round four prompt post - CLOSED TO NEW PROMPTS
ROUND FOUR IS CLOSED FOR PROMPTS! ANY PROMPT POSTED HERE FROM NOW ON WILL BE DELETED
ROUND FOUR IS NOW CLOSED. FEEL FREE TO CONTINUE POSTING FILLS. ROUND FIVE IS NOW OPEN!
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It happened barely a block away from Pearson-Hardman. People in business attire of all kinds were rushing around the streets, chatting or texting or talking on the phone, carrying bags of takeout or heading into restaurants or trying to balance trays of coffee as they pushed their way through the bustle that was the lunch rush. Harvey generally made a point of avoiding this time of day, and Mike tended to do whatever Harvey did, so it wasn’t often that the found themselves in the middle of it. It also wasn’t often, though, that Donna took it upon herself to forcefully take away from them whatever it was they were working on, being careful to maintain whatever kind of organization they had for their paperwork, and order them to take a break for half an hour and get themselves something to eat because “day jobs are meant to be day jobs, not thirty-six-hours-pretty-much-straight jobs and Harvey your puppy needs feeding and he won’t go if you won’t go,” - because as much as she felt it was within her job description to chide Mike for not eating or not sleeping or wearing wrinkled suits, she wouldn’t dare mention to Harvey that he was starting to look rather ruffled himself.
As it was, Mike and Harvey found themselves wandering down to the café down the street for a quick bite to eat and some much needed caffeine. Neither was saying much, as, though they’d been ordered to take a break, both of their minds were very much still on the case. Harvey was thinking well this precedent, or that precedent, and Mike was just systematically going through everything he’d read directly regarding, and even maybe-possibly-sort-of-related to, waiting for something to jump out at him as useful. Both, however, were so deep in thought that they hardly even registered the impossibly loud bang that was the gunshot ringing out, but the screams that followed immediately afterward, and the panicked jostling of the crowds of people as they ran every which way, trying to get away from the unidentifiable danger brought them unavoidably back to the present.
“Harvey, what…?” But Harvey could only look at Mike with wide eyes which were clouded with what could only be described as fear, despite how much the lawyer would insist to the contrary, as the rough bumping and rushing of people started to push the two of them further and further apart. Mike seemed to realize what was happening in a jolt, and he panicked, scrambling, trying to push his way back to Harvey, his light blue eyes wide, his cheeks impossibly pale. “Harvey, Harvey…” And then Harvey was gone, as a tall, burly man pushed between them, and the surge of people that followed knocked Mike backwards, and he was falling, grasping at nothing, pushing uselessly at the throng of fleeing people as they unknowingly knocked him all the way to the ground.
Mike knew panic. He knew fear and he knew desperation and he knew utter hopelessness, but he could not relate how he felt at that moment to any other time in his life. He was being trampled. Heavy men in loafers and women in high heels and all manner of people in general were running screaming every which way, and none of them seemed to notice the man lying on the ground, unable to push his way even to sit up before he was knocked back down again. Mike felt like he couldn’t breathe - or maybe the wind had been knocked out of him. He couldn’t know for sure. It was an all-encompassing panic, an overwhelming agony. Everything hurt. The constant ache was interrupted only by sharp spikes of intense pain. There was no reprieve. He was suddenly overcome by the crushing certainty that this was the end. A beat, and he thought he felt the rhythm of pounding feet change around him. He had kept his eyes tightly shut thus far, but as he dared to open them just barely for a moment, he thought he saw a flash of navy blue, of what had been carefully pressed fabric over perfectly glossed shoes but minutes before, but he chalked it up to concussion-induced delusions, and his eyes fluttered shut again as he gave in to the agony and everything went black.
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Can't wait for the next part
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Harvey could only watch with wide eyes as the surge of fleeing people pushed Mike further and further away from him, until someone blocked his view of him entirely, and when he looked for his associate again, he was gone.
He’s fine. He’s just fine. I just can’t see him. He knows where to go. He’ll go back to the office. I just can’t see him right now. It’s really crowded. He’s fine. He’sfinehe’sfinehe’sfine.
But no matter how logical he tried to be, Harvey couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. He couldn’t ignore that voice in the back of his mind that was telling him that he had to find Mike. Some might have called it a protective instinct, might say that he worried about his associate whenever he was out of sight (and truly, though he would never admit to it, even to himself, he worried about him quite often), but he was Harvey Specter, and Harvey Specter didn’t do protective. Or worry. Or anything, really, that might make him seem like he was anything less than a god in spotless Armani.
So, Harvey Specter, having completely and totally convinced himself that his associate was absolutely, positively fine, resolutely turned himself around, away from where he’d last seen his associate, so that he could see the building where Pearson-Hardman was located, and started pushing his way through the throng of people.
Right back around to where he thought he’d seen Mike.
“Mike!” Everyone around him seemed to be pushing in the other direction, away from where the shots had been heard, but he determinedly squeezed between people, moving against the flow, to where he thought he’d last seen his associate. “Mike! Mike?"
The thing about Harvey Specter was that he had an almost infallible faith in himself. He was the best closer in New York City. He was Harvey Specter. He was Harvey Specter and Harvey Specter knew that Harvey Specter didn’t do failure, because he was Harvey Specter. And maybe that was cocky, and maybe it was unrealistic, but he was a steadfast believer in his own abilities, because he believed that anyone who wasn’t wouldn’t get anywhere. But that day, with the seemingly endless crowds and incoherent screaming and the wailing of sirens, he found his faith in himself waver, because as his panicked eyes roved the faces around him, Mike was nowhere to be found. What if something had happened? What if something was wrong? What if Mike was hurt? If he was hurt he might be…
That was when Harvey turned his eyes to the ground, pushing his way through the constant flow of bodies. “Mike? Mike?” And there he was, curled on the ground just a few metres away, barely visible through the shifting curtain of running legs. “Mike!” But Mike made no motion to indicate that he’d heard Harvey, and Harvey felt the panic that he was still denying was running through him double. Now that he could see his target, he ran faster, shoved through people harder, until finally, finally, he was dropping to his knees beside the prone form of his associate, and, as quickly as possible, knowing that he was very much in danger of being trampled himself, picking him up, throwing him over his shoulder, and standing back up again.
And then he was running, running, running, holding Mike as tightly as he dared, trying not to think about the bruises, the blood, the tiny shaft of white bone just barely poking out through the tatters of a suit beyond ruin, and the way Mike had been curled up on the ground, desperately shielding his head with his slim arms, utterly silent amid the cacophony of the panicking crowd.
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I was nervous because it was super rushed and totally not polished at all
but yeah, I hooope I can get some more up soon, but it's midterm season and I'm going to fail calculus
WHATUP
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alsssooo, THANK YOU, to all previous replies
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I hope to see this someday continued. Keep up the great work, anon! :)
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