round one prompt post - CLOSED TO NEW PROMPTS
ROUND ONE IS CURRENTLY CLOSED TO PROMPTS. ANY PROMPT POSTED HERE FROM NOW ON WILL BE DELETED.
New rounds will open at suits_meme.
Round One is officially closed. Round Two will open on Wednesday morning. Feel free to continue posting fills.
Refer to the Rules before posting a prompt.
Direct any of your concerns to the Mod Post.
I'll be archiving prompts (both ( Read more... )
New rounds will open at suits_meme.
Round One is officially closed. Round Two will open on Wednesday morning. Feel free to continue posting fills.
Refer to the Rules before posting a prompt.
Direct any of your concerns to the Mod Post.
I'll be archiving prompts (both ( Read more... )
“Come here,” he says, and as Mike nears he sees that Harvey has spread a white towel on the living room table; bandages, adhesive tape and antiseptic cream are neatly laid out on it. “Sit down.”
Mike sits. He flinches a little when Harvey cleans the gash on his forehead, and he forces himself to hold still as Harvey puts antiseptic cream and then deftly applies two butterfly bandages. Harvey gently dabs arnica ointment onto the bruise on Mike’s cheek, but doesn’t cover it. He carefully checks to make sure Mike’s nose isn’t broken, and then he examines every inch of Mike’s face with the kind of meticulousness he uses when reviewing multi-million dollar contracts. It sends a rush of warmth through Mike’s chest.
“All right,” Harvey moves back. “Since you don’t want to go to the hospital, I’m going to need to check that you don’t have a cracked rib that’s going to pierce your aorta or something vital.” He stands up. “Keep your robe on, just turn around and hold out your hands in front of you.”
Mike does as he’s told. Harvey moves behind him and his hands touch Mike’s torso, prodding gently, gingerly, but he still touches a few sore spots and Mike lets out a hiss of pain.
“As you may have noticed, I’m not a doctor,” Harvey says over Mike’s shoulder. “I did one CPR course in high school, that’s it.”
“Press until it hurts, right?” Mike says through clenched teeth.
Harvey briskly finishes his examination and steps back.
“I don’t think you have any broken ribs,” he says. “But I can’t tell if your liver or spleen or kidney or whatever is damaged or bleeding or ruptured or whatever. So if you feel any kind of pain or discomfort, please tell me. Don’t try to be a hero and die in my apartment.”
Mike can’t suppress a small, rueful smile. “Okay.”
“The spare bedroom is made up, you’re in there tonight. And I found some old T-shirts and sweatpants,” Harvey points toward his own bedroom, “last drawer, closet on the left. Choose whatever feels most comfortable for you.”
Harvey’s old clothes are neatly folded and arranged in the drawer. Mike chooses a pair of comfy sweatpants and a heather gray Harvard T-shirt-less for the irony than the fact that, however much Harvey likes to diss his alma mater, some little part of him is still sentimental enough to keep something from his days there. The T-shirt is well-worn and wash-faded, and the thought of something that Harvey has put on many times being wrapped around him makes Mike feel warm, close, safe.
Harvey is standing in his thinking pose when Mike walks out of the bedroom, and Mike thinks he catches a glimmer of-of something in Harvey’s eyes when he sees Mike wearing his old Harvard T-shirt.
Mike goes to the spare bedroom and gingerly climbs into bed, trying not to jar any of his injuries into anything that might warrant a hospital visit. There’s an insistent ache between his buttocks, inside him, a reminder of what Simon did to him on the entrance hallway floor-but Mike won’t tell anyone about it, not even Harvey, especially not Harvey. He can’t bear the thought of Harvey looking at him differently, as if he’s damaged goods, even though that’s what he is right now-damaged.
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