Suits Big Bang : The Haunting (Or Something Lame Like That) by corsykitty : Rated R : Part 4/6
Part Four
As Harvey unlocked his front door, Mike was hit by a feeling of trepidation. The last time he'd been here Harvey had been unprecedentedly hostile, and now that Mike was sober enough to appreciate that, he was both curious and filled with dread. He didn't have time to dwell, thankfully, as Harvey quickly ushered him inside.
Mike stood near the couch, ill at ease, duffel held almost defensively before him while Harvey disappeared down the hall. The awkwardness of the situation didn't do much to dampen Mike's curiosity and he drank in as many details of the room as he could while Harvey wasn't around to notice.
The apartment was much like Harvey himself - cold and austere on the surface, all style and smooth polish, with a hidden quirky side right below the surface, just waiting to come out. The cabinets housing DVDs and books held titles you would never expect Harvey the Lawyer to enjoy, and many of the books were well-loved with dog ears and creased spines. A colorful handmade blanket peeked out from under a corner of the couch; Mike wondered if it was an old girlfriend or a relative that had given it to Harvey, that Harvey had kept it and obviously used it.
Mike quickly diverted his eyes when he heard Harvey padding softly back down the hall. When Harvey cleared the corner, his eyes laid on the bag still in Mike's hands and he quirked an eyebrow.
“After your last little house call I wouldn't have thought I'd need to tell you to make yourself at home,” he told Mike pointedly, and Mike felt his ears burn. He glanced toward the hall, the thought of Harvey's condo having a guest room playing through his mind before he decided he wouldn't be that forward. Harvey rolled his eyes, but didn't say anything when he dumped the duffel by the couch.
Various clinks floated out from the kitchen as Mike slowly sank down on the couch, every inch of his throbbing body making itself known. He could still feel a phantom piece of glass pressed against his neck, and the doorknob was right there, the knowledge that Harvey was in reach and all he had to do was call for help and Harvey would be right there to save him, to do anything -
A glass clinked on the table in front of him and he looked up at Harvey, murmuring his thanks. The water went down cold and easy, but he spared a thought to wish for something a little stronger like a nice, stout beer. Mike swirled the liquid in the glass as he fought to find the words he wanted to say.
“Thanks, for all of... this,” Mike settled on, waving the hand with the glass in a vague, encompassing gesture. “You didn't have to, and I just... thanks.”
Harvey sipped at his scotch, absently staring out the window at the lights of the city below. He dropped his eyes to his fingers on his tumbler, watching the way the amber light refracted through the crystal onto his skin.
“I meant what I said about relying on me, Mike.” Harvey made eye contact so Mike could see how sincere he really was. “I'm just glad you're safe.”
Mike smiled shyly, a real smile, and Harvey's heart thumped hard in his chest. He started to continue, but the glass table between them shattered, and Harvey watching in horrified disbelief as the couch Mike was sitting on scraped backwards across the floor. He scrambled to get his feet under him only to find the glass had begun to swirl around him in a deadly whirlwind, hemming him in. Mike tried to leap off the couch, but some invisible force shoved him back into the seats.
“Mike!” Harvey cried, nearly frantic, throwing out a hand as if he could reach across the distance and take hold of Mike - just as the couch flipped on its side, flinging Mike the last few feet into the glass.
It shattered on impact and Mike disappeared over the edge without a sound.
Harvey's breath stopped in his chest and a roaring filled his ears - this couldn't be happening, this was his home, it was supposed to be safe here. He watched with wide, uncomprehending eyes as the glass around him slowed to a standstill. The pressure on his heart, on his soul, was one he would gladly never feel again and had already felt too long.
Harvey blinked, took a cautious step forward, and called out for Mike, desperately trying to convince himself that none of this was happening. A bloodied hand swung wildly through the air where Mike had vanished and Harvey broke into a run, ignoring the glass beginning to swirl behind him once again, racing to his goal. He reached the edge and looked out, freezing air curling its fingers through his hair and whipping it into his face, obscuring his view of Mike. He angrily brushed it back, his only focus the vision of Mike dangling over a drop of several hundred feet, tethered to life only by a thin metal rail caught in the back of his pants. Every fear-fraught struggle brought him closer to falling rather than gaining him a hold on the building, and Harvey's mouth went dry.
“Mike! You have to calm down!” he yelled, struggling to be heard over the wind and using the calmest, most commanding tone he could manage under the circumstances. “You're caught up on some metal, fighting it isn't helping! I need you to stop moving so I can figure out how to get you down, okay?”
Mike's terrified eyes found his, and for a moment Harvey wasn't sure he was going to get through to the kid. After a beat, Mike squeezed his eyes shut as tightly as he could and made an effort to control himself. When Harvey was sure Mike was having some measure of success he allowed himself to look over his shoulder for something, anything, that he could use to hook Mike, and found only the blanket. He turned back to Mike and was reassured that Mike had listened to him and was remaining still, or as still as he could with the wind buffeting him.
“Hang on, I'm going to grab something to help, okay?” Mike nodded jerkily and Harvey rushed to grab the blanket lying by the wreck of the table. Salvation in hand, he turned back to the window only to pull up short, hand spasming tighter on the cloth.
There, halfway between him and Mike, was the flickering image of Aaron.
Harvey didn't have time to truly process what he was seeing before the front door was kicked in and two men - the men who were after Mike - came charging in brandishing shotguns. He ducked instinctively as the shorter man cocked his gun and fired a blast straight at the ghost.
The noise of the shattering glass was overpowering as Harvey looked around for Aaron, or whatever it was he'd seen. The taller man took a step towards Harvey, glass crunching beneath his heel, and Harvey focused on him warily. Mike was out of sight, and he had no way of knowing if they'd seen him go out the window. The whole situation was spiraling quickly out of his control.
Why weren't they doing anything now? Why would they shoot at the... apparition or whatever the hell that had been instead of Harvey? He forced himself to tamp down his emotions and put up a front. For now he was simply going to assess the situation, not bring any attention to Mike's plight, and hope that his cheap pants would hold.
The taller man (and he truly was tall; Harvey was by no means a small man and he was left feeling a little inadequate) held up his hands in a pacifying gesture, shotgun dangling from one hand, and took another slow step forward.
“We're here to help,” he said, hazel eyes compassionate and entreating. “I know this all seems crazy and you want an explanation, but right now we don't have time.” He pointed at the window with a few fingers on his gun hand.
“Your friend out there is in a pretty precarious position, and the ghost won't be gone for long.” The shorter man spoke up, and Harvey suppressed a wave of irritation at the patronizing tone; he had at least ten years on this kid and here he was treating Harvey like a frightened child? He was careful not to let any of it show on his face; patronizing tone or not, the balance of power was definitely tilted in their favor and Harvey wasn't about to complicate an already inconceivably bizarre and volatile situation further. Especially not with a blanket as his only weapon, he thought ruefully.
The man in front took another step forward and Harvey tensed. Yes, they said they were here to help, but being a lawyer had long since taught Harvey not to take things at face value. Dealing with convicts had taught him that psychos were fully capable of thinking they were helping you even while killing you.
“Harvey!” Mike called, voice ragged and terrified. Harvey didn't hesitate, he turned his back on the men and strode to the window; if it was a choice between putting himself in danger and saving Mike, he had to choose his associate. Mike was still dangling, but his pants had torn and his only remaining lifeline was his belt. Harvey quickly knelt and leaned as far over the edge as he dared.
“Mike, I want you to grab the blanket! I'm going to pull you towards me so I can grab you and pull you in,” he yelled. Mike gave a small nod, limbs stiff as though he felt any movement would send him tumbling down. Harvey twisted the blanket, ignoring the crunching of glass behind him - if they wanted to do something they'd do it, and there was nothing he could do. He tossed one end at Mike and Mike strained to grab it, but missed. His belt buckled a fraction under the strain, the leather cracking and exposing the tightly-woven fabric center.
Mike's face went white as a sheet and he gasped for air, dangerously close to hyperventilating. Harvey took a shaky breath and twisted the blanket again, looking Mike square in the eyes and giving him a small nod as he did. He tossed the blanket again and this time Mike caught it in one hand. Mike clutched at it and Harvey gently drew it in hand over hand, pulling Mike's arms closer. Mike let go of the blanket with one hand to stretch towards Harvey, and Harvey reached back, elation and relief swelling in his chest.
Their fingers brushed, and Mike's belt gave completely. Harvey seized Mike's wrist, the sudden extra weight yanking him most of the way over the edge, clinging to safety with one arm and leg. His foot scraped uselessly against the floor as he slipped further and he gripped the window's frame, trying with all his strength to stop their slide. His shoulder burned and he grit his teeth, tightening his awkward hold on Mike and ignoring the cramping already starting in his palms. The fear-sweat forming on his skin slicked his hand to the point that he knew his fragile grip wouldn't hold much longer. He was looking down at Mike, preparing to use the last of his leverage to haul him up level with him when his grip on the building gave out and he slipped entirely over the edge.
For an endless moment he was falling, hand squeezing on Mike's wrist convulsively, before he came to an abrupt stop. Pain exploded in his shoulder and he cried out, the sickening sensation of something giving way in his flesh raising his gorge. He felt Mike's other hand close around his wrist and heard him breathlessly call his name. Harvey didn't even realize his eyes were closed until whoever had grabbed him started to pull him back to safety and he saw red whorls swooping frenetically on the inside of his eyelids. He opened his eyes, the image making him sick to his stomach, and was greeted by the taller man's face close to his own, red with strain and teeth bared. A breath later he and Mike were laying side by side, lower legs dangling over the edge.
Mike twisted his head to look at Harvey, eyes bright with a heady mix of relief and concern. He propped himself on an elbow over Harvey, and Harvey followed Mike's gaze to his shoulder. It was obviously dislocated, misshapen beneath the flimsy barrier of his shirt. Mike hovered one hand over the injury, wanting to asses the damage but disliking the thought of causing Harvey further pain.
A shotgun blast came from just over their heads and they flinched, Harvey's ears ringing as he curled around the renewed pain in his shoulder awakened by the involuntary movement. Mike climbed to his knees, hands over his ears as he disbelievingly took in the scene before him. Harvey's front room was in shambles, and his two stalkers were lining the windows and door with thick lines of - was that salt?
“What the fuck?”
His eyes were drawn past the odd behavior of his stalkers to the other side of the white line, where between one moment and the next, a partially translucent image of Aaron had appeared. Mike blanched, swallowing hard and watching dazedly as one of the men brought up their shotgun and calmly fired. The ghost disappeared and Mike slowly lay back down, nausea roiling in his gut. Next to him Harvey groaned and struggled to sit up, pulling his feet inside so he could turn and watch the invaders in his home.
The two men were watching them with calculation, and Harvey idly wondered if they really had just saved their asses so that they could be the ones to kill them. Either way, there wasn't much he and Mike could do about it. His shoulder was causing him some pretty excruciating pain, and there was a small puddle of blood forming under Mike from the worst of his cuts. What Harvey needed to do was get to a phone to call 911, not cower while these strangers did whatever it was they wanted. Mike suddenly tilted his head back and pointed an accusing finger at the strangers.
“Oh my God! I know who you are,” Mike said, oblivious to the way the men's hands tightened on their guns as they shared an unreadable look. Harvey managed, just barely, not to roll his eyes. “I read about you on that Ghostfacers website!”
The shorter man's face contorted, like he'd just tasted something horrible, and the younger let out a relieved, exasperated laugh. Harvey leaned over as far as his shoulder would allow and spoke in a low voice to avoid the men hearing what he had to say.
“Mike, are you okay? Are you traumatized? Is that why you think you know these psychos, you're acting out, crying for help?” he asked, in all seriousness. Possibly the near-death experience was making him loopy. Mike rolled his eyes and shrugged off Harvey's concern.
“After the stacks I Googled ghosts, and a lot of the 'real,'” he framed the word with air quotes, “stories mentioned that two tall, good-looking young men had blasted in and saved the day. Shotguns and all. I mean, there can't be that many people running around dealing with the supernatural that fit that description.” Harvey tilted his head, acknowledging the point, and glanced at the men.
“How sure are you that they're not going to carve out our still beating hearts for an ancient ritual?”
“Pretty sure. And I am not Short Round,” Mike said sardonically. Mike tried to turn his head to look at the men again and failed, shutting his eyes tightly and lifting a hand to his temple as he staved off a sudden bout of dizziness. Harvey rested a hand on Mike's chest, alarmed enough that he didn't notice the men nearing him until a set of hands appeared to put pressure on the worst of Mike's cuts.
“You have a first aid kit?” the shorter one asked. Harvey nodded, motioning vaguely toward the hall before grabbing his shoulder.
“First door on the right, under the sink.” Harvey heard his footsteps crunch away as he looked back at Mike. The taller - and he could tell now, younger - man had ripped the shreds of Mike's shirt all the way open, revealing several deep but probably not life-threatening gashes. Harvey held tighter to his shoulder and grimaced as he scooted over to sit by Mike's head.
“Are you going to refuse the hospital this time, too? Those are pretty bad, Mike.”
The man glanced between the two of them, hesitant.
“If it's a problem we can patch him up, we're pretty good at this sort of thing,” he offered, and Harvey couldn't help thinking to himself that of course the psycho stalkers would want to avoid any contact with anyone likely to bring cops into the whole thing. Mike was once again oblivious and grinned up at him woozily.
“Yeah, Harvey, they can help me out, see? No problem,” Mike said, and Harvey wondered exactly how much blood he'd lost. The other man dropped to his knees on Mike's other side, first aid kit clattering down next to him, already open. He quickly drew his gaze over Mike's wounds and shared a look with his companion before pulling out the necessary tools. Mike eyed the small box with disdain and Harvey smirked at him.
“Not all of us are paranoid enough to keep a whole hospital in our bathrooms,” Harvey said, and Mike puffed up, affronted.
“What? You can never be too careful,” he said defensively, lifting his head to get a better view of what the men were doing.
“Yes, yes, you can. Pocket protectors.”
“Point,” Mike said, letting his head thud back against the floor. The younger stranger looked up at him through his bangs, worrying his lip.
“Do you have any pain meds, or anything? We're going to need to stitch him up, and we don't exactly cart around controlled substances,” he asked. Harvey shook his head and sent a quelling look to Mike. The kid had damn well better not have any, or they were going to have words.
“All I've got is scotch and some wine,” he told them, and the older one flapped a hand at him.
“Scotch, but not too much. We just want to take the edge off. We'll take care of that shoulder in a minute, too.”
Harvey managed to stand up, deciding to himself that Mike was going to have some serious extra work in his future for forcing Harvey's invalid self to play Florence Nightingale. Also for ruining his flooring by bleeding too much.
His liquor cabinet actually consisted of the cabinets under the bar dividing the kitchen from the front room rather than a fancy stand alone piece of furniture, and Harvey was thankful that the doors were made of a nice dark wood instead of the glass he tended to go for. The bar had been left essentially untouched in the midst of all the chaos.
Getting into the cabinet was both tricky and painful; he wound up having to kneel to grab the bottle, place it on the counter and then stand back up. Maybe he'd make Mike clean his apartment for a few weeks, giving his cleaning staff a break after the trauma this disaster area was sure to inflict on them. After he'd healed up, of course.
A sudden thought hit Harvey - where the hell was he going to stay? With that glass wall gone, his place was going to be unlivable. He was going to have to hire a crew to come in tomorrow and cover it up before the elements ruined anything.
All of this ran through the back of his mind while his primary focus remained where it belonged, on the two dangerous men in his apartment and the ghost. Immediately after Harvey handed the bottle off to the older one, he uncapped it and lifted Mike's head so he could swig from it. The look on Mike's face at the indescribably strong flavor was priceless (you sipped that scotch for a reason). Harvey briefly mourned the fact that after this he probably wouldn't be able to get Mike to drink that particular brand again. Maybe Mike could become a bourbon man?
Harvey sat back down by Mike's head and smoothed his hair back from his face. Mike had closed his eyes and was breathing shallowly through his mouth, woozy enough not to acknowledge the uncharacteristic gesture. Harvey kept his eyes on Mike's face, unable to stomach the view down below as they started stitching him up. Mike handled the pain admirably well, nothing but a few twitches and the deepening of the lines bracketing his mouth giving him away. Harvey forced himself not to worry about it being because of blood loss, instead chalking it up to the alcohol and the fact that Mike had dealt with a lot of cuts in the past few days. Mike squinted up at Harvey when they were almost done with the stitches.
“I think maybe I should get some health insurance,” he said, and Harvey lightly smacked the top of his head.
“Is that what all that was about? Kid, the firm offers insurance, why the hell don't you have it?”
Mike's mouth twitched and he looked away from Harvey, uncomfortable.
“I, uh... IthoughtIdidntneedit,” he mumbled, and Harvey quirked an eyebrow. He tapped Mike's forehead so he'd look at him again, and Mike reluctantly met his eyes.
“I thought I didn't need it,” he said more clearly, and Harvey let Mike's embarrassment over the horrible decision do his work for him. There would be a better time for that particular conversation.
Mike winced as they tightened the final stitch and began work on treating the less serious wounds. The younger man stood and turned his attention to Harvey.
“If I set that now, it'll hurt less, and it's too dangerous to leave the salt lines. Do you have a sling anywhere?”
Harvey held up a hand to stave him off, ignoring Mike's quiet, “Ha! I knew they were salt lines!”
“What the hell do you mean, it's too dangerous? I don't exactly see anything trying to kill us right now.” The older man glanced at him incredulously before looking to his companion as though for permission to slap Harvey down. The younger man gave him an 'I got this' look and faced Harvey again, a pacifying smile curling his lips to match his beseeching puppy eyes.
“Nothing's trying to kill you right now because we put those lines in place. If they get messed up, the ghost will be right back in here to finish what it started.” Harvey gave him a lizard stare and Mike nodded like it was the smartest thing he'd ever heard someone say. Harvey tamped down the urge to smack his associate silly since it really wasn't his fault. The guy sucked air through his teeth and grasped for the right words before the older one got tired of waiting, stepped in and took over.
“Look, dude,” he started and Harvey bristled internally. “The two of you were in that bar the other night talking about ghosts, and apparently you were right. Now you look like the kind of man that is the best at everything he does, and you gotta understand that when it comes to ghosts and all the crazy stuff like that? Me and my brother here are the best.
“So when we say that you shouldn't disturb those weird lines of salt? You should just take our word for it, sit down, and shut up. We'll take care of this problem for you and then you can go back to living your lives,” he finished. Mike was staring up at him with wide eyes from his spot on the floor.
“He hasn't killed you yet,” he told the guy, wonderment in his voice. “You must be some kind of bad-ass dude.” The man snorted and ignored him, keeping his eyes firmly on Harvey's.
Harvey considered his words, generously ignoring the blatant disrespect. Damn kids these days. He sighed.
“I don't suppose you could tell us exactly why the salt is going to keep a ghost away?” he asked, and the guy glanced at (apparently) his brother with a smug, self-satisfied look.
“I'll leave that for the geek boy. Sling?”
“Same room, there's a closet in there that has some random junk in it,” Harvey told him. He cast an appraising eye over the younger brother as the elder walked off, debating whether he trusted him to put the couch back where it belonged. The man followed his gaze to the couch before he'd fully made up his mind and rolled his eyes.
“Yes, I'll move your couch if you want to sit down,” he said. “Why are yuppies always such a pain? Worse than getting things out of Dean, I swear,” he muttered to himself, but he made easy work of the couch as his brother returned with the sling. They didn't say anything, but the sling was handed off and the older one (Dean?) picked Mike up and placed him gently on one half of the couch, leaving his legs dangling off the side so that Harvey would have a place to sit down. He headed to the kitchen and Harvey didn't bother wondering what he was going to do - now that it was about to be fixed his shoulder was making sure its complaints were heard loud and clear.
He sat down carefully, doing his best to ensure that Mike wasn't jarred. He didn't know if the kid had hit his head or if it was just an effect of the blood loss, but he was acting very out of it. Harvey was finding it a little hard to worry with the bizarreness of their situation getting in the way and stealing his attention, but the kid hadn't bled out yet, so that was something.
“What are your names?” Harvey asked the tall one, and he looked up, unsurprised but uneasy about the question.
“I'm Sam, that's Dean,” he said after a beat, the lack of last names both obvious and ominous. Harvey felt a headache start in his temples from irritation; this kid was one to talk about yuppies being a pain. He kept his opinions to himself, trusting that his typical poker face would keep him from ticking off the loons on accident. Dean reappeared with a broom and swept away as much of the glass as he could from next to the couch; Sam knelt down and had Harvey arrange himself to his liking before reaching for his arm and doing the deed. Harvey clenched his jaw against the spike of molten agony, but it really was better once popped back into place. He clutched at it protectively, visions of his doctor chewing him out for not immediately going to see him dancing in his head.
Harvey opened his eyes to find that Sam was leaning over Mike, lifting his chin so that he could get a good look at his eyes. Satisfied with whatever it was he'd seen (or not seen, as the case may be), he stepped back and surveyed the apartment. There weren't any chairs left untouched, so he simply brushed away the glass remaining on the table's frame and sat down where he stood. Dean arranged himself against the wall, leaning back in a pseudo casual pose. On the surface they were relaxed, but their tightly wound muscles gave away their nerves.
“We're going to need you to answer a few questions,” Sam started. Harvey watched him coolly but didn't say he wouldn't, and that was enough for him to continue.
“You saw the ghost earlier; was it the associate that died in the accident a few days ago?”
“Yes, it was.” Harvey wet his lips and glanced at Mike before asking his next question. “Do you know why... he is after Mike?”
“We're not really sure,” Sam said, tilting his head. “Usually ghosts hang around because of negative feelings or unfinished business. Did Mike do something to him, or was he jealous of him?”
“He was probably jealous,” Harvey said thoughtfully. “The guy wasn't anything special, I couldn't even remember his name. I picked Mike to work for the firm myself, and at least one of the other partners is always paying attention to him.”
Harvey wasn't really skeptical of that being a good enough reason to haunt someone - people were petty and emotions were by definition not rational. He'd run into more stupid reasons for murder than he'd have thought possible during his stint as an ADA. Sam didn't seem very surprised either, but if they really went around chasing ghosts then he'd probably seen worse reasons for a haunting. He glanced at Dean, but the man hadn't moved an inch; he was staring intently at Harvey's face, expression a stoic mask.
“Do you know where Aaron's body is being held?” Sam asked, and Harvey looked at him like he was crazy. Which he obviously was, asking questions like that. Sam held his hands up defensively.
“I need to know, and, no, we're not crazy.”
Harvey shook his head, for once glad that he didn't know the answer. He didn't want to be a party to whatever it is these two were going to do, just in case they got caught and he needed plausible deniability. Sam watched him like he couldn't decide whether or not Harvey was lying.
“You're sure you don't know?”
“Very sure,” Harvey told him. It was probably a good thing that Mike was out of it, he was pretty sure the kid would know. He cared like that. Sam sighed and stood up, hands on his hips as he and his brother shared a look. Dean propelled himself away from the wall and went over to where he'd left their canvas bag of tricks.
“We're going to go take care of the ghost. Can I trust that you're going to stay inside the salt lines? If we're not here to help the two of you could get seriously fucked up,” Sam said, and Harvey was suddenly exhausted. Too exhausted to protest, too exhausted to care.
“I have some stuff that has to be done at the office tomorrow, when will you be done?”
“It'll all be over by morning,” Sam said, and the confidence in his voice both lifted Harvey's flagging spirits and made him fear for his sanity.
“Yeah, we'll stay.” Harvey gathered his thoughts for a moment before continuing. “Assuming we believe you, what the hell are we supposed to do about this - ghost?”
Dean finally spoke up from his corner.
“Nothing. You don't need to know what we're going to do, but it'll get done. You just go to work tomorrow like normal and make sure to keep your friend here close by.”
“Are we - ” Harvey began, but Dean interrupted before he could even finish the question.
“No, you won't be seeing us again, so don't do anything stupid.”
Sam nodded in agreement and Dean appeared at his shoulder. Harvey closed his eyes and leaned his head back, and when he opened them again the men were gone. He rolled his head to check on Mike and found his eyes slitted open and focused on him.
“How are you doing, Mike?” he asked, and Mike gave a minute shrug.
“Very fuzzy. Everything's all... swimmy,” he said, and Harvey snorted. He dropped a hand on Mike's knee and lightly shook it.
“I think you need some sleep. I'm going to trust that you're not going to die on me tonight, all right? You'd better not disappoint me,” he told him. Mike scoffed and his eyes slid shut, like it was all he could do to stay awake. It probably was. Harvey looked around and spotted the sling hanging off the table's frame and a couple of salt canisters right next to it on the floor. He caught it up in one hand and put it on, the ceasing of a low-grade pain he hadn't even been aware of suffusing him with relief. He stood and looked down on Mike, trying to figure out the logistics of getting a near-comatose associate to his bedroom one-handed.
“Mike,” he said, and Mike cracked open an eye. “Can you get up and walk if I help?”
Mike's brow creased in concentration, but he nodded and started pushing himself into a sitting position. His arms were weak as a kitten's and shaking something fierce, so Harvey came around to his side and helped with an arm around his back, throwing his weight behind holding Mike up. A few false starts later he was upright and at least partially aware; Harvey left him wavering in place long enough to grab the salt before guiding him towards the hall. He noticed the salt lines in front of all the windows and thought it was a little ridiculous with how far above the ground level they were. Could ghosts get in through windows that were so high up? He shook off the thoughts irritably and helped Mike sit down on the bed, trying to ignore his hiss at the pain. Despite his best effort, he couldn't quite squash his instinct to help.
“I'll be right back,” he said, pushing Mike back down on the bed. He quickly made the few trips necessary to grab all the pillows from the guest bedroom, bringing them back to arrange against Mike's sides and stomach for extra support. Mike curled an arm around the one on his torso and made a little humming noise low in his throat. It made Harvey's hand itch to run over Mike's hair once again and he moved away, uncomfortable. He left Mike alone long enough to hunt up a bottle of ibuprofen and a glass of water for himself, and when he came back his associate was dead to the world, breathing soft and even.
He peeled off Mike's shoes and took care of his nightly ablutions before draping a spare blanket over Mike to ward against the cold coming in through the wrecked window wall and crawling into bed. It wasn't long before he was asleep himself, the soothing sound of Mike's breathing and the stress of the day seducing him into the darkness before he knew it was even happening.
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