[Suits Fic]: Withdrawal Symptoms - T - 1/1
A/N: I made a new community for USA Network's Suits - usa_suits - and wrote this so it wouldn't be depressingly empty. Hopefully, people will be less shy about posting their own works now. =)
Title: Withdrawal Symptoms
Disclaimer: I, ladyknightanka, do not own Suits. Underlined things and pop-culture references aren't mine. Please don't replicate my silly work without permission.
Warnings: T for possible future slash and mentions of drug and alcohol use.
Other Notes: ~1500w. Harvey/Mike pre-slash or friendship.
Summary: Mike suffers from withdrawal symptoms and takes the day off. Harvey might not admit it, but he's worried, so he drops by to visit his sick protege.
-
Withdrawal Symptoms
-
In retrospect, Mike Ross really should have known this would happen. He was a genius, after all.
The fact of the matter was, however, that he hadn't realized it would be so difficult to uphold his half of the bargain: to give up his addiction cold turkey.
Or maybe he'd figured, like everything else he'd ever done, an obstacle like withdrawal wouldn't apply to him. Again, his one hundred eighty five IQ probably didn't help to rein in his ego.
But marijuana did not care about quotients of any kind. It cared about an estimated ten days' worth of symptoms - including, but not limited to, anxiety, irritability, increase of aggression, headaches, stomachaches, insomnia, decrease in appetite and in mood.
The first three were bad enough, making his already stressful work environment, in which he could get fired at the drop of a hat, even more of a living hell. Just yesterday, he'd bitten off Rachel's head - in fairness, after she'd characteristically bit his off - and now he was banned from visiting her office for the help he sorely, perhaps daily needed.
The following four, though...they were the kicker.
He was sick - sicker than he had been since he'd gone binge drinking after his parents' death - and this time, his sweet, stern grandmother wasn't there to wipe the sweat from his brow, to force-feed him homemade meals or his medicine, to boulder through his mercurial shifts of temper with her unconditional affection. This time, he was all alone.
His head had been throbbing like the tempo of a mariachi band for so long that he wondered if his brain - his most precious tool - would soon bleed out of his ears. After not sleeping for seventy two hours straight, thoughts like that actually weren't so strange. He was just relieved that the fantasy of Harvey in a Donkey Kong suit had finally dissipated.
And it didn't help that his aforementioned, pounding head was also light from lack of food, as well as the nausea that came from swallowing unwanted nutrients down with water, only to throw it back up when his stomach ritually protested.
With his boss's habit of swiping his coffee as soon as the vendor handed it to him, even that caffeinated panacea was painfully out of his reach, which left him with but one choice: calling out of work.
Damn. Harvey was going to be pissed.
-
“Are you sure you aren't faking?” a suspicious Donna probed. The pursed set of her lips softened as she listened to the mumbling on the other line, before she continued, “Well, okay then, I'll let him know. You rest, but not too much, Mister!”
Harvey Specter watched his secretary hang up her phone through the glass wall that separated them, his eyes narrowed. “Who was that?” he inquired loudly.
Donna smiled at his usual habit of forgoing the push of the button that would put them into contact with each other, though it was considerably more professional. Some things never changed, even after so many years.
“Mike,” she informed him simply, while sifting through the next batch of files on her desk.
Predictably, Harvey whined, “Donna,” and she smirked.
“He's sick, Harvey. Poor kid can't get out of bed, much less come in today,” she said, then frowned when she caught the unguarded, almost worried fall of his face. “Are you actually upset that you have to do that pro bono case yourself now?” she added, if only to dispel her own nagging discomfort over him genuinely caring about someone. After all, hadn't she just noticed how much he hadn't changed?
“Hm?” Harvey replied, still staring distractedly down at one of the autographed baseballs on his desk, as if it held all the answers to the universe's mysteries. After a moment, he glanced up at her, wearing a dejected, pitiful mask. “Yeah, that's it. Now I have to work for free, unless...”
Donna snorted. “No way, Harvey. That puppy dog look works better for Mike. You'll just have to do what you promised Mrs. Pearson. It is your job.”
Harvey grimaced and stood up, stretching till an audible pop was heard, then stalked out of his office, a lion on the prowl.
Donna watched him go with her eyebrows arched, and nine hours later, she noted with curiosity how his limo drove off in the opposite direction.
There went her hope of things staying the same.
-
It was the knocking that woke Mike up. Maybe it wasn't the wisest course of action, since they dropped him flat on his ass within minutes of him taking them, but he had popped a couple of sleeping pills after talking to Donna, so he could go to work the next morning without offending Harvey's delicate sensibilities with the raccoon circles around his eyes.
He figured it was his landlord. Sure, Pearson Hardman paid more than he'd ever before comprehended, but with his grandmother's piling medical bills and his own exacerbating costs from prior to his accumulating a job, he hadn't yet had the chance to pay his rent. Hopefully, Mr. Edwards would give him an extension and then he could beg his boss for a cash advance.
Imagine his surprise when he came upon said boss squirming at his doorstep, eyes shifting from one end of his dirty hallway to the other, with bags of, if Mike's nose was correct, Chinese food hanging from his clenched fists. He had a feeling the wrapped boxes inside cost a lot more than the entirety of the restaurant he himself frequented, a block from his apartment.
“Whuh're ya doin' here, Harvey?” he slurred, his exhaustion making his tongue too heavy to lift and distinctly cottony.
The older man's wary gaze flicked back to his face, then took in his rumpled appearance, absorbing the pajama pants that hung off his narrow hips and the huge shirt - a signed football jersey he'd won at a fantasy sports competition - that swam on his scrawny torso. Mike darkened to a brighter red, only half due to the slight, fever-induced rise in his temperature.
Harvey, however, didn't jump at the occasion to mock him, as expected. Instead, he said, “May I come in?” He pushed past his weakened employee before Mike could reply and regarded the apartment's interior with a snobbishly upturned nose. “Well...” he continued, “this is exactly how I pictured it: cluttered, claustrophobic, possibly contaminated. But at least it's less likely I'd get mugged in here. I hope.”
Mike bristled at the flurry of insults and muttered, “What are you doing here?” again, this time more concisely, if through gritted teeth.
“Why, I brought soup, of course,” Harvey answered, offering him a surprisingly genuine smile as he handed him one of the bags, pleasant heat radiating from it and into his cold fingers. “The diseased do enjoy soup, don't they?”
“I have a cold, not a disease,” Mike snapped, but he had to admit, the gesture was sweet, especially since the aroma of the food hadn't yet sent him running to the toilet. “Thanks,” he mumbled begrudgingly.
“You're welcome,” Harvey replied, still smiling in an insouciant manner, and it was a nice moment between them. Then, he took a manila folder out of his other bag, puffing his chest proudly like he'd done the world some great service, and the moment was shattered. “Do make sure to keep the documents clean, won't you?” he had the audacity to request.
Mike's eyes rolled up to the heavens - or, to be more accurate, to his dripping, stained ceiling - but what came out of his mouth was, “Yes, sir.”
If the latter word sounded more like an obscenity than something grateful, Harvey chose not to comment. So much for a display of gratuitous kindness.
-
The next morning, Mike awoke to the smell of eggs, blinking when he found a chair-cushion mere inches from his face.
It had been pushed up practically against his bedside - although he couldn't recall heading to bed last night - and, when he reached out blindly to touch it, it still felt warm.
Someone had been sitting on it, up until recently, but his apartment was as empty - as lonely - as always when he eventually recovered the energy to get up, though there was a somewhat burnt breakfast waiting for him in his tiny kitchen.
However, he saw a limo parked outside his apartment, fifteen minutes later, and the driver refused to let him unlock his bike from its stand.
“I have strict orders from Mr. Specter,” the well-dressed man said stiffly, after Mike finally relented and slipped into the backseat.
“Huh,” Mike murmured, more to himself than the irate driver.
Harvey Specter, hot shot lawyer, really did give a damn about him, even if he would eternally, vehemently deny it.
When a hesitant Rachel cautiously inquired after his health, Mike could honestly say that he was feeling a lot better.
He went through the rest of the day with a grin fixed firmly on his face, no matter what impossible tasks Louis or Harvey threw his way.
-
La Fin
-
A/N: If it sucked or anyone was out of character, I apologize. I've had quite the case of writer's block lately, but someone had to get this ball rolling, right? Please leave comments/critique/flung poop by sacrificing a virgin. Don't do it in reality, though, 'cause that's not exactly legal. ;)
Title: Withdrawal Symptoms
Disclaimer: I, ladyknightanka, do not own Suits. Underlined things and pop-culture references aren't mine. Please don't replicate my silly work without permission.
Warnings: T for possible future slash and mentions of drug and alcohol use.
Other Notes: ~1500w. Harvey/Mike pre-slash or friendship.
Summary: Mike suffers from withdrawal symptoms and takes the day off. Harvey might not admit it, but he's worried, so he drops by to visit his sick protege.
-
Withdrawal Symptoms
-
In retrospect, Mike Ross really should have known this would happen. He was a genius, after all.
The fact of the matter was, however, that he hadn't realized it would be so difficult to uphold his half of the bargain: to give up his addiction cold turkey.
Or maybe he'd figured, like everything else he'd ever done, an obstacle like withdrawal wouldn't apply to him. Again, his one hundred eighty five IQ probably didn't help to rein in his ego.
But marijuana did not care about quotients of any kind. It cared about an estimated ten days' worth of symptoms - including, but not limited to, anxiety, irritability, increase of aggression, headaches, stomachaches, insomnia, decrease in appetite and in mood.
The first three were bad enough, making his already stressful work environment, in which he could get fired at the drop of a hat, even more of a living hell. Just yesterday, he'd bitten off Rachel's head - in fairness, after she'd characteristically bit his off - and now he was banned from visiting her office for the help he sorely, perhaps daily needed.
The following four, though...they were the kicker.
He was sick - sicker than he had been since he'd gone binge drinking after his parents' death - and this time, his sweet, stern grandmother wasn't there to wipe the sweat from his brow, to force-feed him homemade meals or his medicine, to boulder through his mercurial shifts of temper with her unconditional affection. This time, he was all alone.
His head had been throbbing like the tempo of a mariachi band for so long that he wondered if his brain - his most precious tool - would soon bleed out of his ears. After not sleeping for seventy two hours straight, thoughts like that actually weren't so strange. He was just relieved that the fantasy of Harvey in a Donkey Kong suit had finally dissipated.
And it didn't help that his aforementioned, pounding head was also light from lack of food, as well as the nausea that came from swallowing unwanted nutrients down with water, only to throw it back up when his stomach ritually protested.
With his boss's habit of swiping his coffee as soon as the vendor handed it to him, even that caffeinated panacea was painfully out of his reach, which left him with but one choice: calling out of work.
Damn. Harvey was going to be pissed.
-
“Are you sure you aren't faking?” a suspicious Donna probed. The pursed set of her lips softened as she listened to the mumbling on the other line, before she continued, “Well, okay then, I'll let him know. You rest, but not too much, Mister!”
Harvey Specter watched his secretary hang up her phone through the glass wall that separated them, his eyes narrowed. “Who was that?” he inquired loudly.
Donna smiled at his usual habit of forgoing the push of the button that would put them into contact with each other, though it was considerably more professional. Some things never changed, even after so many years.
“Mike,” she informed him simply, while sifting through the next batch of files on her desk.
Predictably, Harvey whined, “Donna,” and she smirked.
“He's sick, Harvey. Poor kid can't get out of bed, much less come in today,” she said, then frowned when she caught the unguarded, almost worried fall of his face. “Are you actually upset that you have to do that pro bono case yourself now?” she added, if only to dispel her own nagging discomfort over him genuinely caring about someone. After all, hadn't she just noticed how much he hadn't changed?
“Hm?” Harvey replied, still staring distractedly down at one of the autographed baseballs on his desk, as if it held all the answers to the universe's mysteries. After a moment, he glanced up at her, wearing a dejected, pitiful mask. “Yeah, that's it. Now I have to work for free, unless...”
Donna snorted. “No way, Harvey. That puppy dog look works better for Mike. You'll just have to do what you promised Mrs. Pearson. It is your job.”
Harvey grimaced and stood up, stretching till an audible pop was heard, then stalked out of his office, a lion on the prowl.
Donna watched him go with her eyebrows arched, and nine hours later, she noted with curiosity how his limo drove off in the opposite direction.
There went her hope of things staying the same.
-
It was the knocking that woke Mike up. Maybe it wasn't the wisest course of action, since they dropped him flat on his ass within minutes of him taking them, but he had popped a couple of sleeping pills after talking to Donna, so he could go to work the next morning without offending Harvey's delicate sensibilities with the raccoon circles around his eyes.
He figured it was his landlord. Sure, Pearson Hardman paid more than he'd ever before comprehended, but with his grandmother's piling medical bills and his own exacerbating costs from prior to his accumulating a job, he hadn't yet had the chance to pay his rent. Hopefully, Mr. Edwards would give him an extension and then he could beg his boss for a cash advance.
Imagine his surprise when he came upon said boss squirming at his doorstep, eyes shifting from one end of his dirty hallway to the other, with bags of, if Mike's nose was correct, Chinese food hanging from his clenched fists. He had a feeling the wrapped boxes inside cost a lot more than the entirety of the restaurant he himself frequented, a block from his apartment.
“Whuh're ya doin' here, Harvey?” he slurred, his exhaustion making his tongue too heavy to lift and distinctly cottony.
The older man's wary gaze flicked back to his face, then took in his rumpled appearance, absorbing the pajama pants that hung off his narrow hips and the huge shirt - a signed football jersey he'd won at a fantasy sports competition - that swam on his scrawny torso. Mike darkened to a brighter red, only half due to the slight, fever-induced rise in his temperature.
Harvey, however, didn't jump at the occasion to mock him, as expected. Instead, he said, “May I come in?” He pushed past his weakened employee before Mike could reply and regarded the apartment's interior with a snobbishly upturned nose. “Well...” he continued, “this is exactly how I pictured it: cluttered, claustrophobic, possibly contaminated. But at least it's less likely I'd get mugged in here. I hope.”
Mike bristled at the flurry of insults and muttered, “What are you doing here?” again, this time more concisely, if through gritted teeth.
“Why, I brought soup, of course,” Harvey answered, offering him a surprisingly genuine smile as he handed him one of the bags, pleasant heat radiating from it and into his cold fingers. “The diseased do enjoy soup, don't they?”
“I have a cold, not a disease,” Mike snapped, but he had to admit, the gesture was sweet, especially since the aroma of the food hadn't yet sent him running to the toilet. “Thanks,” he mumbled begrudgingly.
“You're welcome,” Harvey replied, still smiling in an insouciant manner, and it was a nice moment between them. Then, he took a manila folder out of his other bag, puffing his chest proudly like he'd done the world some great service, and the moment was shattered. “Do make sure to keep the documents clean, won't you?” he had the audacity to request.
Mike's eyes rolled up to the heavens - or, to be more accurate, to his dripping, stained ceiling - but what came out of his mouth was, “Yes, sir.”
If the latter word sounded more like an obscenity than something grateful, Harvey chose not to comment. So much for a display of gratuitous kindness.
-
The next morning, Mike awoke to the smell of eggs, blinking when he found a chair-cushion mere inches from his face.
It had been pushed up practically against his bedside - although he couldn't recall heading to bed last night - and, when he reached out blindly to touch it, it still felt warm.
Someone had been sitting on it, up until recently, but his apartment was as empty - as lonely - as always when he eventually recovered the energy to get up, though there was a somewhat burnt breakfast waiting for him in his tiny kitchen.
However, he saw a limo parked outside his apartment, fifteen minutes later, and the driver refused to let him unlock his bike from its stand.
“I have strict orders from Mr. Specter,” the well-dressed man said stiffly, after Mike finally relented and slipped into the backseat.
“Huh,” Mike murmured, more to himself than the irate driver.
Harvey Specter, hot shot lawyer, really did give a damn about him, even if he would eternally, vehemently deny it.
When a hesitant Rachel cautiously inquired after his health, Mike could honestly say that he was feeling a lot better.
He went through the rest of the day with a grin fixed firmly on his face, no matter what impossible tasks Louis or Harvey threw his way.
-
La Fin
-
A/N: If it sucked or anyone was out of character, I apologize. I've had quite the case of writer's block lately, but someone had to get this ball rolling, right? Please leave comments/critique/flung poop by sacrificing a virgin. Don't do it in reality, though, 'cause that's not exactly legal. ;)