Characters/Pairings: Mike, Harvey, OMC
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Drama
Warnings: Language, gun violence
Word Count: 2400
Summary: Harvey puts up with a lot everyday at Pearson-Hardman. Men with guns pointed at his associate should not be one of those things.
A/N: Written to make tunes84 oh so happy. I WASN'T EVEN GOING TO LIKE THIS SHOW, DANGIT.
Disclaimer: I do not own Suits or the characters.
It's 9.15, ten goddamn minutes after Harvey has gotten into his office and Mike is already pissing him off.
He had given explicit instructions. The briefs were supposed to be finished and on his desk first thing this morning. And since Mike was supposed to have his ass in his cubicle by eight AM sharp, the goddamn briefs were goddamn late.
Harvey glared at the shelves of records. He glared at the early morning sun glinting off of the windows of the building next door. He glared at the empty space on his desk where the goddamn briefs were supposed to be. He slapped the intercom and growled, "Donna."
He received a sigh in response and: "The briefs aren't done?"
"No, they fucking aren't."
"Don't take that tone of voice with me, Harvey," Donna replied breezily. "Mike's here, he must have had a hiccup."
"A hiccup," Harvey growled. "I'll show him a goddamn hiccup. Deadlines exist for a reason, Donna."
Harvey glanced up, narrowing his eyes at Donna who merely lifted one brow, unimpressed. "Where is he?"
"Do I look like his mother?"
Harvey growled again and got to his feet, buttoning his jacket with sharp movements. "When I get back, we're going to have a talk about your attitude."
Donna snorted indelicately. "You hired me for my attitude, Harvey, don't kid yourself."
Harvey's lip curled because goddammit she was right and he stalked past her desk without replying. Mike was going to pay for this.
~ * ~
The little hall of cubicles where the associates work went suddenly quiet when Harvey came stalking in and a few of the lazy morons Louis had hired slunk away from where they'd been gathered chattering mindlessly instead of working. "Mike!" he barked and a dozen pairs of eyes darted to his face and then back away. None of them belonged to his scrawny associate. He barely managed to refrain from snarling and stalked forward to Mike's cubicle, half expecting to see him hunched in front of his computer with those stupid ear buds in.
He wasn't there.
Harvey looked up, sweeping his gaze around the room and heads ducked back down like gophers hiding from a wolf.
Rachel walked through the opposite doorway a second later. Obviously her instincts were good because it only took half a second for her to freeze, her eyes locked on Harvey, wide and cautious.
Harvey went in for the kill.
"Where. Is. Mike?"
She blinked, swallowing a few times rapidly and fumbled with the stack of folders in her arms. "Ah, I--Mike? He's down in the records room I just left hi--"
Some other idiot blew through the door then and slammed into Rachel's elbow. Her load went flying, papers exploding outward like they'd been shot out of a cannon. It was Greg, white-faced and spluttering almost incoherently. He staggered, nearly pitching headfirst into the floor, then regained his balance and scrambled back onto his feet,still fleeing down the center aisle toward Harvey.
“--guy in the records room, oh my god oh my god, he's got a gun, Jesus Christ--"
The bottom of Harvey's stomach ripped out.
Around him the roomful of associates were in motion again, rising sounds of panic gathering momentum, but Harvey didn't hear a word of it because his feet are moving without his consent, taking him past Rachel, who grabbed him by the arm, her eyes huge in her face. "Harvey--Harvey, where are you going? You can't--"
He just looked at her and her fingers went loose.
~ * ~
It's 9.20 and any minute Harvey was going to get in and realize that Mike hadn't gotten the briefs done. Despite orders.
It wasn't like Mike was slacking off or anything, it was just between the rest of the work Louis was heaping on, the whole potential-flu thing with his grandmother, plus all of the ridiculous shit going on between he and Jenny, it was a lot to handle. Plus, the stupid records room was out to get him.
He growled, finally yanking out a box from the lowest shelf that it had been refusing to give up. "Gotcha," he said triumphantly to the box.
Behind him, metal scraped quietly against metal and then clicked with chilling finality.
Mike went completely still because he recognized that sound. Not from his own memories, but from countless movies, TV shows...
“I'm-'m sorry," an unfamiliar voice stammered. "I h-have to."
Mike turned his head very slowly, his heart taking a staggering leap and then starting to pound like a mallet against his sternum. He couldn't breathe and suddenly it was hard just to hold his hands up. "This is not the answer," he told the gunman in a quiet voice.
"It's the only answer," the guy said. His face was gaunt with fear and despair, tears leaving wet trails down rough cheeks. The gun in his hand quivered in a way that made Mike want to throw up.
"Look, please," he said quietly. "I can help you. Let me help you. You don't have to do--whatever it is you're doing."
The man shook his head, stepping a little closer. "Yes, I do. There's no other way."
Mike met his gaze. "There's always another way."
"I'm good at this," he continued. "My boss--Harvey Specter--he's even better. We can help you."
The man's hand trembled some more and for a second, Mike thought he'd gotten through to him. Then they heard rapid footsteps out in the hallway and before Mike could so much as blink, the man bolted across the room, grabbing Mike by the tie and collar, half hauling him to his feet. It cut off Mike's air for a second and he choked, hands scrabbling to grab hold of the gunman's arm. Fear slithered through him, icy liquid swirling downward when the cold barrel of the gun touched his temple. He barely managed to take a snorting breath and then Harvey was there, standing in the doorway with his head tilted down, shoulders heaving. He was breathing hard, but it just made it look like he was preparing to rain unholy hell down in the filing room.
"Let the boy go," he snarled.
Mike made a noise of indignation that caught in his throat and he had to gasp, fingers tightening around the arm holding him in place, when that proved to require more oxygen than he had available. Between the gun and the imminent threat of strangulation, Mike's having trouble really focusing on Harvey, but he thought he saw his face go blacker still, hands fisting at his sides.
"Let him go, now," he said and his voice was calm, but there's an undercurrent of pure rage that made Mike's stomach flip-flop nervously. It's working on the guy with the gun, too; Mike could tell because he could feel him shaking.
It took a second, but the man finally stammered, "N-n-no."
Which made this whole thing almost worth it, because the expression on Harvey's face was priceless.
No one told Harvey Specter no.
"If you don't let him go right this instant--"
The gun moved away from Mike's temple and he relaxed a bit, only to be
reminded by the noose-like knot of his tie that he was still very much a hostage.
"I'm sorry," the gunman said loudly and there were tears in his voice. "I have to, I have to. Please, just go away!"
"Are you out of your goddamn mind?" Harvey demanded. "There's no way in hell I'm leaving you alone in here with him. Face the facts, buddy, you're not getting out of here with whatever the hell it is you're looking for. You're done. Game over. Give me the boy and maybe I'll think about cutting you some slack."
There was that "boy" stuff again. He was twenty-four for god's sakes.
"Please," the guy begged and Mike felt the gun touch his shoulder, "Please, don't make me hurt him. I just need to get the files. Just let me get the files."
Harvey's expression turned stony. "No one is making you do a goddamn thing," he spat. "You thought up this idiotic plan all on your own."
Mike's legs burned from the awkward half-crouch he'd been forced into and his head was starting to swim. "Just let him get the files," he croaked, wincing as the man jerked in surprise, pulling the tie tighter around his throat. There was a noise that blotted out
everything else and for a second Mike thought he was passing out.
Then his ears started ringing. The man with the gun released him abruptly and he heard him crying, "Oh my god, oh my god, oh fuck Jesus no, nonono!" Harvey shouted his name and he sounded. Panicked? Was that right? Couldn't be.
While he was still puzzling that out, Mike hit the ground and pain like lightning strikes exploded from his side, enveloping everything, turning it inside out and upside down.
He came back to himself some time later, gasping. There were tears on his face. Oh, god, it hurt it hurt what the hell oh god.
"Mike?!" Harvey shouted and appeared over him, brandishing the gun. The gun that had just shot him.
It took his eyes a second to focus and realize that Harvey was gripping the gun by the butt, wrapped in his handkerchief. "Harv'y?" he said, curling his hands around to his side where the fire burned hottest. "Ohh my god," he breathed. "It hurts so..." He couldn't finish, and he watched as Harvey went gray above him.
"Hey!" Harvey snapped and Mike flinched, hissing as Harvey grabbed hold of his chin, forcing him to meet his eyes. "Stay with me."
"Kay," Mike breathed and blinked, wondering if the wildness in Harvey's eyes was just his imagination.
Those eyes flicked over to something Mike couldn't see, turning poisonous. "Fucking idiot," Harvey growled. "Moron walks into a goddamn law firm with a fucking gun and--"
"No," Mike said, and put a hand on Harvey's arm. He got an incredulous look in response. "Y'should give him the files, Harvey."
"I should do what?"
Mike blinked, trying to make Harvey's face stay focused. The pain in his side was sort of dulling and Mike was pretty sure that wasn't good. "Give him the files," he said. "It's Greg Mollet. 's just trying to help his family."
Harvey stared at him, an expression somewhere between anger and incredulity fixed across his features. "You are out of your goddamn mind. You must have sustained brain damage in the fall. My god. Give him the files. Insane."
He turned and moved slightly out of Mike's field of vision and for a second he panicked, his fingers tightening around the material of Harvey's sleeve. “No,” he slurred, “I'm sorry, Harvey, 'm sorry, you don't have to give him the files--” But Harvey just kept pulling away. Mike held on tighter. “No, Harvey, please!”
"DONNA! Where the hell is the help?"
Short, panicky breaths just stoked the fire on his side and Mike gripped Harvey's sleeve tighter, trying to pull him back despite the agony it caused. "Harvey," he whispered frantically, "Harvey, am I dying? Harvey--"
Harvey finally snapped back around, dark eyes sharp. "No, you're not fucking dying, Jesus. The bullet grazed you. Calm down or you're going to give yourself a heart attack."
Mike clawed at Harvey's arm. "Nonono, I don't want to die, Harvey, please, please." Tears burned at the corners of his eyes.
"Hey," Harvey barked, "you are not dying." He turned, looming closer and closer until Mike realized that he was on his knees, bending over him, his hands gripping Mike where his neck met his shoulders on either side. "You are not dying, do you understand me?"
"Okay," Mike breathed, the air coming out in a something sob-like. "Okay."
And he finally believed him.
~ * ~
Later, in the hospital, Harvey visited him.
Mike was embarrassed. Humiliated, really. He couldn't believe he'd broken down like that, begging. God.
Harvey pushed into the room with an expression of utter boredom and then stood at the foot of the bed, giving Mike a thorough once over. When finished, he looked up and met Mike's gaze. "I told you you weren't dying."
Mike flushed and hunched back into his pillows. He got an answering throb from the one-hundred and fifteen stitches in his side, but it's barely noticeable. He covered his face. "Oh my god, this is going to be a thing, isn't it."
Harvey snorted; turned away.
For several long moments he was silent and Mike worried that Harvey was getting ready to fire him. He was going to be useless for at least a month.
Then finally, Harvey said in a low voice, "If you ever put me through that again, I will have Donna find a hit-man."
Mike blinked at him. No way he actually said that out loud. Had to have been the drugs. Or. The blood loss. Or something.
Harvey goes on: “You bled all over a two thousand dollar suit. I had to spend two hours giving statements to the police. I'm going to have to do all of the research for the cases by myself. So if you even think about doing something that utterly stupid ever again, I swear to God--” An ominous silence followed.
Then Harvey looked back over his shoulder, his eyes glinting darkly. "Do we have an understanding?"
"Wait," Mike said, blinking owlishly at him. "You're going to have me killed if I don't get myself killed?"
Harvey rolled his eyes. "I started the paperwork for the charges. Assault with a deadly weapon, just to start with, not to mention--"
Mike stared. "I don't want to press charges."
Harvey stopped, stared back at him. He looked incredulous again. "What the hell do you mean you don't want to press charges?"
Mike waved his hands. "He was desperate. He didn't have any other choice."
Harvey pulled his head back. "He didn't have any other choice than to shoot you?"
"He didn't do that on purpose," Mike huffed.
"He pointed a loaded gun at you! They train the goddamn police never to point a gun at anything they don't want to kill. That seems like a goddamn choice to me."
"I'm not saying it was a good choice, but--"
"But nothing. You're pressing charges. And that's final."
Mike screwed up his face. "You can't make me press charges against him."
He knew that had been the wrong thing to say when Harvey looked at him, determination stealing across his face. "Just watch me."