Cyra

Jhonnys pov

The door clicks shut.

For a second, Johnny Storm just stands there, staring at it like it might open again if he waits long enough.

“…You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

The words come out under his breath, sharp, disbelieving. He lets out a dry laugh, dragging both hands through his hair as he turns away. He can feel his body get hot, with worry, anger, or maybe something else...

“Overreacting,” he mutters, louder this time, like saying it again will make it stick. “Yeah. That’s— what that was.”

He paces once across the room, then back again, hands on his hips, energy with nowhere to go. His boots hit the floor harder than they need to, he throws himself back in his chair to peel them off restlessly, a small distraction before his mind wanders to her again. “She knew what this was,” he says to no one, gesturing vaguely toward the space she just occupied moments ago “I told her. From the start.”

Silence answers him. His jaw ticks. It’s too quiet.

Johnny exhales sharply, grabbing the edge of the table for a second before letting go just as fast, like he didn’t mean to touch it at all.

The room still smells faintly like smoke—but underneath that, there’s something else. Something softer. Familiar.

Her.

But He noticed it too late. His jaw tightens.

“Unbelievable.”

He glances toward the door again.Nothing.No footsteps coming back. No second thoughts. That restless energy spikes again, crawling under his skin. Without thinking, heat flickers faintly along his hands. Its brief, and uncontrolled. He snuffs it out almost immediately with a sharp breath.

“Yeah, great,” he mutters to himself “Real helpful dude-”

He moves to stand again, this time slower, eyes catching on things he didn’t pay attention to before.

Her bag isn’t here. But other things are. A jacket thrown over the back of a chair. Something small left on the counter. Things that meant she was planning to come back. Right?

His stomach twists—quick, sharp, gone before he can really look at it.

“She’ll cool off,” he says, quieter now with a swallow, Less certain. “She always does.”

The words hang there.

Even he doesn’t believe them this time.

Johnny leans back to sit on the bed, crossing his arms like he’s trying to hold himself in place. His gaze drifts, anywhere but the door, anywhere but the space you left behind.

“Tired,” he flops onto the bed and repeats it under his breath, like he’s testing the word. Like he doesn’t quite get it. “Yeah, well… join the club.”

It sounds weak. He knows it.

And slowly—too slowly—something starts to settle in.

Not guilt but the weight of what just happened. she didn’t yell at the end. She didn’t slam the door. just… left.

Johnny pushes off the bed abruptly, like he can shake the thought loose. “Fine,” he says, louder again, forcing the edge back into his voice. “If that’s what she wants, then—fine.”

He grabs a new shirt from his dresser shoving it on with more force than necessary

But he doesn’t move toward the exit.

Instead, his eyes flick back to the door one more time. Just once.

“…She’ll be back"

The room stays silent, and for the first time in a long time, jhonny has nothing to drown it with.

“Hey, Donna,” Mike said, having difficulty gently setting down a tray of three drinks with his arms full. “I brought coffee!”

Donna stopped shuffling papers around in her hands and dropped them to her desk. She quickly grabbed the tray out of Mike’s already-slipping grip to prevent her pristine files from a caffeinated disaster. A smile flashed across her lips. “Thank you, Mike. Which one’s mine?”

He began to point to the tallest drink in the container when a voice from behind him made him jump. “So this is why you’re late?”

The assorted manila folders in Mike’s arms almost fluttered to the floor when he flinched and turned around. Donna smirked. She had seen Harvey coming up the hallway from a mile away, unlike the associate in front of her. Snatching up her coffee, she took a drink to hide the amusement on her face.

“Harvey! Hey! I’m not late, the deposition starts in ten minutes,” Mike protested, gathering his wits once again.

The smell of coffee was starting to waft through the air. There was a dull chatter of several associates, a sound that was almost always present early in the morning. Mike went to check his watch again, and, sure enough, he still had nine minutes and forty-nine seconds until they had to be in a conference room asking a woman who had already decided to lie a series of stupid questions. If Mike was late, he would’ve known it. 

Harvey stepped around him and slid a cup out of the tray, holding it up. He didn’t have to worry about grabbing Mike’s—they always ordered the same thing. “I got here five minutes before you, therefore you’re late. I’ll accept this as a peace offering. Now, let’s get going.”

Mike set his papers down on Donna’s desk for a moment, getting everything settled so nothing would go out of place while he was walking with Harvey. Then, he took the last drink in the tray and followed the senior partner, who was already ten steps ahead of him.

“So, are we going to try to get Josie to settle after this?” Mike asked, the clicking sound of shoes hitting the linoleum floor settling to a slower pace.

Harvey cocked an eyebrow, giving him a look that said seriously? “When have I ever not wanted to—”

A bone-rattling cough coming from Mike cut him off. Mike stopped walking so he could attempt to get the coughing fit under control. Pain poked and stabbed at his chest. He gulped in another breath as soon as the moment had passed, and it took another second for him to be able to speak. “Sorry. I must be coming down with a cold or something.”

Harvey, who had swivelled around to face Mike as soon as the coughing began, eyed him distastefully. “Yeah, from now on you are standing at least three feet away from me. I don’t want,” he complained, waving his hand in a circle and gesturing toward Mike, “whatever it is you have. Deal?”

Mike nodded his head as Harvey took another sip of his coffee. He couldn’t help forcing sarcasm into his voice as he said, “Whatever you say, best closer ever.”

“You wouldn’t be here if I weren’t the best closer ever.” Harvey countered back, annoyance creeping into his voice.

One argument and two empty coffees later, they arrived at the glass-walled conference room just in time. A short, blonde woman whose name Mike didn’t know held the door open for them to enter. A long table stretched across the room, seating far more than were actually present. Apparently, they had decided to set up shop at the closer end of the table, filling the seats on the edge.

Mike’s eyes scanned everyone in the room, a habit he picked up from his criminal days and had never really dropped. He recognized mostly everyone. The most distinctive woman he saw first was Dr. Abigail Thompson, CEO and owner of Aurex Pharmaceuticals. It was hard to miss her hair, which was black at the roots and dyed blue at the ends. Right now, she had it tied up into a messy bun with long, wispy curtain bangs falling out to frame her face. Mike had only met her once, but she seemed like the type of person to take hours getting her hair and makeup ready for the camera across from her, like she was modeling instead of being deposed.

If Dr. Thompson knew the kind of trouble her company was in, she wore it well. Mike doubted the smile painted on her face would come off no matter how hard they tried. 

The court reporter was easy to pick out as well—a quiet man seated a little farther down the table than everyone else, laptop open and ready. Aurex Pharmaceuticals' attorney, Daisy Hale, had been sitting restlessly, but jumped up as soon as Harvey and Mike entered the room. 

“Hello, Mr. Spector.” Ms. Hale held out her hand for Harvey to shake. He shook it, but his eyes wandered from their hands to stare at the outfit she was wearing. Last time they had met, she had worn a brilliant, red, long-sleeved dress that flowed down to her knees, but today the dress was gone and replaced with a stunning suit. A black, button-up waistcoat was layered on top of an immaculately white collared-shirt, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. A wine-red tie accompanied the outfit, matching her high-heals that almost made her as tall as Harvey. The whole thing complemented her dark eyes and shoulder-length, brunette hair. 

Mike coughed and held his chest again, ruining the moment. Harvey responded by nudging Mike a little farther to his left.

“Well, if everyone’s here, then I think we should get started,” The court reporter said, his voice a lot higher and more squeaky than Mike had thought. He pushed his glasses (which, honestly, made him look a bit bug-eyed) up his nose as they began to slide down.

Harvey chose to stand, but Mike sat down in one of the chairs at the very edge of the table. The collection of files and papers hit the table with a thud when he finally set them all down. His tired arms rested at his side for once this morning. Ms. Hale sat as well, taking a seat one away from Mike’s.

The court reporter addressed Dr. Thompson, “Could you please state your name for the record?”

“Abigail Raina Thompson,” she beamed. Her blue eyes, so light they were almost grey, peered into the camera’s soul. Her face was so optimistic that Mike wondered if it hurt.

From there, Harvey took control of the conversation. His facial expression included a lot less smiling, more relaxed and controlled. He didn’t slouch, but his hands rested in his pants pockets. “Dr. Thompson, you’re the CEO of Aurex Pharmaceuticals?” It was a statement phrased as a question.

“Yes. I love my company.”

“How long have you held that position?” Harvey inquired. 

Dr. Thompson finally broke eye contact with the camera to look up at him. “It’s been eight years since my dad passed and left me everything.”

God, even talking about her dead father didn’t wipe the ear-to-ear grin off her face. It was starting to annoy Mike, who had grabbed a spare pen off of the table to doodle on a legal pad. Hopefully everyone else just saw him taking notes.

Harvey was already beginning his next question, not leaving any room for pauses. “So, when Aurex released Carovant, you were—”

 Another round of coughs fought its way up Mike’s throat. This time, the hoarse fit flared up more violently and lasted longer. He squeezed his eyes shut as every cough shook his body and caused stabbing pain in his chest, like nails were dragging down his lungs.

“Mike?” Harvey asked as soon as the hacking stopped. 

He reopened his eyes to find everyone in the room staring at him. His cheeks flushed and he stared down at his notepad. Clearing his throat, he said, “Sorry. You can keep going.”

Except the chest pain never went away like it had the other times. It lingered and spread throughout his ribcage, tiny daggers scraping his insides. Every inhale became sharp, as he tried not to aggravate it any further. He sat as still as he could, the pen and doodles abandoned.

Harvey looked as if he was about to continue when Ms. Hale spoke, “Maybe Mr. Ross should step outside and get himself some water.” If she was trying to go for a concerned approach, she didn’t fool Mike. He knew she just wanted him out because Harvey had brought him for a reason, and a very good one at that. And, yes, she was, in fact, right about that. He did have something up his sleeve.

“I’m fine,” he insisted, opting to ignore the fact that his lungs didn’t seem to take in a full breath afterwards. 

“Let’s continue, then.” Harvey clapped hands together, giving Mike an irritated glance. 

Yeah… Like he had decided he wanted to be sick today.

“Dr. Thompson, you were CEO when Aurex released Carovant, a drug prescribed to treat hypertension, correct?”

A strand of hair that fell out of her bun was twirled around her finger, a spiral that faded from black to blue. “Oh, yes. My dad started that project, but I took it over in the early stages all the way up to its release.”

Harvey wasn’t quite pacing—pacing was frantic and worrisome, not at all his current demeanor—just strolling back and forth lazily. “And, as CEO, you’re ultimately responsible for what your company puts on the market?” he asked another statement-question hybrid.

“Objection. Vague,” Ms. Hale cut in. She leaned back in her chair, one leg crossed over the other.

“I’m asking about corporate structure, not philosophy,” he retorted. “Answer the question.”

“Yes, I’m responsible for my company’s actions, both morally and corporeally."

Harvey nodded. He stepped forward, next to Mike, and put a hand on his chair before asking Dr. Thompson another question. “Did Aurex conduct clinical trials before it was released?”

Mike already knew as well as Harvey did the answer to that question. They had all the summaries and proof from the clinical trials sitting on the table. The past two days Mike had been studying the files, trying to find anything that didn’t add up, and it was only yesterday that he found an error. A small one—something anyone who was just skimming through them might have missed. It must have been the extra work this week that was making him feel so tired and gotten him sick with a cold.

“Of course! Why wouldn’t we?” If it was possible to try to look confused while also being the happiest person in the room, then Dr. Thompson did just that.

“And these trials consisted of patients of all blood types?” Harvey queried, making it very obvious that he was the one asking questions here.

She nodded. “Yes. We were very thorough to avoid complications.”

Well, you weren’t very thorough, because a complication arose, Mike thought dimly. The stabbing in his lungs must have crept up his spine, because it felt like it was leading a surprise attack on his brain. Not to mention, drawing in a full breath still proved itself impossible. He could sense another coughing fit struggling to come to light.

“What blood type are you, Dr. Thompson?” Harvey was no longer walking up and down the length of the room, and instead stood behind Mike’s chair, knowing exactly what he was going to ask next.

“I have O positive, a universal donor.”

Speaking of blood, Mike must not have enough of that in his body. It felt like hanging upside down, all the blood rushing to his head.

“Mike, according to the files, what percent of patients who participated in the clinical trials had the blood type O positive?”

It took him a moment to realize Harvey was speaking to him. He was still focusing on keeping the coughing fit from breaking out. The blurry mental image of the patient breakdown came to his head, although he didn’t know if he could open his mouth to speak without getting betrayed by his lungs. The percentage sat in his head, but it was in a back corner out of reach.

Ms. Hale used his hesitation to her advantage. “Well, one would think that there was a pretty even amount of each blood type to make sure everything was objective. I mean, I’m no medical expert. Is that the case here, Dr. Thompson?”

“Yes, absolutely. The only reason there would be a higher percentage of O positive blood types would be simply because there's a higher percentage of people who have it.”

Mike could feel Harvey’s eyes drilling holes in the back of his head, waiting for him to speak up. Or maybe the drilling sensation was coming from whatever the hell was going on inside his body. It was hard to tell. All he knew was that he needed to say something fast.

63.2 percent. The number hit him like a baseball bat at full swing. It would have been a brutal sucker-punch if something hadn’t knocked the wind out of him already.

He gritted his teeth and inhaled as much as he could without feeling the need to groan. Then, he put all his force behind his words. “Sixty—”

This time, he barely noticed the cough through the haze of pain that tore out his lungs and squished them into the floor. God, he hadn’t felt like this since… since he got hit with that car on his bike a week ago. It was all he could manage to keep his arm close to his mouth. Just imagining the thought of him coughing his germs everywhere made him want to die of mortification—if his lungs didn’t kill him first.

“Mike?”

Through the pain was a slight weight that made him wonder when Harvey had moved his hand from his chair to his shoulder. He probably looked so pathetic right now; he couldn’t even get through one little deposition. Not only that, but he was making a fool of Harvey as well. He could imagine the things his boss was going to say to him when this was over.

Mike had to pull himself together, for Harvey. He gulped in an amount of air that was probably equivalent to how much an infant breathes in and told himself to stop wheezing. His body didn’t listen.

“He looks pale. Maybe you should take him out and go get him some water,” Ms. Hale suggested, her words entering Mike’s head in slow motion.

It was odd that she still wanted both Mike and Harvey out of the room. She must be planning something; there’s no other excuse. However, Harvey must not have been thinking the same way he was, because he immediately started pulling him out of his chair.

Finally, the coughs came to a grinding halt. Mike could feel Harvey tugging on his arm, trying to get him to stand. He didn’t know if he even could. It was like someone had taken out his lungs and left him nothing to breathe with, numbing his entire body. A blurry face—Harvey’s—hovered in his line of sight, features blending together in a blob and becoming hard to distinguish. 

“What’s going on, Mike?” His voice was more demanding, but Mike couldn’t blame him. He was about to cost them the deposition.

Deposition. That was an interesting word, wasn’t it? What were they doing in a deposition anyway? 

The question flitted out of his mind as a bad, coppery taste settled on his tongue. What in the world did he eat? He couldn’t remember that, but it did remind him of a different memory, a cab that didn’t stop while Mike was crossing the street on his bike. He had gotten up, the same taste adhering to the roof of his mouth. That had only been three days ago. Or, maybe it had been four.

The blurry face in front of him began to shout. “Someone go get some water. Bring the trash closer—he looks like he might vomit.”

Who was going to vomit? Mike hated seeing other people throw up, it made him sick himself. He’d had that experience helping Trevor through one too many hangovers.

He would have verbalized his many questions, except he couldn’t suck enough air in to actually be able to speak. How did his body normally do this on autopilot? Every slight breath was like a seven-hour workout. The blanket of pain that settled over his ribcage and expanded up his spine to his head didn’t seem to be going away anytime soon.

Something was being pressed into his hand. A cup. He hardly managed to wrap his fingers around the ridged plastic someone was forcing him to take.

“Drink that. How are you feeling, Mike? Talk to me.”

He couldn’t. Opening his mouth, he tried to show the disembodied voice that something was wrong with his chest, he couldn’t speak. Whoever had given him water must have started pouring it into his mouth, because liquid dripped out the corner of his mouth, down his chin.

That’s when all hell broke loose.

He couldn’t see the chaos through the black spots and blurry splotches, but he definitely could hear it. A woman gasped, the voice was yelling again, “Okay! Deposition is over! Someone call 911!”

Mike still couldn’t understand what everyone was freaking out about. It was just some spilled water. He showed them it was no big deal by simply wiping the stuff off his face with his hand. Okay, it took a lot more effort to raise his arm than he thought it would, but that was besides the point.

He held out his hand. It was smeared red.

Oh. It wasn’t water that was dribbling out of his mouth.

“Mike, look at me. What the hell is going on?”

Look at him. That should be simple enough, except he couldn’t see. Not clearly, at least. Black areas blocked his vision, dancing around like dark fireworks. 

“Mike!”

It seemed like he was getting sucked into a void. Only words and noises reached his brain, coming from a place far away.

A woman’s panicked, muffled talking.

His name, over and over, something he couldn’t respond to.

Then, a door swinging open, and a different, annoying voice he knew, “The associates can hear you down the hall, try to—what the hell is wrong with Mike?”

“Luis! Find out if there’s a doctor in the building and get them over here now.”

Footsteps echoing down the hall until they faded away and disappeared. Fading away sounded really good right about now.

“No, Mike, keep those damn eyes open!”

He couldn’t, he couldn’t, he couldn’t. That seemed to be the only thing he was thinking. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t talk. The only thing he felt he was still able to do was to bear the numbing pain all over his body.

The last thing he couldn’t do was stop himself as he leaned forward into the void.

◯◯◯

Mike had never really felt the desire to know what it was like to swim in TV static, but now he knew. It was awful. His brain buzzed and hummed like a thousand bees had made it their new home, and he couldn’t get a grasp on where any of his limbs were. He was detached from his body, tethered by the throbbing sensation in his skull.

Through the encompassing noise, there was the sound of a door opening with a click and squeaking on its hinges. Where was he?

“Would you look at that, Mr. I-don’t-give-a-shit-about-anyone is here,” a woman’s voice spoke. It was louder than Mike had thought it to be, making him wonder if wherever she was was a quieter environment. 

“He almost died, Donna. A person’s life is plenty of reason to give a shit.” That voice belonged to a man, much closer than the woman.  His words were deeper and more hoarse.

Mike focused on the people talking and tried to get rid of the weightlessness that clung to him. 

“You're his boss, not his father. Go home. You’ve been here all night.”

“I may not be his father, but I’m responsible for this. Do you even know what I could’ve prevented if I didn’t have my head shoved up my ass?”

“Harvey. None of this is your fault.”

“He was struggling to breathe that entire deposition and I didn’t even notice! They have a word for that, you know. Hypoxia. If you deal with that for more than a minute, brain cells start dying. At the three minute mark, there’s already been permanent brain damage.  I don’t even want to know how long Mike just sat there, dying while I did nothing!” The man was shouting now, voice cracking on multiple words.

Instead of pulling himself out of the pool of nothingness he was trapped in, Mike only seemed to slip down further. The static threatened to suffocate him and block out the other people’s conversation.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you actually care about the kid.” Her words had a more sarcastic undertone.

Mike didn’t hear the man’s response. His ears were too flooded with the low darkness pulling him down. Slowly falling, down, down, down, he sank to the bottom of the static. He didn’t have the strength to fight the low buzzing that swallowed him whole, and drowned him in oblivion.

◯◯◯

God, what did he get himself into this time? Normally Trevor was the one blackout-drunk on the sofa, and Mike would have to get him functioning enough to do whatever he needed to do that day. Today, it seemed like the roles were going to be reversed. Unless Trevor was also knocked out next to him, in which case they were screwed.

It must have been one wild night if he didn’t even remember it. The pounding in his head told him it must have been. He prayed that there wasn’t any vomit on the floor next to him, because then he might just puke all over again.

Mike didn’t even make an attempt to open his eyes, just laid there internally groaning. It felt like there was a huge gaping hole in his chest. How many drinks had he had?

Okay, maybe he should at least try to get up. He didn’t know whether or not he had something important going on today, and he also knew Trevor wasn’t a very reliable alarm to get him ready for important things.

On the count of three, Mike thought.

One.

Two.

Three! He peeled his eyelids open, almost immediately shutting them as he was blinded by harsh, fluorescent lights that hung above him. He blinked furiously until he got the stinging sensation to go away.

Once his eyes had finally adjusted to the light, he glanced around and took in the room he was lying in, which obviously wasn’t either his or Trevor's apartment. Plain, white ceiling and walls, strange equipment next to him—he’d never actually been here before, but he had seen enough movies to realize where he was—it was a hospital. 

Mike twisted his head around, dismayed when he could feel something around his face. To his right, a green and blue armchair sat in a corner next to a very fake looking plant. It wasn’t just the armchair that caught him off guard, however.

A man, late thirties or forties, was slumped over in the chair, head lolled against his shoulder. He had on a suit, but it just looked wrong on him. Like, when you think of fancy men wearing suits, you think they look all put together and sophisticated, but this was the opposite. It looked like he had just thrown it on the way someone would throw on sweats in the morning while half asleep.  

It took a while, but eventually a name bubbled up in his mind to match the face. Harvey. Along with the name came the remembrance of many things. Number one being, he definitely hadn’t gotten blackout-drunk with Trevor. He rarely even saw Trevor anymore. 

Number two was more of a question than a realization. Why the hell was his boss sitting next to him at the hospital? What did he even do to get in the hospital in the first place? But, mainly, why was Harvey here?

He didn’t even notice he vocalized the thought until he heard the sound of his own voice. “Harvey?” It came out rough and dry, and cracked in between syllables, like he hadn’t spoken in weeks.

The man must not have been sleeping very soundly, because that one, quiet word was all it took to get him to stir. Harvey’s head snapped up, his frantic eyes immediately awake and alert. “Mike?”

“What…?” he began, but then realized there were too many questions he could ask starting with that word. He chose the one that came into his mind first. “What’s on my face?”

Harvey looked like he didn’t know whether he wanted to laugh so hard he cried, or slap the shit out of Mike. Instead of those options, he managed to keep his expression blank. “A cannula.” His voice was flat, but his jaw was tight.

“Don’t touch it! It’s helping you breathe, idiot!” he added, when he saw Mike’s hand reaching up to grab at the tube on his face. Mike flashed an annoyed glance at Harvey’s warning. It wasn’t like he was going to mess with it.

“I don’t need help with that. I can breathe fine on my own, thank you very much,” he told Harvey, who was now standing. It gave Mike an even better view of how much his outfit was a disheveled trainwreck. The tie wasn’t even fully made.

Harvey half-rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, you seemed to need the extra help when you were rushed to the hospital to get a chest tube”

A blanket of unintentional silence stretched across the room. Mike tried to think of the last thing he remembered before waking up. One image came to mind: standing in line at a coffee vendor booth when a jogger accidentally elbowed him in the ribs as he passed by. Ooh, that had hurt—a lot more than it should have. He remembered blaming the sore ribs on the bike accident where he got hit by that stupid taxi driver. Now that was probably one of the top three worst accidents of his life—right below whatever he was dumb enough to do that landed him in a hospital bed.

“What… What happened?” he asked, wanting to know exactly what was earning the top spot.

Harvey sighed. “First, let me ask you this. What kind of moron gets two fractured ribs, doesn’t do anything about it, so it begins to heal incorrectly, and then waits until a week later when he collapses and almost dies from a punctured lung to get it treated?”

“Fractured ribs?” Mike shouted, dumbfounded. So that’s why his chest had been hurting. He had just figured he was coming down with the flu.

“Yep. So, as you asked earlier, how the hell did this happen and why didn’t you immediately go to the hospital?” Harvey’s words sounded calm on the outside, but his face was betraying him with lines of concern etched all over. He lowered his voice and included, “You could have at least told me, Mike.”

Mike sucked in a breath through his mouth, really feeling for the first time the numbness in his chest. He figured that was due to whatever drugs they had given him to keep him alive. It was weird, Harvey's voice being soft for once.

“I-I didn't think it was that bad. I was riding my bike to the office when a cab came out of nowhere and hit me.” He cringed as he saw Harvey's face fall on the word cab.  

The man had to stop himself from pinching the bridge of his nose like a disappointed father. “So, wait a minute, you're telling me that you got hit by a car bad enough to fracture ribs, and didn't go straight to the nearest hospital?” 

“You make it sound worse than it was! I got up, went home and dealt with it. By the time I woke up the next morning, it didn't hurt as bad and it was an old injury! I didn't know it would turn into this.” Mike tried to wave his arm around for emphasis, but stopped when lifting it tugged at the IV in his arm. He wasn't even fully sitting up, the bed was raised just slightly enough that he could see Harvey upright instead of sideways. 

“I think you need reclarification for what counts as an old injury,” Harvey sneered. 

Okay, so Mike had downplayed the accident a tiny bit. It was just easy to forget about when you had much more important things on your mind. Shit, that’s right—the Aurex Pharmaceuticals case! Wasn’t there supposed to be a deposition today? Tomorrow? How long had he been in the hospital? He really hoped that he hadn’t missed that, as it was supposed to be the big moment where they catch the company in its lie. 

He decided he’d ask Harvey about it in a way that told him what day it was. “When is that deposition by the way?”

Harvey’s jaw practically hit the floor at the sudden change of topic. “What?”

“The Aurex Pharmaceuticals lawsuit. You know, that big deposition we’ve been preparing for—”

“Out of all the things you should be worrying about, you choose a lawsuit? That was four days ago, Mike! You really don’t remember collapsing halfway through, do you?” Harvey snapped for what seemed to be the fifth hundredth time. Mike was getting pretty tired of all the yelling. It was a wonder that no one had heard the commotion and come to check on them by now.

Trying to fix the problem, he began to lower his own voice. “So, um, what happened with the case then?”

“I have no idea. Luis took hold of the case when it was clear you were going to be hospitalized for a while.” Luckily, Harvey got the memo. No more yelling.

There was something pressing down on Mike’s gut yet, a question that he didn’t quite know how to put into words until Harvey spoke about Luis taking over the case. A lot of questions, actually. Why did Harvey look like he carelessly dressed himself, when he normally always looks like the cleanest in the room? Why was he here in the first place? He would rather give up one of his fancy sports cars than give Luis an important case, so how had that happened? It made no sense to Mike.

“How long have I—” He decided to change the question mid-sentence. “How long have you been here?”

There was a skipped beat, a moment in time where Harvey froze. In those few seconds that actually felt like an eternity, he took a grounding breath. He measured his words carefully. “From seven in the morning to six at night the four days you’ve been here. The only reason I went home that first night after you got out of surgery was because Donna forced me to. I couldn’t sleep anyway, knowing it was my fault you were in this mess.”

This time it was Mike’s turn to be astonished. “There’s no way this is your fault, Harvey.”

“Maybe, but it sure as hell wasn’t yours! You couldn’t control the bastard driver that hit you, but you know what I could control? My ability to be a little more aware of when people are sitting right next to me dying and actually do something about it! I’ve been here instead of the firm because I can’t stand the thought that I might be the reason you never get to work there again!” 

Mike had never seen Harvey with tears in his eyes before. He had also never seen such a guilty person have the same facial expression that his boss was wearing. This was more than guilt. It was something else that required Mike to read between the lines, something he did often with Harvey. Finally, he was able to distinguish what exactly he saw.

“Except, I don’t think that’s why you haven’t been to the firm. I think that you really can’t stand the thought of me not working there with you ever again, and not just because you blame yourself. You’re hiding the fact that you actually care about me behind a layer of partially-false guilt, because, in your mind, caring makes you weak,” he expressed, “but it doesn’t.”

“No. You’re wrong.” Harvey stood as still as a statue, jaw clenched. 

“You know it’s not your fault, but you’re making that the explanation for why you feel so wrecked over me. Admit it. Admit you care about me. It isn’t a weakness, Harvey.”

The air conditioning must have been running at full blast, because cold air filled the room. It made Mike thankful for the thin blanket he had, also for the fact that it covered most of the ridiculous hospital gown he was dressed in. Even the crumpled suit and tie Harvey wore was better than the stereotypical white-with-blue-polka-dots outfit.

“On one condition,” he said, voice cracking. Of course he would try to turn this around and gain some control of the situation. “You admit that you don’t have to be valuable to someone to get them to care about you.”

“What are you talking about?” This time it was Mike’s turn to be knocked off his feet with the emotional wrecking ball.

Harvey scoffed. “Don’t be like that. I know you think the second you’re not useful to someone, they’ll toss you out the window and never speak to you again. I want you to admit that’s not true. Admit you don’t have to prove yourself.”

He raised his eyebrows and stared at Harvey in disbelief.  “I’m pretty sure you said it yourself that the only reason you hired me was because I proved myself useful to you.”

“And, yet, aren’t you here trying to get me to confess to the opposite?” Harvey remarked, their words back and forth turning into a game of chess. Right then, he had Mike in check.

The room fell into a stalemate. It felt like the earth had stopped revolving just for this moment. Nothing existed outside of Mike, Harvey, and the hospital room. 

Then, Harvey took a long, shaky, deep breath and sighed. He raised his hand as if he was taking an oath in court. “I’ll go first.

“I, Harvey Spector, swear that I care about Mike Ross and know that it isn’t a weakness.”

He was blinking furiously, determined to not let any tears fall, but one escaped anyway. Mike must have been crying too, because he felt something drip down his chin again, and this time it wasn’t blood. He supposed he should go now, and raised his hand the same way Harvey did.

“I, Mike Ross, swear that I know Harvey Spector cares about me and that I don’t need to prove anything to him to earn that.”

And, just like that, the world started spinning again. Mike released a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding in. Harvey pulled his phone out of his pocket and flipped it open, pretending that he was checking his messages when Mike knew he was just staring at a black screen. They both shifted uncomfortably, no longer statues frozen in place.

Harvey broke the awkward moment. “Okay, I’m going to the bathroom.” His sharp footsteps echoed in the small room as he made his way to the door. 

Except his hand froze on the handle. “One more thing.”

“What?” Mike used his arm, the one free of all the tubes and wires, to wipe his face, careful not to bump the cannula.

“We never speak about this again, you understand me?” Harvey’s head swiveled around to face Mike.

“Deal.”