stood abruptly and gripped Mike's shoulders, tugging at him until he got up. Harvey stared straight into Mike's startled eyes to make sure it wasn't a bad idea before throwing caution to the wind and wrapping him in a hug. Mike froze, like a deer suddenly face to face with a predator. His one arm was still trapped between the two of them, but the other hesitantly rose to fold around Harvey, coming to rest over his shoulder blade. Harvey patiently waited until Mike relaxed and let his head rest against Harvey's shoulder before using one arm to force Mike's hand away from his throat. Mike got the point and wrapped that arm around Harvey as well, making him wince internally at the thought of blood stains on one of his suits. He held Mike for a few minutes more, knowing this was a far greater boon than words for someone as tactile as his associate while under so much stress. Mike pulled away first, realizing how kind Harvey was being and choosing to appreciate it by making Harvey no more uncomfortable than was unavoidable. Harvey cleared his throat awkwardly and pointed at Mike imperiously.
“Stay,” he said, using the same tone he'd use on a well-trained dog. Mike smirked at him good-naturedly.
“Woof.”
Harvey rolled his eyes, a smile curling the corners of his mouth, and reached down for the antibiotic ointment.
“Did I tell you to speak? Shame.”
Harvey stood leaning against the counter, watching as Mike zipped his duffel closed. After seeing the tableau in the bathroom, he was uncomfortably aware of their conversation in the bar the other night. At the time he'd laid the thought aside, unable to accept it as a valid option despite the lack of reasonable (and sane) alternatives. Now, though? Maybe Mike had a point.
Mike walked to the center of the room and just stood in place, a distant look on his face. Harvey considered him for a moment before going to take the bag from his lax grip. His associate refocused on him and firmed his expression.
“I guess I'm ready to go,” Mike said, taking a last look around.
“Don't worry, I'm sure it'll all be here when you get back. I doubt even a hobo would want any of this crap,” Harvey told him, smirking when Mike bristled.
“Excuse me for liking things that you don't have to sell a kidney just to afford.”
Harvey laughed from deep in his gut, reveling in both the rare feeling and Mike's look of smug surprise. It wasn't often that something made him laugh that hard, and it felt good to let off some of the tension of the evening. Harvey placed a hand at the base of Mike's spine and gently nudged him towards the door.
“Come on, Einstein. You'll change your tune when your body cries in relief at the opulence of my sheets and refuses to leave,” he said, laughing again when Mike flushed slightly at the mention of his sheets. The kid truly had a dirty mind.
Back to Master Post : Part Four