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Autopilot

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Summary: Mike isn't down on his luck. He's really not. He's just experiencing a bit of a rough patch, that's all; it'll pass. It has to. One-shot.

A/N: Not sure what this is, but I've really missed writing for Suits these past few weeks (this is the longest I've went without writing any Suits since I started), and so I thought I'd bang out whatever popped into my head. Hope you enjoy.

Disclaimer: none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language.

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I don't feel right.

There are a million and one reasons why this could be, and I let my mind touch upon each of them.

The clogging black mould crawling up the bathroom walls, for one. Gruelling on my poor, diligent lungs, I know, and even more taxing on my life-long asthma. Puff, puff. I grip my inhaler, I carry it everywhere, tucked away at the foot of my messenger bag, never knowing when I might need it after conquering another plight of stairs.

I never used to have to do that before.

I avoid the bathroom as much as I can, but it's tough when it's the sole basis of my operations. Generally, I need my apartment for one of three things: to shower, brush my teeth, or change my clothes. I have the firm and all of New York to fulfil the rest of my needs. Mostly the firm, though. Alternating between the file room and my cubby in the bullpen.

I'm sorta, kinda living out of my cubicle.

If I'm lucky, I can snag something from the hotdog stand on my excursions beyond the foyer of Pearson Hardman to scoff down between client meetings, or I can lock myself in a stall in the bathroom until the worry goes away.

Oh, and sleep? I miss my bed. Despite its flaws, I'd kill to have an entire day to waste away under a river of blankets. It's hard and it feels like I'm lying on a cradle of rocks, but even I can't believe how much I miss it sometimes.

Maybe the reason I feel so off boils down to nothing more than poor nutrition - makes sense. I never eat much and when I do, it's heavy on the carbs or rich with artificial sugars, either a hastily devoured refill to appease my stomach or an acidic energy drink that sky-rockets my energy levels, but offers little in the way of long-term sustainability. Not that it makes much difference. I'm never hungry, anyway.

Then there's the overexertion on my journey to and from work, pedalling fast, faster, because I'm always late, I'm never on time, and the frown Harvey gets from my continuous tardiness makes something shrivel up and hide inside of me.

I never really recover from the strenuous exercise of my mornings and as much as Harvey pesters, there's no way I'm forking out that much cash for a short commute I can do for free. No surprise then, that I'm easily tired; my stamina isn't what it used to be.

It's a bone-deep exhaustion that never truly fades from overworking, all week, every week, under crappy conditions and suffocating stress, and high stakes that are forever rising and rising until it seems I can't climb any higher.

My muscles always feel bruised, the air is always insufficient, and it's a rollercoaster of ups and downs, never knowing where you stand with anyone. The explosive game of to and fro with Rachel, Louis and his insecurities, Harvey's expectations, Harvey's disappointment, Harvey's ideas of this-is-who-you'll-be.

And the secret, that goddamn secret, breathing inside and all around me.

Jesus, it's smothering me.

If I didn't know any better, I'd say this job will be the end of me. But that's silly. It's absurd. Because this is my chance. My dream come true.

And if the walls close in and my chest only narrows, then I'll simply have to find a way to make it all bearable; I'll have to.

My spine bulges beneath the shelter of my cotton shirts and skinny ties - scrawny, gaunt, sickening, I disgust me, - my cheekbones are piercing, my wrists could snap in half.

But that's okay. That's alright.

That's the price you've gotta pay if you wanna be something these days.

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The idea that weekends and free time are in any way compatible has become a sick, twisted joke.

When I leave the office a little after midnight (because Donna knows, dammit. She knows everything, including just how many hours I'm putting in, and I'll be damned if I let my inability to complete my work speedily enough cause her to worry), I can't help but stare at the heavy chunk of files in my arms and think about Jenny, and Trevor, and how, back in the day, whenever we were strapped for cash or too lazy to go out, we'd kick back on a Saturday night with a six pack of beer and a bag of chips and watch repeats of trashy TV shows, and I wonder if they still do that, or if, like me, there's never enough time for them to put up their feet and stretch out on a creaky sofa, and even if there were, I wonder if there's anybody else around for them to share such carefree moments with.

It seems likely that no matter what, they'd find a way, they'd find someone.

But that feels like a lifetime ago.

Now, I rarely pause to take a breather, never mind fritter away time to my leisure.

There's no rest for the wicked, I guess. And I've got a lot to make up for.

It's freezing out, and a blanket of delicate snow caresses the ground. Slowly but surely, the silver glow of the crescent moon vanishes in a muddle of fog and dusk and drifting snow, and darkness borders me in. Under illuminated patches of streetlights, I cautiously trample through the cold, moisture melting into my thin suit and seeping through to my socks, somehow.

It's my own fault, I know. I've only got myself to blame. Harvey warned me. He said I needed a new pair. I bought these shoes on sale. They weren't stylish enough, shiny enough. They certainly weren't fit for the grown goddamn associate of the best damn closer in New York. Oh, no. They're a goddamn embarrassment, that's what they are.

The dire garb is pretty apt, though, in a way. When you think about it.

It's the outfit of an amateur - of a child playing dress up.

The clothes of a fraud.

Pretending to be something he's not.

After towing my shit upstairs, 'cause the elevator's out of order again, and shoving my way inside my apartment, keys dangling from clenched teeth and arms straining under the weight of the files, I knuckle my eyes while stifling a yawn and stumble into the kitchen to brew some coffee.

I have a feeling it's gonna be a long night.

Uncapping my highlighter, I set to work. However, with impeccable timing, whilst I'm sandwiched between the indecision of finishing Louis' allocated work first or Harvey's, and debating which is the most pressing, the building's electricity goes out, which isn't much of a shocker, I suppose, since there's been a lot of power shortages in the area lately; I've simply been privileged enough to be absent for the majority of them.

Fortunately, I've gotten into the habit of leaving nothing to be desired and I grope around in the dark until I dig up the spare batteries I purchased last week from where'd they'd rolled between the cracks of the couch's cushions, and then I cramp under the dull glow of a flashlight and squint at the blurred words on the page.

My eyes won't quit watering and my stomach's growling again, but I'm not too pushed on the idea of late-night fine dining or suffering through either man's leftovers, to be honest, so in the end, I think, screw it, and decide to opt for a minimally decent night's rest, instead.

But, alas, it isn't meant to be.

I toss and turn and wriggle around to get comfortable. My throat closes over and the back of my eyes prick.

Too tired to work, too anxious to sleep. My life in a nutshell.

Finally, around five, I admit defeat.

Ignoring the messy bundle of briefs monopolizing the coffee table where'd I'd abandoned them in a fit of frustration and fatigue, smugly splayed out and sneering at my bloodshot eyes and pasty complexion, I roll out of bed, throw on some warm clothes, and chug down a cup of bitter-tasting coffee, before grabbing my cell (just in case), and heading out.

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The night's ice is softened by the budding beams of sunrise, a smog of dusty orange that cleanses the city's slick streets of pessimism. I step outside, what little remains of the snow crunching under my heel, and begin walking. To central park, maybe. Maybe it's nice there. I don't know.

The crisp air belts my lungs, the dry cold nips my ears.

I shiver, I sniff, I rub my hands together.

There's a coat that's too big, swallowing my shoulders, fluttering at the rear of my knees, and a thick collar that's been upturned - it scratches my skin. A sapphire scarf whips around in the wind, soft threads batting my eyes and sticking to moistened lips. I scrape the strands off my tongue with my front teeth and make a face.

This is my coat. This is my scarf.

This is me.

I don't feel warm.

Thrusting my hands in my pockets, I amble along and with every step, my heart only grows heavier. Such a cliché, isn't it? Like something from an over-the-top romance novel. But it's true. I can feel this…this load settle in the centre of my chest. And it stays there.

And I do nothing. I walk. Because there's little else to do at this point.

In the park, I stroll past birds pecking at the ground and elderly people walking their dogs, who always look to be bounding towards something we humans can never seem to get a handle on, or at least I can't (let's be real, though - what's the chance they're only chasing a squirrel?), sniffing at everyone and everything with endless enthusiasm that I can't help but envy.

Harvey's forever comparing me to a puppy, but truthfully? I just don't see it.

Maybe I was that guy once, maybe I was that optimistic.

But there is too much unconditional zeal and just plain joy there etched into their grinning, panting faces to ever be matched by the likes of me. Before? Maybe. But not anymore.

Perhaps this newfound cynicism comes with the territory of growing up. I just never thought I'd see the day where I'd be the one without the time or the energy or the desire to care.

I want to, though. I want to be able to care. I want to put one-hundred and ten percent effort into every pro-bono case and ponder the hardships of your everyday civilian, but I'm already juggling so much as it is. I can still recognise the importance of caring, the necessity of it. I'm not quite heartless. Not yet.

'Mike?'

A familiar voice calls from somewhere behind me, shaded with traces of confusion, and I jerk around in surprise like I've been caught stealing or something.

'Oh. Er, Harvey,' I swallow, feeling my brows cave downwards, 'Wh-what are you doing here?'

Harvey shoots me a duller than dull look.

Duh.

I have the sudden urge to smack my forehead.

His face is flushed and damp with sweat, an ear bud suspends from a loose fist where he'd clearly just yanked it out. The senior partner is sporting a baggy white t-shirt and navy sweatshirt, along with these fancy-wancy sweat pants kind of things. I've obviously just bumped into him mid-jog.

Just my luck.

Slightly out of breath and chest heaving, he retorts, 'Isn't that what I should be asking you?'

I wasn't prepared for this. It's like when you were at school and you'd spot a teacher out in public and the weirdest feeling would overcome you, 'cause you didn't think they even existed outside the classroom.

I can hear my ears ringing. It's probably the sleep-deprivation. 'What? Can't a guy enjoy a nice, relaxing stroll through the park?'

With a breathless titter, my lips dance around something that's not quite a smile, but I keep it plastered there and force myself to stop fidgeting with my coat's smooth buttons.

Of all days? In this weather? I can imagine the sort of perfectly reasonable questions scrolling through his mind. All I can do is cross my fingers and hope he doesn't poke too many holes in my explanation.

'Sure, they can,' Harvey agrees easily. 'But this is - it's -' My boss appears abnormally at a loss, face ever so slightly scrunched as he squints at me, 'Are you okay?'

Harvey asking if I'm okay? Just how bad do I look? I stare at a frosted-over fountain a few metres away like it's the most interesting thing in the world. 'Um, yeah. 'Course.' My voice is too nervous, too loud amid the quiet morning. Even an idiot could see how out of character I'm acting and Harvey is no idiot. He's got a gift for reading people. 'Late night, y'know? Lot's of stuff to, um.. do,' I finish lamely, rubbing the nape of my neck and trying not to visibly cringe.

Christ. I sound like such a bumbling fool.

To my increasing discomfort, Harvey rakes penetrating eyes over my crossed arms and closed-off expression and I shuffle in place and try to relax, try to act like a normal human being.

'You're acting weird,' he says bluntly. 'What's going on?'

'N-nothing,' I reply quickly. 'Like I said, there's just…some - some stuff. That I've got to deal with. It doesn't matter. You should get back to your running or whatever.'

'Not until you tell me what's wrong. I know that look, Mike. Something's up.'

And there he is, looking at me with this…this deadly intimacy and I've never felt so exposed.

In that instant, Harvey's dense brown eyes are electric in their acuity and utterly unreadable. I can feel a fight or flight response coming on. My hands ball into fists by my sides.

'I'm fine, Harvey.' The hyper-defensive tone, too gritted and too harsh, stops him in his tracks. 'Just-' I blow out a fierce breath and immediately regret it. The air expels from my lungs too swiftly and I'm gasping before I know it. 'Just-just leave me alone.'

Then I'm striding away, staggering, actually, with only one thought in mind: to get the hell away from here. From Harvey and his...his knowingness.

I don't like this ambush. I don't like his questions.

I didn't want to do this.

'Mike! Mike, wait.' He tries to catch my arm and jogs to keep up. 'Can you hang on a second?' Harvey orders, but there's worry in the slope of his brows and a slight hint of panic in his voice. I'm glad I'm not the only one totally ill-equipped for this, whatever this is.

'Just g-go away!' I bat clumsily at the air, - I…I need air - and pinch my eyes shut as dizziness takes over. Oh, God, I'm gonna be sick. The weight is back, stronger than ever before, and it's crushing me.

'Mike!' he tries again, successfully latching onto to my forearm in an effort to slow me down. Big mistake. 'Calm down, and tell me wh-'

The tight grip on my arm, the heat of his hand. My system goes into overdrive.

On impulse, I rip my arm away and hunker over, panting and wheezing and dying, because, sweet holy fuck, I can't get enough air.

'Shit,' Harvey exclaims, eyes wide.

Thrashing against my ribs, my heart's beating far too fast and my hands are starting to numb. I'm suddenly paralysed by the notion I'm in the midst of heart failure or something.

'H-Harvey,' I rasp, now the one clutching for his hand, 'C-call an am-ambulance. I think-k-' another gasp, another wave of vertigo, 'I'm h-having a heart att-tack.'

I don't know how, or when, or why, but somehow, I'm on the ground, gravel pressing roughly against my palm, I'll need disinfectant later, there's sticky blood, I can feel it, and spots dancing in my vision. The scarf's been ripped away (I think I did that?), lying in a puddle by a…by a knee. Harvey's knee, I grasp with total disorientation, who is stooped down and…and talking, I think. I try to listen.

'-just breathe. Take a deep breathe for me, kiddo. It's okay, breathe. You're gonna be alright.'

There's pressure on my back, warmth, tenderness. My hands curl into stiff claws, like stone. Tingling stone. I can't move them.

'You're fine, Mike. Everything's fine, hear me? You're not dying. You've just gotta wait it out. It's alright. You're doing great.'

Whether it's the soothing mantra or considerate touch or the creeping paranoia of being observed and judged by total strangers, who can tell, but I swear I manage to pull myself together then. I focus and I try, I try my damn hardest, just to breathe, when breathing's never been so difficult.

'That's it. Well done, kid. Keep it up. In and out. Just like that.'

My head's tucked under Harvey's chin and I'm clinging to his sweat-soaked shirt, and I don't think about how he's drawn me closer, that he chose to let me in the time I most desperately needed it, and I don't care that I should feel ashamed or embarrassed, or that there are dogs in the park that are carefree and limitless and that not ten minutes ago, I was filled with the most tremendous sadness.

I breathe. Because that's what Harvey told me to do.

And the rest fades away like it's supposed to.

With one, long inhale, I open my eyes and reluctantly pull away, peeking up to find Harvey's concered gaze fastened on me. He doesn't immediately shift his features into their usual casual disdain and I'm grateful for that.

'Better?' Harvey murmurs, pushing my hair out of my eyes with a tense, thoughtful line to his lips.

I nod, shaky and a little speechless. I don't have a clue what is the right way to handle this. Then I rub my nose with the back of my coat and give a loud sniff, and am absolutely mortified at the sensation of wetness on my cheeks.

'Come on,' Harvey stands and brushes himself down, before offering me a helping hand. 'Let's go get you cleaned up.' He tries for a smile, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. 'Look at you. You're disgusting.'

Slight tremors trickle through my spine and I huddle into my coat, shaking off the dirt from my scarf and holding it limply from my hand. It's too damp to wear again.

A passive silence falls between us, before Harvey speaks up.

'We're gonna have that talk, kiddo,' he announces suddenly, and I realise I've been lured into a false sense of security.

I roll my eyes. 'Yeah,' I sigh, in a shimmer of anxiety, 'I know.'

'Does hot chocolate sound good to you? Hot chocolate sounds good to me. Donna knows a place.' Aaaaaand we're back to normalcy. Cocooned in denial. If only for a little while. 'They do a mean Black Cherry Bourbon. Plus, they don't skimp on the marshmallows.' Figures he'd be thinking about alcohol at a time like this. After the sudden outbreak of feelings and all. Wouldn't wanna accidentally contract any. I hear expensive scotch makes for a largely effective, temporary immunization.

'I think I could approve of that,' I grin, bouncing on the balls of my feet for a second, before relaxing into an impish smirk, 'You know…so long as it's on you.'

'Uh, yeah - no dice, hotshot. Do you know how much this t-shirt cost?' Harvey scoffs, 'Now it's got your gross snot all over it. You owe me.'

'It does not! If anything, it's frickin' drenched in your stinking BO.'

'What else do you expect? It ain't called exercise if you ain't sweating. Save that wimpy shit for yoga or Pilates or something.'

'Then what the hell are you grumbling about?' I cry incredulity, throwing up my arms in exasperation. 'It's not like you're exactly fresh as a daisy anyway.'

'Uh...hello. Your germs, not mine.'

'Could you be any more of a pretentious jackass?'

Harvey arches an arrogant brow and turns a wrinkled nose on me. 'You're damn right I could,' he sneers, 'Remind me, of the two of us, who wiped their nose on their sleeve like some careless toddler? Did you think I missed that? Use a damn tissue next time.'

'Look - are we getting hot chocolate or not? Because I will be extremely saddened and deceived if you drag me back to your condo, cold and sugarless.'

Harvey shakes his head in disbelief and chuckles. 'Yeah, yeah. You'll get your freakin' white fudge oreo hot cocoa, alright? If only to shut you the hell up and save me from the mother of all headaches. And, by the way? How in christ's name can you even stomach that garbage? It's basically a liquid heart-attack.'

He knows my regular order?

..Huh.

'See?' I affect a sniffle, placing a poignant hand to my heart and brushing away a non-existent tear. 'I knew you cared.'

'Well, don't hang the celebration banner just yet. There's still a cushion in my office with your name on it.'

'You wouldn't,' I counter, radiating smugness, 'My face is way too beautiful to be smothered.'

Harvey only huffs a laugh and tosses in an eye roll for free. 'Let's just get that cocoa, alright, sleeping beauty?'

Only when my upper lip is frothed with cream and my chin is clammy with piping hot steam and I've sloppily wiped my face (with my hand. Take that, Harvey) do I hazard a quiet, 'Sorry for interrupting your run, Harvey,' guilty biting my lip and peeping up.

Harvey glances over, takes in my apprehension, and bumps his shoulder with mine. He cracks an honest, if a tad reserved, smile. 'Don't worry about it,' he shrugs off, 'I'm..I'm glad I bumped into you.'

In that instant, with his mild tone and darting eyes, I know what he's saying and it makes my chest tight - in the best way.

He's saying he's glad he knows. He's saying he's happy to help. That he wants to, wants to know what went wrong. Harvey's saying I don't need to struggle on my own.

It's a good feeling.

Side by side, we make our way back to Harvey's condo under a grey, overcast sky, and as I watch, dogs bound past with lolling tongues and stretched smiles and birds chirp and swoop down to peck at the ground, and I wonder if I'm an optimist after all because right then, it seems like everything's going to be just fine.

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Thanks for reading. Please leave a review and let me know what you think?