[fic] sting like a bee 2/?
Title: Sting Like a Bee
Author: happysquid08
Fandom: Suits
Pairing: Mike/Harvey
Rated: T for now, will go up later
Disclaimer: oh, the legality. If I claimed this as my own, Harvey would track me down and sue me himself, I'm sure.
Summary: Boxer AU. Harvey is doing his road work when he comes across some weedy guy getting mugged.
WIP: 2/?
(Part 1: Here)
---
Mike swallows the pills with some difficulty, working them down with constant gulping. When he's finally finished, he lays back down, exhausted. Harvey is standing over by the door, leaning back with his arms crossed and looking somewhere else.
Mike glances over at him, trying to hide the fact that he's looking at all. His eyes trail down the distinct line of Harvey's heavyset body against the pale paint job. He was so caught up, didn't even realize that words were coming out of his mouth until he had already blurted them out.
"Why didn't you take me to the hospital?"
His eyes snap up to the ceiling before Harvey turns to look at him disdainfully.
"Because, dumbass, you were smoking a joint. If I'd taken you to the hospital, you'd have been arrested for possession and illegal use." Harvey steps away from the wall and slipped his hands into his pockets. "Your whole little stoner life would have been ruined."
The hair on the back of Mike's neck prickles as the stirrings of natural rebellion flare up somewhere in the mass of pain and hurt that is Mike's midsection. "Yeah, well, it's not like I needed someone to save me!" he shoots across the room.
Harvey just looks at him for a moment. A tiny smirk turns up that arrogant lip.
Mike shunts his head to the side to avert his eyes. He will not give this guy the satisfaction of a thank you, no matter how much he may deserve it. For sort of saving his life.
"Yeah, so anyway," Harvey continues on as if Mike had said something so stupid that it should be forgotten immediately, "Your wounds have all been seen to, you've gotten down some painkillers that don't react with marijuana, and you're conscious." Harvey waits a beat, shifting into a more solid stance. "Scram."
Mike swings his heavy legs off the side of the bed, trying to ignore the sensation of going through astronaut G-force training. He clears his head with a few shakes and raises himself up to stand. "Didn't... wanna stay here anyway..."
As the full effect of the dizziness hits him, Mike pitches forward in a fit of nausea. Everything seems to be in slow motion...
There's floor tiles right in front of him.
There's a strong grip holding his face two inches off the ground. It pulls him back up into a lax sitting position, and a bucket is slapped down on the floor directly below him. Mike spits some blood into it.
"That'll be the cuts you get in your mouth from getting hit in the teeth," Harvey says knowingly. "Get those all the time, even when you wear a mouthguard."
"Hnnuh. Never quite..." Mike weakly hacks up some bile. It mixes awfully with the blood. "Had this lovely experience before."
"You must not get in fights that often then, kid."
"No," Mike admits. "And whenever I was in one, I just got hit in the stomach, so..."
"You don't seem the type to start a fight," Harvey notes.
"Nope."
"Then what the hell happened in that alleyway?"
Mike pauses. "I..." He cocks his head. "Don't actually know."
"So a guy just comes up to you while you're smoking a joint and beats the shit out of you."
Mike nods. "Didn't even know him."
"Well, goddamn. You should learn how to fight those types of guys off. They're just looking for someone to crush, looking for an easy target."
Mike just shrugs his shoulders wearily. "Fighting back just makes it worse when they finally beat you. Then they really take it out on you."
He misses the obvious concern flicking across Harvey's face.
He's suddenly being pulled onto his feet and to the door. "Anyone can make a fist, anyone can throw a punch, and anyone can win a fight," grunts Harvey as he drags Mike along. "All you need is the confidence to do it."
"What's that from, Boxer's Digest?" snarks Mike.
"Just a line from The Autobiography of Harvey Specter."
Mike would roll his eyes, he really would, but that would hurt way too goddamn much. Where are they going again?
Harvey stops moving, and Mike slows to a stop still hanging off of him. Mike takes a moment to regain his senses and realizes that yes, he is standing before a sandbag.
A large, rather heavy-looking sandbag.
"Hit it." Harvey steps away and crosses his arms. Expecting.
Mike looks at him disbelievingly. "Uh, no?"
Harvey raises his eyebrows, jabbing his thumb at the sandbag. "You don't have the balls to hit a stationary target?"
That gets to Mike under the surface. Just a little bit. Despite the dizziness, the nausea, and the serious trauma wounds all over his torso, Mike straightens up and curls his fingers into a loose fist.
"What if I said I was a pacifist?"
Harvey smirks. "Then I would call you on your bullshit. Pacifists are against violence because they know what it can do. Cowards run away from violence because they're scared of getting hurt." He tips his head forward, looking out from under his eyelashes. "I can spot a coward from a mile away."
Mike's teeth grind together as his jaw tightens against his will. Now both of his hands are balled into fists pulsing with anger.
Harvey looks at him and sees it. He jerks his head in the direction of the sandbag. "Now hit it."
Mike wrenches his body to face the sandbag. He calculates the density of sand, the total volume of the bag, the number of joules it would take to significantly alter its state of motion, the comparative angular strength of differing anatomical positions.
He pulls his aching limbs together and lunges forward, thrusting his fist into the heart of the sand as hard as he can.
It's blown backwards.
Mike pulls himself up and looks at Harvey. Harvey's face is most definitely slackened with shock. Mike grins.
Then the sandbag swings back and bowls him over.
He can hear Harvey's laugh as his body inelegantly sprawls out on the ground.
"Smooth, kid," Harvey says in between laughter, "very smooth."
Mike has a clever quip to respond to that, he really does. He just can't think of it right now.
---
Jenny is the complete opposite to Harvey in terms of nursing - if what Harvey had done can even be called nursing. At the moment Mike is more inclined to describe Harvey's actions with the phrase 'brutal sadism'.
Jenny is so much more tender. She brushes her fingers through his short hair, softly scraping her fingernails against his scalp as she applies pressure to the bag of ice that's currently sitting on Mike's badly bruised shoulder. Nothing she says is too loud or too abrasive; it's all a wash of comforting, positive words that are made to soothe. And Mike is gratefully being soothed.
"You're the perfect nurse, you know that?" he tells Jenny.
She smiles. "It's my job."
"Yeah, you must have so many patients that are desperately in love with you."
She quirks an eyebrow. "While most of them are in the age range from three to ten, I have gotten a few beautifully drawn love letters..."
Mike smiles languidly. It's always so peaceful with Jenny around. He lays his head back against the pillows, his eyes closing from sheer exhaustion.
"What's the score?" calls Trevor from the kitchen.
"20-15," replies Mike, and his eyes stay shut.
For no reason at all, he's thinking about what he could have said to Harvey.
---
Harvey finally reaches his apartment, throwing his duffel bag in the general direction of his coat room before making a beeline to the shower. He still feels gross from the hours and hours of exercise, even though he'd had a quick shower at the gym at some point.
He steps into the steaming onslaught of water and it washes away all the grime piece by piece. The scent of his shampoo floats up as he pops open the lid and squeezes some out onto his palm. He works it into his hair.
He steps out of the shower refreshed, on his way to change into pajamas. But then the phone rings.
Harvey stops mid-stride before changing direction and heading towards the kitchen.
He picks up, and on the other line is none other than Jessica Pearson.
"Why Harvey, it's about time you answered your phone. Staying out late tonight?" Her tone is perfectly measured and clipped.
He grins, knowing the hidden barbs in that statement. "Nope, just got back from the gym. I was about to fall down dead, but it seems you have other plans."
"Oh, nothing, just a reminder that the gym's equipment should be treated with its proper respect. Oh, and that you need a second."
"That sandbag was so old it was just waiting to get burst open," says Harvey defensively. "And I already have a manager."
"It's not enough, Harvey. You need a proper second in your corner. Someone you can train with, no holding back. Donna is the perfect manager. But in order to win it all, you need a perfect second to go along with it." Jessica pauses. "I can't be that second anymore. You need to find somebody who can do that job for you as well as I could."
Harvey is shaking his head. "Jessica..."
"Harvey," says Jessica warningly. "Don't even think of speaking down to me."
"I wasn't."
"Then keep it that way. And be on the lookout for a good second. You'll need one if you ever want to be Champion."
Jessica hangs up.
Harvey is still holding the phone to his ear, listening to the dial tone.
He clicks it off and sets it down in its cradle.
Harvey looks down at the cityscape beneath him, and wonders where the hell his perfect second is right now, hidden somewhere among the masses of people living in NYC.
---
End of 2/?
tbc
Author: happysquid08
Fandom: Suits
Pairing: Mike/Harvey
Rated: T for now, will go up later
Disclaimer: oh, the legality. If I claimed this as my own, Harvey would track me down and sue me himself, I'm sure.
Summary: Boxer AU. Harvey is doing his road work when he comes across some weedy guy getting mugged.
WIP: 2/?
(Part 1: Here)
---
Mike swallows the pills with some difficulty, working them down with constant gulping. When he's finally finished, he lays back down, exhausted. Harvey is standing over by the door, leaning back with his arms crossed and looking somewhere else.
Mike glances over at him, trying to hide the fact that he's looking at all. His eyes trail down the distinct line of Harvey's heavyset body against the pale paint job. He was so caught up, didn't even realize that words were coming out of his mouth until he had already blurted them out.
"Why didn't you take me to the hospital?"
His eyes snap up to the ceiling before Harvey turns to look at him disdainfully.
"Because, dumbass, you were smoking a joint. If I'd taken you to the hospital, you'd have been arrested for possession and illegal use." Harvey steps away from the wall and slipped his hands into his pockets. "Your whole little stoner life would have been ruined."
The hair on the back of Mike's neck prickles as the stirrings of natural rebellion flare up somewhere in the mass of pain and hurt that is Mike's midsection. "Yeah, well, it's not like I needed someone to save me!" he shoots across the room.
Harvey just looks at him for a moment. A tiny smirk turns up that arrogant lip.
Mike shunts his head to the side to avert his eyes. He will not give this guy the satisfaction of a thank you, no matter how much he may deserve it. For sort of saving his life.
"Yeah, so anyway," Harvey continues on as if Mike had said something so stupid that it should be forgotten immediately, "Your wounds have all been seen to, you've gotten down some painkillers that don't react with marijuana, and you're conscious." Harvey waits a beat, shifting into a more solid stance. "Scram."
Mike swings his heavy legs off the side of the bed, trying to ignore the sensation of going through astronaut G-force training. He clears his head with a few shakes and raises himself up to stand. "Didn't... wanna stay here anyway..."
As the full effect of the dizziness hits him, Mike pitches forward in a fit of nausea. Everything seems to be in slow motion...
There's floor tiles right in front of him.
There's a strong grip holding his face two inches off the ground. It pulls him back up into a lax sitting position, and a bucket is slapped down on the floor directly below him. Mike spits some blood into it.
"That'll be the cuts you get in your mouth from getting hit in the teeth," Harvey says knowingly. "Get those all the time, even when you wear a mouthguard."
"Hnnuh. Never quite..." Mike weakly hacks up some bile. It mixes awfully with the blood. "Had this lovely experience before."
"You must not get in fights that often then, kid."
"No," Mike admits. "And whenever I was in one, I just got hit in the stomach, so..."
"You don't seem the type to start a fight," Harvey notes.
"Nope."
"Then what the hell happened in that alleyway?"
Mike pauses. "I..." He cocks his head. "Don't actually know."
"So a guy just comes up to you while you're smoking a joint and beats the shit out of you."
Mike nods. "Didn't even know him."
"Well, goddamn. You should learn how to fight those types of guys off. They're just looking for someone to crush, looking for an easy target."
Mike just shrugs his shoulders wearily. "Fighting back just makes it worse when they finally beat you. Then they really take it out on you."
He misses the obvious concern flicking across Harvey's face.
He's suddenly being pulled onto his feet and to the door. "Anyone can make a fist, anyone can throw a punch, and anyone can win a fight," grunts Harvey as he drags Mike along. "All you need is the confidence to do it."
"What's that from, Boxer's Digest?" snarks Mike.
"Just a line from The Autobiography of Harvey Specter."
Mike would roll his eyes, he really would, but that would hurt way too goddamn much. Where are they going again?
Harvey stops moving, and Mike slows to a stop still hanging off of him. Mike takes a moment to regain his senses and realizes that yes, he is standing before a sandbag.
A large, rather heavy-looking sandbag.
"Hit it." Harvey steps away and crosses his arms. Expecting.
Mike looks at him disbelievingly. "Uh, no?"
Harvey raises his eyebrows, jabbing his thumb at the sandbag. "You don't have the balls to hit a stationary target?"
That gets to Mike under the surface. Just a little bit. Despite the dizziness, the nausea, and the serious trauma wounds all over his torso, Mike straightens up and curls his fingers into a loose fist.
"What if I said I was a pacifist?"
Harvey smirks. "Then I would call you on your bullshit. Pacifists are against violence because they know what it can do. Cowards run away from violence because they're scared of getting hurt." He tips his head forward, looking out from under his eyelashes. "I can spot a coward from a mile away."
Mike's teeth grind together as his jaw tightens against his will. Now both of his hands are balled into fists pulsing with anger.
Harvey looks at him and sees it. He jerks his head in the direction of the sandbag. "Now hit it."
Mike wrenches his body to face the sandbag. He calculates the density of sand, the total volume of the bag, the number of joules it would take to significantly alter its state of motion, the comparative angular strength of differing anatomical positions.
He pulls his aching limbs together and lunges forward, thrusting his fist into the heart of the sand as hard as he can.
It's blown backwards.
Mike pulls himself up and looks at Harvey. Harvey's face is most definitely slackened with shock. Mike grins.
Then the sandbag swings back and bowls him over.
He can hear Harvey's laugh as his body inelegantly sprawls out on the ground.
"Smooth, kid," Harvey says in between laughter, "very smooth."
Mike has a clever quip to respond to that, he really does. He just can't think of it right now.
---
Jenny is the complete opposite to Harvey in terms of nursing - if what Harvey had done can even be called nursing. At the moment Mike is more inclined to describe Harvey's actions with the phrase 'brutal sadism'.
Jenny is so much more tender. She brushes her fingers through his short hair, softly scraping her fingernails against his scalp as she applies pressure to the bag of ice that's currently sitting on Mike's badly bruised shoulder. Nothing she says is too loud or too abrasive; it's all a wash of comforting, positive words that are made to soothe. And Mike is gratefully being soothed.
"You're the perfect nurse, you know that?" he tells Jenny.
She smiles. "It's my job."
"Yeah, you must have so many patients that are desperately in love with you."
She quirks an eyebrow. "While most of them are in the age range from three to ten, I have gotten a few beautifully drawn love letters..."
Mike smiles languidly. It's always so peaceful with Jenny around. He lays his head back against the pillows, his eyes closing from sheer exhaustion.
"What's the score?" calls Trevor from the kitchen.
"20-15," replies Mike, and his eyes stay shut.
For no reason at all, he's thinking about what he could have said to Harvey.
---
Harvey finally reaches his apartment, throwing his duffel bag in the general direction of his coat room before making a beeline to the shower. He still feels gross from the hours and hours of exercise, even though he'd had a quick shower at the gym at some point.
He steps into the steaming onslaught of water and it washes away all the grime piece by piece. The scent of his shampoo floats up as he pops open the lid and squeezes some out onto his palm. He works it into his hair.
He steps out of the shower refreshed, on his way to change into pajamas. But then the phone rings.
Harvey stops mid-stride before changing direction and heading towards the kitchen.
He picks up, and on the other line is none other than Jessica Pearson.
"Why Harvey, it's about time you answered your phone. Staying out late tonight?" Her tone is perfectly measured and clipped.
He grins, knowing the hidden barbs in that statement. "Nope, just got back from the gym. I was about to fall down dead, but it seems you have other plans."
"Oh, nothing, just a reminder that the gym's equipment should be treated with its proper respect. Oh, and that you need a second."
"That sandbag was so old it was just waiting to get burst open," says Harvey defensively. "And I already have a manager."
"It's not enough, Harvey. You need a proper second in your corner. Someone you can train with, no holding back. Donna is the perfect manager. But in order to win it all, you need a perfect second to go along with it." Jessica pauses. "I can't be that second anymore. You need to find somebody who can do that job for you as well as I could."
Harvey is shaking his head. "Jessica..."
"Harvey," says Jessica warningly. "Don't even think of speaking down to me."
"I wasn't."
"Then keep it that way. And be on the lookout for a good second. You'll need one if you ever want to be Champion."
Jessica hangs up.
Harvey is still holding the phone to his ear, listening to the dial tone.
He clicks it off and sets it down in its cradle.
Harvey looks down at the cityscape beneath him, and wonders where the hell his perfect second is right now, hidden somewhere among the masses of people living in NYC.
---
End of 2/?
tbc