[suitsbigbang fic]: Chicken Soup for the Cursed Soul - NC-17 - 1/3
BACK TO MASTERPOST!
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Chapter One: The Ross Family Reunion
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Caroline Ross - known as Carol to all her loved ones - had just finished tucking her seven year old grandson in when she got the call.
They had been reading Alice in Wonderland, which always amused them both, but she felt all mirth melt away when the cautious, unfamiliar male voice on the other line inquired, “Is this the mother of Lilian C. Ross?”
“Mother-in-law,” she murmured, her level voice belying the rushed tempo of her heart. “I'm Gabriel's mother, though - Gabriel Ross, Lily's husband.”
There was a pause. She dreaded what was to come, her own words lodged in her throat. She didn't want to provoke a response. Then, the man said, “We'd appreciate it if you could come down to the hospital, ma’am. There's been an...accident.”
Carol barely waited long enough to get the directions - there were far too many hospitals in New York and she hated the urgent need for them - before she was begging Jane, the sweet young woman next door, to watch over Mike while she was gone. Her watery eyes probably did wonders to convince the girl, but Carol was beyond caring about composure.
It was a bit chilly outside, the sky a black-blue splattered with stars, but she barely noticed. Her brain ran through a million different scenarios while she drove, faster than she had in years. Why had they called for Lily and not her son? What could have happened? Had they even made it to Mike's parent-teacher conference? What could a first grader's teacher possibly have to say that was so pressing, so late in the day?
She hurried through the automatic hospital doors, tugging her worn shawl closer to fight the nightly drop of temperature, and stopped in front of the receptionist's desk. “I'm here to see Gabriel and Lilian Ross,” she informed the bespectacled young man behind it.
He smiled at her genially, which helped to ease her nerves, but a shadow passed over his face, quickly tamed into passivity, as soon as he regarded the information on the computer screen, and she just knew - motherly instinct, she might later relate to others. At that moment, however, all she felt was an imaginary fist squeezing her heart into pulp.
“Mrs. Ross is still in surgery, but you can wait inside, ma'am. The doctor will be with you shortly,” the receptionist said, tone gentle and pitying. She nodded and hardly felt her neck creak. 'Shortly' soon became an hour, filled with numb thoughtlessness and blank stares toward the operation theater entrance. Lily was in surgery; why hadn't he mentioned Gabriel?
She was in such a stupor that she nearly missed it when the doctor finally did exit. The sight of blood - her family's blood - on his starkly white coat rose bile in her throat, but she stood up to greet him nonetheless. Her vision spun and blurred at the motion. Beside them, a body was wheeled away on a stretcher, its face hidden by a white sheet.
“I'm Carol Ross, Gabriel's mother. What's happened, Doctor?” she asked, wringing her weathered hands together. Her warm brown eyes tracked the frenzied orderlies through yet another door.
“I am Ash Charya, your daughter-in-law's head physician,” the doctor said, leading her back to the waiting room seats and taking one at her side. “I'm so sorry, Carol. Your son died on impact.” Carol's stomach dropped at the words and she wanted nothing more than to fall apart, right there on the clean linoleum floors, to let her tears mix with the nearby janitor's soapy water onto the tiles. However, Doctor Charya, after a pause that didn't last nearly long enough, kept speaking. Carol forced herself to listen.
Her son's car had abruptly swerved out of control. No other drivers were at fault. In fact, the police were still investigating the charred wreck of the small sedan, but had yet to determine what caused the crash. Gabriel had been hit dead on, had died instantly, while Lily scarcely avoided the same fate.
“She's not doing well,” Doctor Charya began, low and grave. “There was a lot of damage done to her skull and we did our best to staunch the bleeding inside, but it's miraculous enough that she's even still awake, with the brain damage. You should go see her now, if you have any last...goodbyes.”
Carol nodded and accepted his offered hand, allowing him to walk her to Lily's - likely temporary - room, located in the ICU. The sight of her beautiful daughter-in-law jellied her already weak knees and left Carol grateful for the doctor's help.
Most of Lily's fair blond hair, a trait she had passed on to little Mike, had either been shaved for the surgery or burned during the crash, and what remained was stained with both dry and fresh blood. Her face was an unrecognizable mess, save for the glassy blue eyes that blinked at them from behind bruised eyelids, and her bandaged fingers beckoned Carol forward weakly, the arms attached trapped in heavy casts.
Doctor Charya took this opportunity to draw back. His hand brushed Carol's shoulder once, before the two women were left alone. “Hello, d-dear,” Carol whispered, steeling herself enough to walk forward and sit on the provided chair, her hand immediately seeking her daughter-in-law's.
Lily had always been more like a daughter than merely her son's wife. She had no family of her own, the poor girl, having lost them when she was young, and Gabriel fell for her at first sight when they met in Canada, where he was participating in an international teacher's convention and she was an art store clerk. He didn't want to leave her behind after it ended, so he proposed and Lily accepted, finally finding the home she'd always wanted.
Carol had initially been wary of the whirlwind romance, but Lily was fiercely protective of them all, cherishing them to the point of paranoia, as if they'd be stolen away the minute she turned her head. She treated Gabriel well and considered Carol her mother but, most of all, Lily gifted her with the most beautiful grandson in the world.
The thought of Mike broke Carol's heart all over again and Lily, even in her battered daze, seemed to sense that. “M-Mikey?” she mumbled, most of her teeth gone and her mouth a gaping red.
“At home, sweetheart, perfectly safe,” Carol reassured her. She gave her daughter-in-law's hand another squeeze. “It's you I'm worried about.”
Lily was quiet for a moment. Carol feared she would press the matter, but instead, she ceased to ask about Mike any longer. What tumbled out of her was far more surreal - stories too horribly imaginative to ever share with their seven year old baby.
Carol felt herself blanch with every new word, until finally, Lily hushed. Her lids drooped heavily, as curtains heaved and fell at a grand performance's end. With her last breath, she said two words, “My journal...” Then she was gone.
Carol sat there for the longest time and stared disbelievingly at Lily's corpse. Doctors and nurses passed through in a rush, emotions flitting too quickly over their faces to catch, but Doctor Charya soon ended the charade with another solemn shake of his head.
“I'm sorry,” he said again, to which Carol nodded and shakily stood up. She declined his aid when he volunteered to escort her out, and left the medical staff to take care of her daughter-in-law's remains. Slowly, she walked through the quiet halls and to the parking lot.
She drove home, somehow managing the journey with unseeing eyes, then stirred when she heard desperate shushing sounds and her grandson's wails. Jane was in Mike's guest room, her arms around the distraught boy, and she looked up gratefully at Carol arrival.
“What happened?” Carol inquired, unintentionally sharp. “You didn't tell him, did you?”
“No, of course not,” Jane replied, smoothing a hand down Mike's wet cheek. “He just woke up and wouldn't stop crying.”
In a few days, Carol would heed Lily's dying words and find the journal - one that she had seen often and had assumed was simply a well-guarded diary - in her son's home. She would find graphic drawings and an impressive list of phone numbers inside, which would only corroborate the nightmare she'd heard, and she'd locate someone to avenge her family's untimely death. Right then, however, she took her grandson into her arms and rocked him, till Jane shut the door behind her and returned to her own house.
Like endlessly deep rabbit holes and cruel queens of heart, none of this made sense anymore.
-
It was the scratching sound that woke Mike, dull like shoes scuffing across the cheap carpet outside his bedroom. He'd always been a heavy sleeper, especially since he'd begun running himself ragged at work, so he might have been inclined to ignore it, but Morpheus never failed to release him after the dream: the one that recollected the night of his parents' death. He hadn't had it in a while.
Afterward, he was always left hyper-aware. His skin stretched too thin over his bones, his breath puffed audibly, and the faint noise outside became perceptible again, the thump-thump of human footsteps.
Mike shot up in bed, pulling crumpled sheets around his shirtless form, and scoped the dark depths of his room. The blinds on his window had been damaged not long ago, so moonlight seeped in freely, weakened only by the cover of wispy clouds.
For a long time, a whole five minutes, he sat like that, frozen, and dismissed the urge to burrow back under his blankets like a frightened child. They wouldn't find anything, anyway, and then they'd leave, simple as that.
Curiosity congealed with his nerves, however, and his urge to explore won out over blissful ignorance. Mike slowly slipped out of bed. His hands found the closest weapon within reach - a small desk lamp in the shape of a Jedi - which helped to bolster his courage.
He quietly skulked toward the door, the green and red luminescence of Luke Skywalker's lightsaber brightening his path, but he couldn't quite contain his relief when a quick sweep of his living room confirmed that it, at least, was empty of anything but its usual clutter. The shadows that shifted menacingly from beneath the brim of his kitchen door determinedly attested otherwise. Mike's ears started to thrum in time with the frantic beat of his heart.
He reached out to set his hand on the knob and felt the contours of the dented metal on it, but pulled back as if his palm had burned when it began to turn in his grasp. Before he could retreat enough steps, the door thrust open and hit him square in the face. His lamp dashed against the floor. Mike made a sound suspiciously like a squeak at the dark form that bore down on him.
It whipped him around so he couldn't see its face. A decidedly male arm, or that of a very athletic woman, wrapped around his neck, not quite tight enough to actually hurt him. Despite his genius IQ, Mike had no idea what to do. Struggling might get him killed. Not struggling might do the same. Either way, he was screwed.
The thought was only cemented when he heard another sound behind him and his attacker: the muffled shift of clothes. Another person was there, too. Breaking the silence, the newcomer made an annoyed, guttural sound in the back of their throat.
“Dean, cut it out! You're going to hurt him!” a vaguely familiar voice interjected.
The arm only clinched around Mike's head in response. A fist came up to nuzzle abrasively into his already unruly blond hair, before he was abruptly released with a final, teasing pat on the seat of his pajama sweatpants.
Mike turned around, eyes huge with wonder, and gaped at the intruders. One grinned wildly while the other offered an apologetic smile. Both matched cameos from almost twenty years ago, posed in ancient picture-frames on his mantle, with everyone else long gone.
The first man looked older than Mike remembered, not only because it was literally true, but because of the hollow cheeks in his otherwise handsome face, unshaven and uncared for. Although his green eyes had a haunted quality to them, as well, they were practically identical to that of the surly teenager who'd been left on his grandmother's doorstep, shaggy-haired ten year old in tow, once upon a time.
At first glance, the second man, towering over Mike and his partner, didn't seem very different at all, since Mike had seen him more recently - or as recent as a decade could be - but there was just something off about him. His brown hair hung in a bedraggled curtain around gaunt, bruised eyes of a darker verdant shade, and his once genuine, boyish smile was forced now.
“Dean?” Mike finally found the composure to inquire. “Sam?”
“In the flesh,” Dean replied, his smirk not waning in the slightest. He kicked Mike's forgotten lamp with the toe of one boot and tutted disparagingly. “Dude, Luke Skywalker? If you're gonna come at me with geek paraphernalia, try to pick something a bit more badass, like Han Solo. He got the girl, after all.”
“Dean,” Sam broke in, his arms crossed over a muscle shirt that peeked out from under his beat up jacket, “Luke is a prophesied Jedi warrior and a skilled pilot. That, in itself, makes him more formidable than Han, and the only reason his relationship with Leia didn't progress is obviously because she's his sister.”
Dean snorted in protest, but Mike interrupted before he could speak. “Not that I mind this scintillating discussion about Star Wars or anything-” God knew everyone at work slammed him down with extreme prejudice whenever he made a reference, “-but what are you guys doing here? I haven't seen you since...”
“Stanford,” Sam finished for him. He frowned, as if even the mockery of the smile he had was impossible to preserve. “Not since I left for school.”
Mike nodded mutely, the memory of an angry, helpless Sam fresh in his mind, waiting at their door with all of his bags. He could probably recount Sam and his grandmother's conversation - about Sam running away after a fight with his father - word for word, despite it being a lifetime ago.
“I don't even know when,” Dean added. He waved his hand breezily.
Mike stared at him for a moment, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, then tiredly exhaled. “Twelve years, two months, two weeks and fifteen days. That's how long it's been.”
When the number had been considerably less than that, merely two years between visits, Mike had been heartbroken. His brash, brave eldest cousin had been his hero since they first met and he couldn't wrap his thirteen year old head around why Dean stayed away. After Stanford, though, he got a gist. Even if Dean had initially been nothing more than too busy, there was no way he could forgive the Rosses for helping Sam abandon him and Uncle John - no way he didn't blame them for it, at least partially, even though Sam never came to see them, either. He'd left while Mike was at school, not even giving him the chance to say goodbye.
As if sensing his thoughts, an uncanny skill he'd always had, Dean's ever-present smirk tightened around his lips. “Oh yeah, I forgot about that freaky memory thing of yours,” was all he said.
Mike forced a chuckle, unsure how to respond to that. Thankfully, Sam spared him the effort to explain, “We're, uh, here on business, I guess you could say.”
“Okay,” Mike said. He knew better than to ask what the business was, after twenty years. Neither Uncle John nor Grammy had done anything but dodge the subject, except to say that it was how the two halves of Mike's family had found each other again. Prior to her death, his mom had never mentioned a single thing about having cousins or nephews.
For a moment, the brothers shared a look that he didn't miss, but couldn't exactly read, before Sam quietly continued, “And we heard about your grandmother, Mike. About her...sickness.”
“We're sorry, man,” Dean said, eyes shiny and authentically contrite, which was a new look on him. His fingers twitched at his side, like he wanted to reach out, perhaps ruffle his cousin's hair again, but Mike was grateful for his resistance.
He might not have been, if he was younger. Heck, only a few years ago, he would have been desperate, even clingy, for a kind touch, a rarity in his current life, but he had to wonder... His grandmother had been resigned to a nursing home for years already, since Mike could hardly be considered an adult, so why were they dropping by now? His logic, which sounded suspiciously like Harvey, intoned that they had to want something from him. Surely they would have dropped by earlier, had they truly cared.
But then, the Winchesters had never been a normal family by any standards and who else gave a damn about Mike? Trevor and Jenny were out of his life, Grammy was confined to a bed for however long she had left, and Harvey expostulated just how much Mike didn't matter to him at every possible opportunity, although he did occasionally act in a contradictory manner.
“So...” Mike abruptly changed the subject, tone far more upbeat than he felt, partly to put his cousins, who were watching him with narrowed eyes, at ease, “What have you two been up to? Did you blow the rest of the Stanford fish out of the water, Sam? You know, a little whale versus shark action in the warm waters of the Pacific?”
Sam laughed and ran a hand through his unkempt hair. It seemed less fake, though Mike didn't think he knew him well enough to pinpoint that anymore, especially upon hearing his answer: “I couldn't finish, actually.”
“Why?” Mike gasped, his eyes growing round. He remembered how passionate Sam used to be about becoming a lawyer - in fact, he had inspired Mike in the first place - and he knew that it couldn't be because his cousin wasn't bright enough. Sam was one of the smartest people Mike had ever met.
Mulling over his reply, Sam's eyes pitched this way and that and cased his cousin's apartment. Mike wondered what he thought of everything he saw: the leak in the corner, the unidentifiable stains on the carpet, the old box of pizza that Mike had left out on his three-legged coffee table, rather than dumping it as soon as he was done. He was only glad that the faint smell of weed had finally dissipated, thanks to months of sobriety, because he'd started on it after they became estranged and shame roiled in his gut at the idea of them finding out. He was ashamed of too many things.
“Dad died,” Sam eventually murmured, a careful, considerate pause between each word. Both Mike and Dean cut him sharp looks and to the latter he said, “What? He has a right to know, doesn't he? Mike's family, too, Dean.”
“I know that!” Dean snapped, but Mike wasn't really listening. Without looking behind him, he backpedaled, then stopped when the cushions of his couch collided with his legs and prompted him to plop down onto the sagging piece of furniture. His head fell into his hands.
“What happened?” he asked, voice thick. He didn't know why the news shook him up so much. John Winchester had never been the best uncle - if he were being completely honest, John wasn't the best father, either.
Except, upon Mike's parents passing away, when he wasn't off on one of his mysterious jobs, John had done his best to be there for his nephew. Most of what he'd attempted to teach Mike - sports, some games and mechanical handiwork - hadn't been Mike's forte, anyway, but it was the thought that mattered, more so than the result.
“It was a car crash,” Sam said. There was a slight hesitance prior to the last two words that Mike paid little mind to. Car crash. Of course it was. What else would it be? “But,” his cousin went on, brushing back his hair again, “it happened a long time ago, Mike. Almost six years. We're okay.”
“Oh,” Mike whispered. He wondered if that was honestly meant to comfort him. Six whole years. His uncle had died and they hadn't so much as invited him to the funeral, hadn't given him a single call. He swallowed down the bitter taste in his mouth and said, “I'm sorry for your loss, I guess. I know how it feels to lose both of your parents and...yeah, I'm just sorry.”
Dean regarded him for a minute, before he moved to take the seat across from him, his brother following his cue. “We're okay,” he said, a repeat of Sam's affirmation. “Are you, though? You're not lookin' too hot, buddy.”
“Kinda tired,” Mike mumbled. He rubbed a palm into his uncomfortably prickling eyes, his cousins silent. They allowed him to gather his bearings, and when he finally met their gazes again, he decided it was time to lighten the mood. “I'm doing okay, too. A few months ago, I was a total fuck up, but I have a decent job now, at a great law firm in the city: Pearson Hardman.”
He bit down harder into his lip and almost felt guilty for disclosing this. Would it seem like he was rubbing it in Sam's face? Would they find it impossible that he, the awkward little kid they remembered, could achieve something like that? Would they figure out his lie?
Instead, the tense curl of Sam's mouth broke into a radiant beam. “Congratulations, Mike! That's awesome!” he exclaimed, as Dean reached out a fist to bump against Mike's, donning a similarly proud expression.
Mike smiled shyly at them, his confidence boosting, and said, “It can be hard, but I really like it there. I have a lot of cool coworkers - and some that suck, I'm not gonna lie - and my boss is, um.” He paused and thought of Harvey's intense brown eyes, his patronizing bravado, of the man who existed beneath those five thousand dollar suits, geeky and reluctantly caring. “Harvey stood out on a limb for me. I can't even begin to tell you how he saved my life, but he did.”
He'd been drowning and Harvey was his lifeboat, doing what no one - Trevor, the Winchesters, or Grammy - had previously managed. Heck, most hadn't even tried. If it wasn't for Harvey, he'd be in prison right now, and though he didn't want to tell Sam and Dean that, though he didn't want to guilt them for something they never should have been obligated to do, they seemed to sense it, anyway.
“Sounds like a swell guy,” Dean said, adding, “He hot?” and grinning when his brother and cousin simultaneously groaned. “What? You're not still dating that Trevor dweeb, are ya?”
Mike glared, his ears warm, but most of his affront was exhaled out with his reply. “I've never dated Trevor and won't date Harvey. Trevor moved away and, even if he hadn't, he'd still only be my friend.” He might have said best friend a short time ago, yet now he was simply grateful that the pain had begun to recede. His eyes no longer stung at the mere mention of Trevor's name. “And Harvey... Well, I'd never ruin anything with him, okay?”
Dean looked like he wasn't quite ready to drop it, fed by the fuel of Mike's defensiveness, but Sam frowned at him in reprimand, then said, “Uh huh, and you won't. You're amazing, Mike. He's lucky to have you, too.”
“Um, thanks,” Mike stammered. He ruffled the back of his head sheepishly, his blush darker. He wasn't sure whether that was true, but elected against mentioning as much and simply smiled wider. “You should meet him! How long are you guys sticking around? Maybe you can shadow me at work tomorrow? He'll pretend to mind, but actually won't,” he exclaimed, unable to suppress a bounce in his place.
His cousins shared another look. It might have started to grate on his nerves, had he not recollected how often they used to do it. Now, it just told him that the answer would be 'no' without them having to explicate. “We'll be tied up with our own work for most of the day, unfortunately,” Sam said.
“I understand,” Mike answered at once. He dredged up a blithe smile that wasn't entirely convincing.
Dean quirked an eyebrow between him and Sam, scrutinizing them. “We could still meet for lunch,” he offered. The crook of his lips suggested it wouldn't be the bother Mike feared. “Right now, though,” he tacked on, as he stood and stretched till a pop resounded, “you two kiddies should get your asses to bed. It's two a.m., ya know?”
“I do. You woke me up this early,” Mike reminded him. He shook his head in exasperation, which he noted Sam copying out of the corner of his eye, then chuffed a quiet laugh when Dean shrugged, utterly unrepentant. “Dude, I'm starting to remember how much of a control freak you always were.”
Sam's boom of laughter joined in on the jest, a roar in the otherwise silent room, while Dean scowled. If Mike blocked himself off to everything but their noisy bickering, he could almost pretend that the last dozen or so years had never even happened. He relished in the easy turn their reunion had taken.
-
Another woman found dead in her apartment...
Mike graced the world with his conscious presence, yet again, four hours later. It was not nearly enough rest, further dimmed by the horrible news his radio alarm chose to blare so early, but everything else was currently right in his world - work, friends, family - and he gave them more stock than sleep deprivation.
He cleaned up, got dressed, then discovered that Dean was still sprawled across his sofa, his mouth open in a raucous snore, one arm hung off the edge of the futon that rolled out of Mike's sofa cushions. Sam was nowhere to be found.
Mike smiled fondly at the sight and managed to wrangle his skinny tie into a suitable knot - well, by his own standards, at least. He'd scrounge up breakfast for them, he decided affably.
A push of his kitchen door revealed his other cousin's whereabouts. Sam sat, back to Mike and the exit, at the rickety dining table, his long fingers dancing along the keyboard of his laptop. He gave no indication to acknowledge that he'd heard Mike, so the younger man drew up behind him and frowned at his monitor, which displayed two open tabs.
New York Ripper Strikes Again, the header of the first read, big and bold, property of a New York Times article, though the text following it was too small to read. Beside it, a Wikipedia page that read Al (folklore) was on standby. Mike must have made some sound while scanning over the screen because Sam's head snapped up and his large hand slammed the lid of the laptop shut.
“What are you doing awake, Mike?” he asked, his tone exaggeratedly casual.
Mike blinked at him, wary of his evident paranoia, but dutifully replied, “Work, remember? I've gotta go in a few. Why are you up?”
“I don't sleep,” Sam said. He played off the absurdity of his words with a shrug.
Mike considered him carefully, then inquired, “Nightmares?”
Sam didn't respond, merely smiling ruefully, but Mike let him be. He knew a thing or two about bad dreams himself. Instead, he started for the fridge and scavenged through it for fresh ingredients, wishing he'd been to the supermarket sometime in the last century.
“What are you doing?” Sam asked again, his head cocked at an angle.
“I thought I'd whip something up for you guys,” Mike said over his shoulder. He hummed in triumph when he found a batch of unexpired eggs and only partially wilted vegetables, perfect for an omelet.
“You really don't have to do that,” Sam asserted. He shook his hands in a quick, halting motion.
“Are you kidding me?” His brother appeared suddenly at the doorway and began to leer at Mike. “I haven't had a home-cooked meal since Reagan was President. Or something like that.”
“It's just a couple of fried eggs. No trouble at all,” Mike said. He punctuated by cracking one’s shell against the rim of his chipped frying pan. Sam faltered beneath the dual assault and relented with a sigh, to which Dean whooped delightedly. Mike chuckled at their familiar fussing, while dicing green pepper and tomato slices into yolk. It took less than half an hour for the whites of the eggs to color a hearty gold, and it was only after Mike placed plates in front of his guests that he broached an issue that niggled at him. “I feel kinda bad...”
“Why?” Sam replied, the question urgent but not apprehensive. Dean craned his head up, too, unable to speak through his mouthful.
“Well, it's just that you haven't been here in a while and when you finally visit, there's a psychotic killer on the loose.” As soon as he divulged his reasoning, Mike regretted it. Sam's open expression closed off, his eyes cagey in their sockets, and Dean's smile became needlessly nonchalant. “I-I mean,” Mike rambled, attempting to break the tension, “I saw that you were looking up the Ripper. It's terrible what he's doing, murdering pregnant women, especially if it's for the reason the media is giving.”
Dean finally swallowed, his lips still grooved into that insouciant smirk. “And what are they saying, Mikey?”
“That it's a hate crime,” Mike answered quietly, busying himself with washing finished dishes. “That the Ripper, whoever he is, is killing these women because they're Middle Eastern, and no one should do that. America - especially New York - is supposed to be a place where everyone belongs, no matter their race, religion or culture. It’s not right.”
He scrubbed his dishtowel across the surface of one plate angrily and startled when Sam murmured, “You're right,” with a tiny, affectionate quirk of his mouth. “Thanks for breakfast, Mikey. It was great.”
“N-no problem,” Mike answered, a little flustered by the gratitude. He set his now gleaming dishes aside and chanced a glance at his wall clock, then bit his lip at the sight. “Crap, I'm going to be late! You two will be okay on your own, right?”
“Fine,” Sam said, simultaneous to Dean's declaration of, “Dude, chill. You're not still riding that ancient bike, are ya? I'll drive you.”
“Uh, that's okay,” Mike willed himself to respond, albeit unconvincingly. He had to admit, it would be nice to sit back and relax for once, particularly since he'd probably be late, anyhow, no matter how fast he pedaled, but his cousins had other things to attend to and he couldn't delay them just because he didn't want Harvey to yell at him again. How pathetic would that be? “Don't you have business?”
“It can wait a little while,” Dean answered dismissively, already standing up. “I couldn't deprive anyone of a ride in my pretty baby, now could I? 'Specially not my favorite kid cousin.”
Sam rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Here he goes again,” he told Mike, who laughed and accepted Dean's proposition.
He was glad he did once he caught sight of Dean's car. Sleek and black as a prowling panther, the Impala didn't look a minute older than the last time he'd seen her, when his eldest cousin had dropped him off at school before leaving for another trip. Mike walked up to the car now and ran his hands over her body, reverential as a priest with something holy. Dean grinned proudly from the driver side door.
“Still beautiful, ain't she?” There was no question in his tone, phrasing aside.
“Yeah,” Mike breathed, as he heeded Sam's none-too-subtle suggestion to get inside, where he watched Sam stake his claim to the shotgun seat.
“You two,” the tall man muttered dryly, not nearly as irritated as he wanted to act, if the way his eyes crinkled at the corners was anything to go by. Neither Mike nor Dean answered him, sharing a conspiring look in the rear-view, so Sam appended, “Better hurry up, Dean. Don't want Mike to be a tardy slack off like you, do we?”
Dean made a face at the joke, but subsequently grinned broad as the Cheshire Cat. “Hold on to your hats, boys and girls! It's been a while since Dean Winchester hit big city traffic!” He swiftly maneuvered out of his parking spot and stepped down, unnecessarily sharp, into the Impala's gas pedal. His brother and cousin slammed back into their cushions rather comically.
The Impala proceeded to swerve between lanes, skyscrapers and fellow cars first shooting past, then falling behind it. Mike made it to work in record time. Pearson Hardman's glass body shone like a beacon for him to direct Dean to.
His older cousin found an empty spot in front of the firm’s sidewalk and paused there, waiting just long enough for Mike to get out on jellied legs, without even bothering to shut the engine off. “Have a good day, honey,” he said saucily, accompanied by a quick wave from Sam, before they blasted back into the busy streets.
For a minute, Mike stared after them, while nerves roiled in his stomach. He sorely hoped there wouldn’t be news of another accident - caused by Dean or otherwise - anytime soon, but berated himself for the black thoughts and was soon distracted by a security guard trying to catch his attention from inside the building.
“Hey, Hank,” he greeted the man, whose goofy smile only grew larger.
“You shall not pass!” the security guard shouted, the severity of the original Lord of the Rings quote trivialized by his mirth.
“B-but,” Mike put on a stutter, playing along, “how am I gonna live happily ever after, till the end of my days, now?”
Hank appraised him momentarily, then broke off in a laugh. “You’re all right, kid,” he said, a beefy hand thumped against Mike's shoulder.
“So you tell me every day,” Mike returned, witty as ever. “It never gets old, though. Thanks for the ego boost, man.”
Hank shook his head. “Move along, ya brat. Some of us have got real work to do.”
Mike faked a pout and handed Hank his bag, only cracking a smile after it was deemed safe enough to return to him, at which point he turned for the elevators. “See ya, Hank!”
When he reached his office floor, the click of heels and Rachel Zane’s elegantly lifted eyebrow met him. “You’re early,” she said, by way of hello.
Mike ignored the disdainful observation and chirped, “Morning, Rachel,” batting his eyelashes at her coquettishly. He chuckled when she rolled her eyes, familiar with her barely contained aggravation by now.
“It’s weird, though,” she continued, pivoting on a pencil heel. She seemed to intrinsically believe that Mike would trail her like a lost puppy. He almost didn’t, just to prove her wrong, but he wanted to know what she was talking about, so he settled for cursing his own predictability. “Normally, Harvey only acts like he’s PMSing when you’ve done something to screw up, but it’s too early for that, today. As I said, you’re even on time.”
Mike worried his lip. “Harvey’s mad?” he asked meekly. He wracked his brain for possible reasons. His boss hadn’t been upset yesterday, he remembered. In fact, Harvey had been reluctantly content with Mike’s progress, since he'd proofed a document and found a discrepancy that had previously been missed, which could have cost the firm millions of dollars.
“Yeah, he was glaring out the window when I went to visit Donna a few minutes ago, looking ready to use that thousand dollar silk tie as a makeshift noose.” Rachel didn’t seem to notice his anxiety. Her inflection bordered only on curious, as if Harvey’s choler was yet another matter for her to research.
“Thanks for letting me know,” Mike replied, although she hadn’t for any specific purpose. Rachel shrugged and stepped aside so he could stalk past his cubicle, normally his first stop of the day, for Harvey’s office.
“Oh,” Donna said, upon his reaching her desk. She stretched the word like small children did every time a classmate was called to the principal's office, and even deigned to look up at him. That was when Mike knew it was bad.
“I’m not coming out alive, am I?” he asked, humor feeble at best.
“Mike!” Harvey’s voice echoed, his displeasure obvious. The exclamation interrupted Donna’s answer.
She smirked up at Mike and made a shooing gesture, directing him to his doom. “Good luck, puppy,” she said, surprisingly genuine, as Mike swallowed and obeyed.
“Harvey, whatever is going on-” he began, but his boss cut him off with an impatient flick of his wrist and stood up.
“You didn’t ride your bike today, did you?” Harvey demanded, without a care for the strange turn his interrogation had taken.
“Um, no,” Mike said. “Why does it matter?” was on the tip of his tongue, but he gulped it back. Better to not know the relevance if it meant Harvey didn't get mad - well, madder.
Harvey whipped on the sole of one expensive shoe toward the glass that circled his large room, before he abruptly changed the subject. “I have a meeting with a client. Grab the files on my desk; you’re coming with me.”
“Okay,” Mike said, each syllable stretched bemusedly. Again, he forwent an inquiry into Harvey’s logic, since the man could have easily carried everything himself, and simply did as commanded. He fell into step with Harvey when his boss headed for the door. Donna saw his questioning glance and shrugged, but the curl of her glossed lips suggested that she knew something he didn’t - like always - and he inwardly bemoaned his unending misfortune.
Thankfully, by the time Harvey got outside and found Ray already waiting for them, the stiff line of his shoulders had relaxed, his ambiance, while explaining their case, becoming almost friendly. “Gale Tempest, born Rupert Abranksy, was one of my first clients for Pearson Hardman.” He rolled his eyes at the presumptuous alias the man in question had chosen and Mike smiled. It meant storm-storm, oddly enough. “Ten years ago, he was a no name street painter in Harlem, barely supporting his wife and five year old son, but around the time I left the District Attorney's office for the firm, he suddenly hit it big, and now he’s one of the richest men in the United States, never mind the city.”
“I read an exposé on his artwork once,” Mike said. He recalled that he’d found the tidbit about Tempest's name hilarious then, too. “Some creepy stuff, with blood-spray and monsters bursting out of otherwise black canvases. The reviewer dubbed it ‘a glimpse into the dark recesses of the human subconscious’. I thought it made Saw look like a romantic comedy.”
“No accounting for taste,” Harvey said with half a shrug. “I prefer jaunty works, myself, but that isn’t really the point.”
“So why’d he call us?” Mike asked. He took a cursory flip through the files on his lap, but found no answer there.
“He didn’t,” Harvey replied, collecting the topmost file from him and opening it up. “As you know from the McKernon Motors case, we take a personal interest in our clients' success and swoop in if we think they’re about to make a regrettable decision.” He pointed to a particular page, its title announcing it to be Tempest’s will, his finely manicured nail opalescent on the creamy white, expensive stationary. “I didn’t often have need to worry about Mr. Tempest, as he’s Spartan to the point of being gluttonous, which he displayed when he left his ex-wife penniless.”
Mike’s eyes scanned over the information and absorbed more in a few seconds than others might in ten minutes. “But you’re worried now,” he murmured, “because this says he’s liquidating the whole of his assets among his ex-wife, son and various charity organizations upon his death, rather than having his business prolong sales.”
“Tempest isn’t the sort of man to do that, no,” Harvey acquiesced. His forehead wrinkled in a way that made Mike want to smooth it out, using his own hands if necessary. “We’re going to his townhouse now to try and discern his motives.”
“Almost there, sir,” Ray piped in. The dulcet utterances of Frank Sinatra filtered, volume low, over the half-raised glass that separated the three men, soothing the disquiet.
“Thank you, Ray,” Harvey said, his smile open. The driver's prediction proved correct within the next several minutes, whereupon he stopped the limo and held its door open for them, taking special care to ensure Mike didn’t drop his armload.
Mike followed his boss’s example and sang Ray's praises, before gawping up at their client’s townhouse, which resembled a mansion, or even a castle, more accurately than any given description, with tall spires, narrow columns and a bombastic paint job of cerulean blue.
Harvey, however, didn’t bat an eye at it, his expression soured by distaste. He loped to the entrance and rapped the lion-head knocker against the door twice, sharp and purposeful, then stood back to wait. His patience was soon rewarded by the scurrying of footsteps that belonged to a mousy-looking young woman, her eyes a liquid brown to Harvey’s soul-searing chocolate and her hair a mess of tight brown ringlets.
Harvey’s demeanor shifted a hundred and eighty degrees and a flirty smile adorned his lips. “Wendy, my dear, you’re looking lovely as ever,” he said, blind to how Mike's good mood dived several notches.
Wendy blinked at him, her eyes dark and inscrutable, then replied with an smooth, “Enchanté,” that seemed to throw even Harvey for a loop. At the dumbfounded expression, she sneered and withdrew. Both the door and the elder lawyer's jaw remained unhinged.
“She isn’t usually so…forward,” Harvey eventually explained, when he noticed Mike's surprise over his boss getting daunted by a woman - well, a woman not Donna or Jessica. “In all the years she’s been Tempest’s secretary, about as long as he’s had me on retainer, Wendy has always turned cherry red the second I so much as looked at her.”
“Maybe she took a self-help class?” Mike suggested, but Harvey ignored his commentary to forge onward. He swiftly scaled the staircase, as the woman in question had done a few moments prior.
A shadow fell over Harvey, its proprietor standing at the base of the second floor. “Harvey Specter,” he mumbled, wringing his hands apprehensively. He pulled one out of its clasp at Harvey's extension of the same. “W-what are you doing here?”
“This is my associate, Mike Ross,” Harvey said, suavely dodging the inquiry.
Mike took the rest of the steps that separated them two at a time and shook Tempest's hand, feeling a clammy sheen of sweat on it. Now that he was close enough, he could see that the man seemed sick, heavy bags under his eyes, a greenish pallor to his perspiring skin. His pale gray orbs continually drifted to where his assistant now sat, manning a tasteful antique desk.
“It's nice to meet you, Mr. Tempest,” Mike said, soft as one might speak to a cornered, wounded animal. He extricated his hand and subtly wiped it across his pants, though he knew his boss wouldn't approve.
Tempest's attention snapped to him, albeit briefly, and he nodded. “You too, Mr. Ross.”
“Gale!” Harvey chose that moment to set aside niceties. “I've noticed a few new...additions to your will.”
“Ah yes, those,” Tempest replied, the final word a despondent sigh.
“You didn't contact me for my advice, Gale. That's what retainers are for,” Harvey said, his arms crossed in a way Mike was familiar with, able to make even the oldest man feel helpless, small and stupid.
Tempest glanced at Wendy again, but she had immersed herself in a gossip magazine, ignorant to her surroundings, so he mustered up a weak, “I didn't want to bother you, Harvey. I thought the online will-building website would be enough and I'm sorry if they messed anything up.”
“They didn't,” Harvey answered, still maintaining his no nonsense pose, despite the slight mitigation of intimidation in his lecture. “The diction is fine, but the problem I have is with its results. Although we take no issue with you reconciling with Martha, that being a personal matter, if you disperse your finances the way you're planning, you'll leave no meaningful business legacy.”
Tempest listened to the advice, stare locked dead on his own dress shoes, then smiled. It was a garish expression, bitter and galled. “That's what this is about, isn't it?” he asked. “Money, always money! Why does every man think that flimsy little sheets of colored paper, which can't so much as wipe your ass, are the answer to everything? Why can't I do something good with my wicked life the once, without the Spanish Inquisition turning up at my doorstep?”
Harvey and Mike convened wordlessly over the small, ranting man's head, and registered the same shock in one another. “Gale? Are you feeling all right?” Harvey inquired, more gentle now. It seemed he'd pressed too hard, hurt too much.
“No,” Tempest whispered, “but you can't help me this time, Harvey, so please leave. Thank you for all you've done for me.” He turned in the direction he'd come, toward a dimly lit office with its doors flung open, and blocked himself off from his lawyers' view by closing them behind him. Only Wendy and her special brand of hospitality remained.
Mike couldn't help feeling like his bones thrummed from the aftershock of that slam, but he regained his calm and trained his eyes on Wendy, as his boss did, till she asked at length, “You don't need me to walk you out, do you? Better yet, I could hold your hand?” indignation obvious in her tone, in a way completely unlike Donna's comical terrorizing of her fellow employees.
“No,” Harvey said, although he took a contradictory step closer to her desk. “If I may, however, I'd like to have a word with you?” She harrumphed, but nodded, not bothering to look away from whatever article she was reading. Harvey smiled, rose-sweet and barbed. “You haven't told Mr. Tempest any unfortunate news, have you, Wendy? Or do you know any other reason for me to be worried about him?”
Wendy must have sensed the underlying intention of his interrogation, because she set her magazine down onto her otherwise neat desk and smirked up at him. “Look, Mr. Specter, Gale is a big boy. You're not his father and I'm certainly not his mommy. If he has an ouchie, you have to let him come to you, so why don't you go feed the rest of your baby birds while you wait? I can't babysit all of you.”
Harvey's lips thinned in response. It didn't quite managing to twist his face unattractively, but he took her advice and hurried down the steps, his clenched fists the only overt signal of his anger. Unsure whether to give his boss or the secretary a wider berth, Mike followed at a slower pace, the hairs on the nape of his neck rising. At the foot of the stairs, he braved a glimpse around his shoulder and found that, in the shadows, Wendy's already sable eyes had pitched almost black, which forced his hand.
He power-walked out of Tempest's house without a care over how idiotic he appeared. The rapid thread of his heart quieted once he comprehended that Harvey was waiting outside for him. He gifted his boss a watery smile and said, “You think she's blackmailing him, don't you?”
“You noticed that?” Harvey replied, the subtle tilt of his mouth relating that he was actually impressed - so impressed, in fact, that he allowed his associate to catch up to him and nodded his head for Mike to enter his lingering limo first.
“I've been getting better at reading people,” Mike said, preening. He'd hoped his gloating skills were finally beyond disparagement, but Harvey’s responding chuckle was indulgent, at best. Still, Mike wanted nothing more than to keep his boss in that jovial state. “I noticed that Mr. Tempest kept looking to her for cues,” he hurriedly added.
The dimple in Harvey’s face yielded deeper, tinged with sincere pride, before it quelled in the release of a breath. “Well, we can't do anything about it now, I suppose. We'll have to get back to the office and try later, when he's no longer so...emotional.”
“'Cause the great Harvey Specter is put off by a few manly tears,” Mike said. Laughter pervaded the confined space of the car at Harvey's reprimanding look.
-
MASTERPOST ♥♥♥ NEXT (CHAP 2)
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Chapter One: The Ross Family Reunion
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Caroline Ross - known as Carol to all her loved ones - had just finished tucking her seven year old grandson in when she got the call.
They had been reading Alice in Wonderland, which always amused them both, but she felt all mirth melt away when the cautious, unfamiliar male voice on the other line inquired, “Is this the mother of Lilian C. Ross?”
“Mother-in-law,” she murmured, her level voice belying the rushed tempo of her heart. “I'm Gabriel's mother, though - Gabriel Ross, Lily's husband.”
There was a pause. She dreaded what was to come, her own words lodged in her throat. She didn't want to provoke a response. Then, the man said, “We'd appreciate it if you could come down to the hospital, ma’am. There's been an...accident.”
Carol barely waited long enough to get the directions - there were far too many hospitals in New York and she hated the urgent need for them - before she was begging Jane, the sweet young woman next door, to watch over Mike while she was gone. Her watery eyes probably did wonders to convince the girl, but Carol was beyond caring about composure.
It was a bit chilly outside, the sky a black-blue splattered with stars, but she barely noticed. Her brain ran through a million different scenarios while she drove, faster than she had in years. Why had they called for Lily and not her son? What could have happened? Had they even made it to Mike's parent-teacher conference? What could a first grader's teacher possibly have to say that was so pressing, so late in the day?
She hurried through the automatic hospital doors, tugging her worn shawl closer to fight the nightly drop of temperature, and stopped in front of the receptionist's desk. “I'm here to see Gabriel and Lilian Ross,” she informed the bespectacled young man behind it.
He smiled at her genially, which helped to ease her nerves, but a shadow passed over his face, quickly tamed into passivity, as soon as he regarded the information on the computer screen, and she just knew - motherly instinct, she might later relate to others. At that moment, however, all she felt was an imaginary fist squeezing her heart into pulp.
“Mrs. Ross is still in surgery, but you can wait inside, ma'am. The doctor will be with you shortly,” the receptionist said, tone gentle and pitying. She nodded and hardly felt her neck creak. 'Shortly' soon became an hour, filled with numb thoughtlessness and blank stares toward the operation theater entrance. Lily was in surgery; why hadn't he mentioned Gabriel?
She was in such a stupor that she nearly missed it when the doctor finally did exit. The sight of blood - her family's blood - on his starkly white coat rose bile in her throat, but she stood up to greet him nonetheless. Her vision spun and blurred at the motion. Beside them, a body was wheeled away on a stretcher, its face hidden by a white sheet.
“I'm Carol Ross, Gabriel's mother. What's happened, Doctor?” she asked, wringing her weathered hands together. Her warm brown eyes tracked the frenzied orderlies through yet another door.
“I am Ash Charya, your daughter-in-law's head physician,” the doctor said, leading her back to the waiting room seats and taking one at her side. “I'm so sorry, Carol. Your son died on impact.” Carol's stomach dropped at the words and she wanted nothing more than to fall apart, right there on the clean linoleum floors, to let her tears mix with the nearby janitor's soapy water onto the tiles. However, Doctor Charya, after a pause that didn't last nearly long enough, kept speaking. Carol forced herself to listen.
Her son's car had abruptly swerved out of control. No other drivers were at fault. In fact, the police were still investigating the charred wreck of the small sedan, but had yet to determine what caused the crash. Gabriel had been hit dead on, had died instantly, while Lily scarcely avoided the same fate.
“She's not doing well,” Doctor Charya began, low and grave. “There was a lot of damage done to her skull and we did our best to staunch the bleeding inside, but it's miraculous enough that she's even still awake, with the brain damage. You should go see her now, if you have any last...goodbyes.”
Carol nodded and accepted his offered hand, allowing him to walk her to Lily's - likely temporary - room, located in the ICU. The sight of her beautiful daughter-in-law jellied her already weak knees and left Carol grateful for the doctor's help.
Most of Lily's fair blond hair, a trait she had passed on to little Mike, had either been shaved for the surgery or burned during the crash, and what remained was stained with both dry and fresh blood. Her face was an unrecognizable mess, save for the glassy blue eyes that blinked at them from behind bruised eyelids, and her bandaged fingers beckoned Carol forward weakly, the arms attached trapped in heavy casts.
Doctor Charya took this opportunity to draw back. His hand brushed Carol's shoulder once, before the two women were left alone. “Hello, d-dear,” Carol whispered, steeling herself enough to walk forward and sit on the provided chair, her hand immediately seeking her daughter-in-law's.
Lily had always been more like a daughter than merely her son's wife. She had no family of her own, the poor girl, having lost them when she was young, and Gabriel fell for her at first sight when they met in Canada, where he was participating in an international teacher's convention and she was an art store clerk. He didn't want to leave her behind after it ended, so he proposed and Lily accepted, finally finding the home she'd always wanted.
Carol had initially been wary of the whirlwind romance, but Lily was fiercely protective of them all, cherishing them to the point of paranoia, as if they'd be stolen away the minute she turned her head. She treated Gabriel well and considered Carol her mother but, most of all, Lily gifted her with the most beautiful grandson in the world.
The thought of Mike broke Carol's heart all over again and Lily, even in her battered daze, seemed to sense that. “M-Mikey?” she mumbled, most of her teeth gone and her mouth a gaping red.
“At home, sweetheart, perfectly safe,” Carol reassured her. She gave her daughter-in-law's hand another squeeze. “It's you I'm worried about.”
Lily was quiet for a moment. Carol feared she would press the matter, but instead, she ceased to ask about Mike any longer. What tumbled out of her was far more surreal - stories too horribly imaginative to ever share with their seven year old baby.
Carol felt herself blanch with every new word, until finally, Lily hushed. Her lids drooped heavily, as curtains heaved and fell at a grand performance's end. With her last breath, she said two words, “My journal...” Then she was gone.
Carol sat there for the longest time and stared disbelievingly at Lily's corpse. Doctors and nurses passed through in a rush, emotions flitting too quickly over their faces to catch, but Doctor Charya soon ended the charade with another solemn shake of his head.
“I'm sorry,” he said again, to which Carol nodded and shakily stood up. She declined his aid when he volunteered to escort her out, and left the medical staff to take care of her daughter-in-law's remains. Slowly, she walked through the quiet halls and to the parking lot.
She drove home, somehow managing the journey with unseeing eyes, then stirred when she heard desperate shushing sounds and her grandson's wails. Jane was in Mike's guest room, her arms around the distraught boy, and she looked up gratefully at Carol arrival.
“What happened?” Carol inquired, unintentionally sharp. “You didn't tell him, did you?”
“No, of course not,” Jane replied, smoothing a hand down Mike's wet cheek. “He just woke up and wouldn't stop crying.”
In a few days, Carol would heed Lily's dying words and find the journal - one that she had seen often and had assumed was simply a well-guarded diary - in her son's home. She would find graphic drawings and an impressive list of phone numbers inside, which would only corroborate the nightmare she'd heard, and she'd locate someone to avenge her family's untimely death. Right then, however, she took her grandson into her arms and rocked him, till Jane shut the door behind her and returned to her own house.
Like endlessly deep rabbit holes and cruel queens of heart, none of this made sense anymore.
-
It was the scratching sound that woke Mike, dull like shoes scuffing across the cheap carpet outside his bedroom. He'd always been a heavy sleeper, especially since he'd begun running himself ragged at work, so he might have been inclined to ignore it, but Morpheus never failed to release him after the dream: the one that recollected the night of his parents' death. He hadn't had it in a while.
Afterward, he was always left hyper-aware. His skin stretched too thin over his bones, his breath puffed audibly, and the faint noise outside became perceptible again, the thump-thump of human footsteps.
Mike shot up in bed, pulling crumpled sheets around his shirtless form, and scoped the dark depths of his room. The blinds on his window had been damaged not long ago, so moonlight seeped in freely, weakened only by the cover of wispy clouds.
For a long time, a whole five minutes, he sat like that, frozen, and dismissed the urge to burrow back under his blankets like a frightened child. They wouldn't find anything, anyway, and then they'd leave, simple as that.
Curiosity congealed with his nerves, however, and his urge to explore won out over blissful ignorance. Mike slowly slipped out of bed. His hands found the closest weapon within reach - a small desk lamp in the shape of a Jedi - which helped to bolster his courage.
He quietly skulked toward the door, the green and red luminescence of Luke Skywalker's lightsaber brightening his path, but he couldn't quite contain his relief when a quick sweep of his living room confirmed that it, at least, was empty of anything but its usual clutter. The shadows that shifted menacingly from beneath the brim of his kitchen door determinedly attested otherwise. Mike's ears started to thrum in time with the frantic beat of his heart.
He reached out to set his hand on the knob and felt the contours of the dented metal on it, but pulled back as if his palm had burned when it began to turn in his grasp. Before he could retreat enough steps, the door thrust open and hit him square in the face. His lamp dashed against the floor. Mike made a sound suspiciously like a squeak at the dark form that bore down on him.
It whipped him around so he couldn't see its face. A decidedly male arm, or that of a very athletic woman, wrapped around his neck, not quite tight enough to actually hurt him. Despite his genius IQ, Mike had no idea what to do. Struggling might get him killed. Not struggling might do the same. Either way, he was screwed.
The thought was only cemented when he heard another sound behind him and his attacker: the muffled shift of clothes. Another person was there, too. Breaking the silence, the newcomer made an annoyed, guttural sound in the back of their throat.
“Dean, cut it out! You're going to hurt him!” a vaguely familiar voice interjected.
The arm only clinched around Mike's head in response. A fist came up to nuzzle abrasively into his already unruly blond hair, before he was abruptly released with a final, teasing pat on the seat of his pajama sweatpants.
Mike turned around, eyes huge with wonder, and gaped at the intruders. One grinned wildly while the other offered an apologetic smile. Both matched cameos from almost twenty years ago, posed in ancient picture-frames on his mantle, with everyone else long gone.
The first man looked older than Mike remembered, not only because it was literally true, but because of the hollow cheeks in his otherwise handsome face, unshaven and uncared for. Although his green eyes had a haunted quality to them, as well, they were practically identical to that of the surly teenager who'd been left on his grandmother's doorstep, shaggy-haired ten year old in tow, once upon a time.
At first glance, the second man, towering over Mike and his partner, didn't seem very different at all, since Mike had seen him more recently - or as recent as a decade could be - but there was just something off about him. His brown hair hung in a bedraggled curtain around gaunt, bruised eyes of a darker verdant shade, and his once genuine, boyish smile was forced now.
“Dean?” Mike finally found the composure to inquire. “Sam?”
“In the flesh,” Dean replied, his smirk not waning in the slightest. He kicked Mike's forgotten lamp with the toe of one boot and tutted disparagingly. “Dude, Luke Skywalker? If you're gonna come at me with geek paraphernalia, try to pick something a bit more badass, like Han Solo. He got the girl, after all.”
“Dean,” Sam broke in, his arms crossed over a muscle shirt that peeked out from under his beat up jacket, “Luke is a prophesied Jedi warrior and a skilled pilot. That, in itself, makes him more formidable than Han, and the only reason his relationship with Leia didn't progress is obviously because she's his sister.”
Dean snorted in protest, but Mike interrupted before he could speak. “Not that I mind this scintillating discussion about Star Wars or anything-” God knew everyone at work slammed him down with extreme prejudice whenever he made a reference, “-but what are you guys doing here? I haven't seen you since...”
“Stanford,” Sam finished for him. He frowned, as if even the mockery of the smile he had was impossible to preserve. “Not since I left for school.”
Mike nodded mutely, the memory of an angry, helpless Sam fresh in his mind, waiting at their door with all of his bags. He could probably recount Sam and his grandmother's conversation - about Sam running away after a fight with his father - word for word, despite it being a lifetime ago.
“I don't even know when,” Dean added. He waved his hand breezily.
Mike stared at him for a moment, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, then tiredly exhaled. “Twelve years, two months, two weeks and fifteen days. That's how long it's been.”
When the number had been considerably less than that, merely two years between visits, Mike had been heartbroken. His brash, brave eldest cousin had been his hero since they first met and he couldn't wrap his thirteen year old head around why Dean stayed away. After Stanford, though, he got a gist. Even if Dean had initially been nothing more than too busy, there was no way he could forgive the Rosses for helping Sam abandon him and Uncle John - no way he didn't blame them for it, at least partially, even though Sam never came to see them, either. He'd left while Mike was at school, not even giving him the chance to say goodbye.
As if sensing his thoughts, an uncanny skill he'd always had, Dean's ever-present smirk tightened around his lips. “Oh yeah, I forgot about that freaky memory thing of yours,” was all he said.
Mike forced a chuckle, unsure how to respond to that. Thankfully, Sam spared him the effort to explain, “We're, uh, here on business, I guess you could say.”
“Okay,” Mike said. He knew better than to ask what the business was, after twenty years. Neither Uncle John nor Grammy had done anything but dodge the subject, except to say that it was how the two halves of Mike's family had found each other again. Prior to her death, his mom had never mentioned a single thing about having cousins or nephews.
For a moment, the brothers shared a look that he didn't miss, but couldn't exactly read, before Sam quietly continued, “And we heard about your grandmother, Mike. About her...sickness.”
“We're sorry, man,” Dean said, eyes shiny and authentically contrite, which was a new look on him. His fingers twitched at his side, like he wanted to reach out, perhaps ruffle his cousin's hair again, but Mike was grateful for his resistance.
He might not have been, if he was younger. Heck, only a few years ago, he would have been desperate, even clingy, for a kind touch, a rarity in his current life, but he had to wonder... His grandmother had been resigned to a nursing home for years already, since Mike could hardly be considered an adult, so why were they dropping by now? His logic, which sounded suspiciously like Harvey, intoned that they had to want something from him. Surely they would have dropped by earlier, had they truly cared.
But then, the Winchesters had never been a normal family by any standards and who else gave a damn about Mike? Trevor and Jenny were out of his life, Grammy was confined to a bed for however long she had left, and Harvey expostulated just how much Mike didn't matter to him at every possible opportunity, although he did occasionally act in a contradictory manner.
“So...” Mike abruptly changed the subject, tone far more upbeat than he felt, partly to put his cousins, who were watching him with narrowed eyes, at ease, “What have you two been up to? Did you blow the rest of the Stanford fish out of the water, Sam? You know, a little whale versus shark action in the warm waters of the Pacific?”
Sam laughed and ran a hand through his unkempt hair. It seemed less fake, though Mike didn't think he knew him well enough to pinpoint that anymore, especially upon hearing his answer: “I couldn't finish, actually.”
“Why?” Mike gasped, his eyes growing round. He remembered how passionate Sam used to be about becoming a lawyer - in fact, he had inspired Mike in the first place - and he knew that it couldn't be because his cousin wasn't bright enough. Sam was one of the smartest people Mike had ever met.
Mulling over his reply, Sam's eyes pitched this way and that and cased his cousin's apartment. Mike wondered what he thought of everything he saw: the leak in the corner, the unidentifiable stains on the carpet, the old box of pizza that Mike had left out on his three-legged coffee table, rather than dumping it as soon as he was done. He was only glad that the faint smell of weed had finally dissipated, thanks to months of sobriety, because he'd started on it after they became estranged and shame roiled in his gut at the idea of them finding out. He was ashamed of too many things.
“Dad died,” Sam eventually murmured, a careful, considerate pause between each word. Both Mike and Dean cut him sharp looks and to the latter he said, “What? He has a right to know, doesn't he? Mike's family, too, Dean.”
“I know that!” Dean snapped, but Mike wasn't really listening. Without looking behind him, he backpedaled, then stopped when the cushions of his couch collided with his legs and prompted him to plop down onto the sagging piece of furniture. His head fell into his hands.
“What happened?” he asked, voice thick. He didn't know why the news shook him up so much. John Winchester had never been the best uncle - if he were being completely honest, John wasn't the best father, either.
Except, upon Mike's parents passing away, when he wasn't off on one of his mysterious jobs, John had done his best to be there for his nephew. Most of what he'd attempted to teach Mike - sports, some games and mechanical handiwork - hadn't been Mike's forte, anyway, but it was the thought that mattered, more so than the result.
“It was a car crash,” Sam said. There was a slight hesitance prior to the last two words that Mike paid little mind to. Car crash. Of course it was. What else would it be? “But,” his cousin went on, brushing back his hair again, “it happened a long time ago, Mike. Almost six years. We're okay.”
“Oh,” Mike whispered. He wondered if that was honestly meant to comfort him. Six whole years. His uncle had died and they hadn't so much as invited him to the funeral, hadn't given him a single call. He swallowed down the bitter taste in his mouth and said, “I'm sorry for your loss, I guess. I know how it feels to lose both of your parents and...yeah, I'm just sorry.”
Dean regarded him for a minute, before he moved to take the seat across from him, his brother following his cue. “We're okay,” he said, a repeat of Sam's affirmation. “Are you, though? You're not lookin' too hot, buddy.”
“Kinda tired,” Mike mumbled. He rubbed a palm into his uncomfortably prickling eyes, his cousins silent. They allowed him to gather his bearings, and when he finally met their gazes again, he decided it was time to lighten the mood. “I'm doing okay, too. A few months ago, I was a total fuck up, but I have a decent job now, at a great law firm in the city: Pearson Hardman.”
He bit down harder into his lip and almost felt guilty for disclosing this. Would it seem like he was rubbing it in Sam's face? Would they find it impossible that he, the awkward little kid they remembered, could achieve something like that? Would they figure out his lie?
Instead, the tense curl of Sam's mouth broke into a radiant beam. “Congratulations, Mike! That's awesome!” he exclaimed, as Dean reached out a fist to bump against Mike's, donning a similarly proud expression.
Mike smiled shyly at them, his confidence boosting, and said, “It can be hard, but I really like it there. I have a lot of cool coworkers - and some that suck, I'm not gonna lie - and my boss is, um.” He paused and thought of Harvey's intense brown eyes, his patronizing bravado, of the man who existed beneath those five thousand dollar suits, geeky and reluctantly caring. “Harvey stood out on a limb for me. I can't even begin to tell you how he saved my life, but he did.”
He'd been drowning and Harvey was his lifeboat, doing what no one - Trevor, the Winchesters, or Grammy - had previously managed. Heck, most hadn't even tried. If it wasn't for Harvey, he'd be in prison right now, and though he didn't want to tell Sam and Dean that, though he didn't want to guilt them for something they never should have been obligated to do, they seemed to sense it, anyway.
“Sounds like a swell guy,” Dean said, adding, “He hot?” and grinning when his brother and cousin simultaneously groaned. “What? You're not still dating that Trevor dweeb, are ya?”
Mike glared, his ears warm, but most of his affront was exhaled out with his reply. “I've never dated Trevor and won't date Harvey. Trevor moved away and, even if he hadn't, he'd still only be my friend.” He might have said best friend a short time ago, yet now he was simply grateful that the pain had begun to recede. His eyes no longer stung at the mere mention of Trevor's name. “And Harvey... Well, I'd never ruin anything with him, okay?”
Dean looked like he wasn't quite ready to drop it, fed by the fuel of Mike's defensiveness, but Sam frowned at him in reprimand, then said, “Uh huh, and you won't. You're amazing, Mike. He's lucky to have you, too.”
“Um, thanks,” Mike stammered. He ruffled the back of his head sheepishly, his blush darker. He wasn't sure whether that was true, but elected against mentioning as much and simply smiled wider. “You should meet him! How long are you guys sticking around? Maybe you can shadow me at work tomorrow? He'll pretend to mind, but actually won't,” he exclaimed, unable to suppress a bounce in his place.
His cousins shared another look. It might have started to grate on his nerves, had he not recollected how often they used to do it. Now, it just told him that the answer would be 'no' without them having to explicate. “We'll be tied up with our own work for most of the day, unfortunately,” Sam said.
“I understand,” Mike answered at once. He dredged up a blithe smile that wasn't entirely convincing.
Dean quirked an eyebrow between him and Sam, scrutinizing them. “We could still meet for lunch,” he offered. The crook of his lips suggested it wouldn't be the bother Mike feared. “Right now, though,” he tacked on, as he stood and stretched till a pop resounded, “you two kiddies should get your asses to bed. It's two a.m., ya know?”
“I do. You woke me up this early,” Mike reminded him. He shook his head in exasperation, which he noted Sam copying out of the corner of his eye, then chuffed a quiet laugh when Dean shrugged, utterly unrepentant. “Dude, I'm starting to remember how much of a control freak you always were.”
Sam's boom of laughter joined in on the jest, a roar in the otherwise silent room, while Dean scowled. If Mike blocked himself off to everything but their noisy bickering, he could almost pretend that the last dozen or so years had never even happened. He relished in the easy turn their reunion had taken.
-
Another woman found dead in her apartment...
Mike graced the world with his conscious presence, yet again, four hours later. It was not nearly enough rest, further dimmed by the horrible news his radio alarm chose to blare so early, but everything else was currently right in his world - work, friends, family - and he gave them more stock than sleep deprivation.
He cleaned up, got dressed, then discovered that Dean was still sprawled across his sofa, his mouth open in a raucous snore, one arm hung off the edge of the futon that rolled out of Mike's sofa cushions. Sam was nowhere to be found.
Mike smiled fondly at the sight and managed to wrangle his skinny tie into a suitable knot - well, by his own standards, at least. He'd scrounge up breakfast for them, he decided affably.
A push of his kitchen door revealed his other cousin's whereabouts. Sam sat, back to Mike and the exit, at the rickety dining table, his long fingers dancing along the keyboard of his laptop. He gave no indication to acknowledge that he'd heard Mike, so the younger man drew up behind him and frowned at his monitor, which displayed two open tabs.
New York Ripper Strikes Again, the header of the first read, big and bold, property of a New York Times article, though the text following it was too small to read. Beside it, a Wikipedia page that read Al (folklore) was on standby. Mike must have made some sound while scanning over the screen because Sam's head snapped up and his large hand slammed the lid of the laptop shut.
“What are you doing awake, Mike?” he asked, his tone exaggeratedly casual.
Mike blinked at him, wary of his evident paranoia, but dutifully replied, “Work, remember? I've gotta go in a few. Why are you up?”
“I don't sleep,” Sam said. He played off the absurdity of his words with a shrug.
Mike considered him carefully, then inquired, “Nightmares?”
Sam didn't respond, merely smiling ruefully, but Mike let him be. He knew a thing or two about bad dreams himself. Instead, he started for the fridge and scavenged through it for fresh ingredients, wishing he'd been to the supermarket sometime in the last century.
“What are you doing?” Sam asked again, his head cocked at an angle.
“I thought I'd whip something up for you guys,” Mike said over his shoulder. He hummed in triumph when he found a batch of unexpired eggs and only partially wilted vegetables, perfect for an omelet.
“You really don't have to do that,” Sam asserted. He shook his hands in a quick, halting motion.
“Are you kidding me?” His brother appeared suddenly at the doorway and began to leer at Mike. “I haven't had a home-cooked meal since Reagan was President. Or something like that.”
“It's just a couple of fried eggs. No trouble at all,” Mike said. He punctuated by cracking one’s shell against the rim of his chipped frying pan. Sam faltered beneath the dual assault and relented with a sigh, to which Dean whooped delightedly. Mike chuckled at their familiar fussing, while dicing green pepper and tomato slices into yolk. It took less than half an hour for the whites of the eggs to color a hearty gold, and it was only after Mike placed plates in front of his guests that he broached an issue that niggled at him. “I feel kinda bad...”
“Why?” Sam replied, the question urgent but not apprehensive. Dean craned his head up, too, unable to speak through his mouthful.
“Well, it's just that you haven't been here in a while and when you finally visit, there's a psychotic killer on the loose.” As soon as he divulged his reasoning, Mike regretted it. Sam's open expression closed off, his eyes cagey in their sockets, and Dean's smile became needlessly nonchalant. “I-I mean,” Mike rambled, attempting to break the tension, “I saw that you were looking up the Ripper. It's terrible what he's doing, murdering pregnant women, especially if it's for the reason the media is giving.”
Dean finally swallowed, his lips still grooved into that insouciant smirk. “And what are they saying, Mikey?”
“That it's a hate crime,” Mike answered quietly, busying himself with washing finished dishes. “That the Ripper, whoever he is, is killing these women because they're Middle Eastern, and no one should do that. America - especially New York - is supposed to be a place where everyone belongs, no matter their race, religion or culture. It’s not right.”
He scrubbed his dishtowel across the surface of one plate angrily and startled when Sam murmured, “You're right,” with a tiny, affectionate quirk of his mouth. “Thanks for breakfast, Mikey. It was great.”
“N-no problem,” Mike answered, a little flustered by the gratitude. He set his now gleaming dishes aside and chanced a glance at his wall clock, then bit his lip at the sight. “Crap, I'm going to be late! You two will be okay on your own, right?”
“Fine,” Sam said, simultaneous to Dean's declaration of, “Dude, chill. You're not still riding that ancient bike, are ya? I'll drive you.”
“Uh, that's okay,” Mike willed himself to respond, albeit unconvincingly. He had to admit, it would be nice to sit back and relax for once, particularly since he'd probably be late, anyhow, no matter how fast he pedaled, but his cousins had other things to attend to and he couldn't delay them just because he didn't want Harvey to yell at him again. How pathetic would that be? “Don't you have business?”
“It can wait a little while,” Dean answered dismissively, already standing up. “I couldn't deprive anyone of a ride in my pretty baby, now could I? 'Specially not my favorite kid cousin.”
Sam rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Here he goes again,” he told Mike, who laughed and accepted Dean's proposition.
He was glad he did once he caught sight of Dean's car. Sleek and black as a prowling panther, the Impala didn't look a minute older than the last time he'd seen her, when his eldest cousin had dropped him off at school before leaving for another trip. Mike walked up to the car now and ran his hands over her body, reverential as a priest with something holy. Dean grinned proudly from the driver side door.
“Still beautiful, ain't she?” There was no question in his tone, phrasing aside.
“Yeah,” Mike breathed, as he heeded Sam's none-too-subtle suggestion to get inside, where he watched Sam stake his claim to the shotgun seat.
“You two,” the tall man muttered dryly, not nearly as irritated as he wanted to act, if the way his eyes crinkled at the corners was anything to go by. Neither Mike nor Dean answered him, sharing a conspiring look in the rear-view, so Sam appended, “Better hurry up, Dean. Don't want Mike to be a tardy slack off like you, do we?”
Dean made a face at the joke, but subsequently grinned broad as the Cheshire Cat. “Hold on to your hats, boys and girls! It's been a while since Dean Winchester hit big city traffic!” He swiftly maneuvered out of his parking spot and stepped down, unnecessarily sharp, into the Impala's gas pedal. His brother and cousin slammed back into their cushions rather comically.
The Impala proceeded to swerve between lanes, skyscrapers and fellow cars first shooting past, then falling behind it. Mike made it to work in record time. Pearson Hardman's glass body shone like a beacon for him to direct Dean to.
His older cousin found an empty spot in front of the firm’s sidewalk and paused there, waiting just long enough for Mike to get out on jellied legs, without even bothering to shut the engine off. “Have a good day, honey,” he said saucily, accompanied by a quick wave from Sam, before they blasted back into the busy streets.
For a minute, Mike stared after them, while nerves roiled in his stomach. He sorely hoped there wouldn’t be news of another accident - caused by Dean or otherwise - anytime soon, but berated himself for the black thoughts and was soon distracted by a security guard trying to catch his attention from inside the building.
“Hey, Hank,” he greeted the man, whose goofy smile only grew larger.
“You shall not pass!” the security guard shouted, the severity of the original Lord of the Rings quote trivialized by his mirth.
“B-but,” Mike put on a stutter, playing along, “how am I gonna live happily ever after, till the end of my days, now?”
Hank appraised him momentarily, then broke off in a laugh. “You’re all right, kid,” he said, a beefy hand thumped against Mike's shoulder.
“So you tell me every day,” Mike returned, witty as ever. “It never gets old, though. Thanks for the ego boost, man.”
Hank shook his head. “Move along, ya brat. Some of us have got real work to do.”
Mike faked a pout and handed Hank his bag, only cracking a smile after it was deemed safe enough to return to him, at which point he turned for the elevators. “See ya, Hank!”
When he reached his office floor, the click of heels and Rachel Zane’s elegantly lifted eyebrow met him. “You’re early,” she said, by way of hello.
Mike ignored the disdainful observation and chirped, “Morning, Rachel,” batting his eyelashes at her coquettishly. He chuckled when she rolled her eyes, familiar with her barely contained aggravation by now.
“It’s weird, though,” she continued, pivoting on a pencil heel. She seemed to intrinsically believe that Mike would trail her like a lost puppy. He almost didn’t, just to prove her wrong, but he wanted to know what she was talking about, so he settled for cursing his own predictability. “Normally, Harvey only acts like he’s PMSing when you’ve done something to screw up, but it’s too early for that, today. As I said, you’re even on time.”
Mike worried his lip. “Harvey’s mad?” he asked meekly. He wracked his brain for possible reasons. His boss hadn’t been upset yesterday, he remembered. In fact, Harvey had been reluctantly content with Mike’s progress, since he'd proofed a document and found a discrepancy that had previously been missed, which could have cost the firm millions of dollars.
“Yeah, he was glaring out the window when I went to visit Donna a few minutes ago, looking ready to use that thousand dollar silk tie as a makeshift noose.” Rachel didn’t seem to notice his anxiety. Her inflection bordered only on curious, as if Harvey’s choler was yet another matter for her to research.
“Thanks for letting me know,” Mike replied, although she hadn’t for any specific purpose. Rachel shrugged and stepped aside so he could stalk past his cubicle, normally his first stop of the day, for Harvey’s office.
“Oh,” Donna said, upon his reaching her desk. She stretched the word like small children did every time a classmate was called to the principal's office, and even deigned to look up at him. That was when Mike knew it was bad.
“I’m not coming out alive, am I?” he asked, humor feeble at best.
“Mike!” Harvey’s voice echoed, his displeasure obvious. The exclamation interrupted Donna’s answer.
She smirked up at Mike and made a shooing gesture, directing him to his doom. “Good luck, puppy,” she said, surprisingly genuine, as Mike swallowed and obeyed.
“Harvey, whatever is going on-” he began, but his boss cut him off with an impatient flick of his wrist and stood up.
“You didn’t ride your bike today, did you?” Harvey demanded, without a care for the strange turn his interrogation had taken.
“Um, no,” Mike said. “Why does it matter?” was on the tip of his tongue, but he gulped it back. Better to not know the relevance if it meant Harvey didn't get mad - well, madder.
Harvey whipped on the sole of one expensive shoe toward the glass that circled his large room, before he abruptly changed the subject. “I have a meeting with a client. Grab the files on my desk; you’re coming with me.”
“Okay,” Mike said, each syllable stretched bemusedly. Again, he forwent an inquiry into Harvey’s logic, since the man could have easily carried everything himself, and simply did as commanded. He fell into step with Harvey when his boss headed for the door. Donna saw his questioning glance and shrugged, but the curl of her glossed lips suggested that she knew something he didn’t - like always - and he inwardly bemoaned his unending misfortune.
Thankfully, by the time Harvey got outside and found Ray already waiting for them, the stiff line of his shoulders had relaxed, his ambiance, while explaining their case, becoming almost friendly. “Gale Tempest, born Rupert Abranksy, was one of my first clients for Pearson Hardman.” He rolled his eyes at the presumptuous alias the man in question had chosen and Mike smiled. It meant storm-storm, oddly enough. “Ten years ago, he was a no name street painter in Harlem, barely supporting his wife and five year old son, but around the time I left the District Attorney's office for the firm, he suddenly hit it big, and now he’s one of the richest men in the United States, never mind the city.”
“I read an exposé on his artwork once,” Mike said. He recalled that he’d found the tidbit about Tempest's name hilarious then, too. “Some creepy stuff, with blood-spray and monsters bursting out of otherwise black canvases. The reviewer dubbed it ‘a glimpse into the dark recesses of the human subconscious’. I thought it made Saw look like a romantic comedy.”
“No accounting for taste,” Harvey said with half a shrug. “I prefer jaunty works, myself, but that isn’t really the point.”
“So why’d he call us?” Mike asked. He took a cursory flip through the files on his lap, but found no answer there.
“He didn’t,” Harvey replied, collecting the topmost file from him and opening it up. “As you know from the McKernon Motors case, we take a personal interest in our clients' success and swoop in if we think they’re about to make a regrettable decision.” He pointed to a particular page, its title announcing it to be Tempest’s will, his finely manicured nail opalescent on the creamy white, expensive stationary. “I didn’t often have need to worry about Mr. Tempest, as he’s Spartan to the point of being gluttonous, which he displayed when he left his ex-wife penniless.”
Mike’s eyes scanned over the information and absorbed more in a few seconds than others might in ten minutes. “But you’re worried now,” he murmured, “because this says he’s liquidating the whole of his assets among his ex-wife, son and various charity organizations upon his death, rather than having his business prolong sales.”
“Tempest isn’t the sort of man to do that, no,” Harvey acquiesced. His forehead wrinkled in a way that made Mike want to smooth it out, using his own hands if necessary. “We’re going to his townhouse now to try and discern his motives.”
“Almost there, sir,” Ray piped in. The dulcet utterances of Frank Sinatra filtered, volume low, over the half-raised glass that separated the three men, soothing the disquiet.
“Thank you, Ray,” Harvey said, his smile open. The driver's prediction proved correct within the next several minutes, whereupon he stopped the limo and held its door open for them, taking special care to ensure Mike didn’t drop his armload.
Mike followed his boss’s example and sang Ray's praises, before gawping up at their client’s townhouse, which resembled a mansion, or even a castle, more accurately than any given description, with tall spires, narrow columns and a bombastic paint job of cerulean blue.
Harvey, however, didn’t bat an eye at it, his expression soured by distaste. He loped to the entrance and rapped the lion-head knocker against the door twice, sharp and purposeful, then stood back to wait. His patience was soon rewarded by the scurrying of footsteps that belonged to a mousy-looking young woman, her eyes a liquid brown to Harvey’s soul-searing chocolate and her hair a mess of tight brown ringlets.
Harvey’s demeanor shifted a hundred and eighty degrees and a flirty smile adorned his lips. “Wendy, my dear, you’re looking lovely as ever,” he said, blind to how Mike's good mood dived several notches.
Wendy blinked at him, her eyes dark and inscrutable, then replied with an smooth, “Enchanté,” that seemed to throw even Harvey for a loop. At the dumbfounded expression, she sneered and withdrew. Both the door and the elder lawyer's jaw remained unhinged.
“She isn’t usually so…forward,” Harvey eventually explained, when he noticed Mike's surprise over his boss getting daunted by a woman - well, a woman not Donna or Jessica. “In all the years she’s been Tempest’s secretary, about as long as he’s had me on retainer, Wendy has always turned cherry red the second I so much as looked at her.”
“Maybe she took a self-help class?” Mike suggested, but Harvey ignored his commentary to forge onward. He swiftly scaled the staircase, as the woman in question had done a few moments prior.
A shadow fell over Harvey, its proprietor standing at the base of the second floor. “Harvey Specter,” he mumbled, wringing his hands apprehensively. He pulled one out of its clasp at Harvey's extension of the same. “W-what are you doing here?”
“This is my associate, Mike Ross,” Harvey said, suavely dodging the inquiry.
Mike took the rest of the steps that separated them two at a time and shook Tempest's hand, feeling a clammy sheen of sweat on it. Now that he was close enough, he could see that the man seemed sick, heavy bags under his eyes, a greenish pallor to his perspiring skin. His pale gray orbs continually drifted to where his assistant now sat, manning a tasteful antique desk.
“It's nice to meet you, Mr. Tempest,” Mike said, soft as one might speak to a cornered, wounded animal. He extricated his hand and subtly wiped it across his pants, though he knew his boss wouldn't approve.
Tempest's attention snapped to him, albeit briefly, and he nodded. “You too, Mr. Ross.”
“Gale!” Harvey chose that moment to set aside niceties. “I've noticed a few new...additions to your will.”
“Ah yes, those,” Tempest replied, the final word a despondent sigh.
“You didn't contact me for my advice, Gale. That's what retainers are for,” Harvey said, his arms crossed in a way Mike was familiar with, able to make even the oldest man feel helpless, small and stupid.
Tempest glanced at Wendy again, but she had immersed herself in a gossip magazine, ignorant to her surroundings, so he mustered up a weak, “I didn't want to bother you, Harvey. I thought the online will-building website would be enough and I'm sorry if they messed anything up.”
“They didn't,” Harvey answered, still maintaining his no nonsense pose, despite the slight mitigation of intimidation in his lecture. “The diction is fine, but the problem I have is with its results. Although we take no issue with you reconciling with Martha, that being a personal matter, if you disperse your finances the way you're planning, you'll leave no meaningful business legacy.”
Tempest listened to the advice, stare locked dead on his own dress shoes, then smiled. It was a garish expression, bitter and galled. “That's what this is about, isn't it?” he asked. “Money, always money! Why does every man think that flimsy little sheets of colored paper, which can't so much as wipe your ass, are the answer to everything? Why can't I do something good with my wicked life the once, without the Spanish Inquisition turning up at my doorstep?”
Harvey and Mike convened wordlessly over the small, ranting man's head, and registered the same shock in one another. “Gale? Are you feeling all right?” Harvey inquired, more gentle now. It seemed he'd pressed too hard, hurt too much.
“No,” Tempest whispered, “but you can't help me this time, Harvey, so please leave. Thank you for all you've done for me.” He turned in the direction he'd come, toward a dimly lit office with its doors flung open, and blocked himself off from his lawyers' view by closing them behind him. Only Wendy and her special brand of hospitality remained.
Mike couldn't help feeling like his bones thrummed from the aftershock of that slam, but he regained his calm and trained his eyes on Wendy, as his boss did, till she asked at length, “You don't need me to walk you out, do you? Better yet, I could hold your hand?” indignation obvious in her tone, in a way completely unlike Donna's comical terrorizing of her fellow employees.
“No,” Harvey said, although he took a contradictory step closer to her desk. “If I may, however, I'd like to have a word with you?” She harrumphed, but nodded, not bothering to look away from whatever article she was reading. Harvey smiled, rose-sweet and barbed. “You haven't told Mr. Tempest any unfortunate news, have you, Wendy? Or do you know any other reason for me to be worried about him?”
Wendy must have sensed the underlying intention of his interrogation, because she set her magazine down onto her otherwise neat desk and smirked up at him. “Look, Mr. Specter, Gale is a big boy. You're not his father and I'm certainly not his mommy. If he has an ouchie, you have to let him come to you, so why don't you go feed the rest of your baby birds while you wait? I can't babysit all of you.”
Harvey's lips thinned in response. It didn't quite managing to twist his face unattractively, but he took her advice and hurried down the steps, his clenched fists the only overt signal of his anger. Unsure whether to give his boss or the secretary a wider berth, Mike followed at a slower pace, the hairs on the nape of his neck rising. At the foot of the stairs, he braved a glimpse around his shoulder and found that, in the shadows, Wendy's already sable eyes had pitched almost black, which forced his hand.
He power-walked out of Tempest's house without a care over how idiotic he appeared. The rapid thread of his heart quieted once he comprehended that Harvey was waiting outside for him. He gifted his boss a watery smile and said, “You think she's blackmailing him, don't you?”
“You noticed that?” Harvey replied, the subtle tilt of his mouth relating that he was actually impressed - so impressed, in fact, that he allowed his associate to catch up to him and nodded his head for Mike to enter his lingering limo first.
“I've been getting better at reading people,” Mike said, preening. He'd hoped his gloating skills were finally beyond disparagement, but Harvey’s responding chuckle was indulgent, at best. Still, Mike wanted nothing more than to keep his boss in that jovial state. “I noticed that Mr. Tempest kept looking to her for cues,” he hurriedly added.
The dimple in Harvey’s face yielded deeper, tinged with sincere pride, before it quelled in the release of a breath. “Well, we can't do anything about it now, I suppose. We'll have to get back to the office and try later, when he's no longer so...emotional.”
“'Cause the great Harvey Specter is put off by a few manly tears,” Mike said. Laughter pervaded the confined space of the car at Harvey's reprimanding look.
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MASTERPOST ♥♥♥ NEXT (CHAP 2)
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