A/n: Seriously though. Who doesn't love Suits? All the suffocating sexual tension between Mike and Harvey, choking the shit out of me? It's awesome. So very awesome.

So this is probably, most likely, going to be a chapter story. It's angsty and dramatic, and there's a whole lot of whumpage in store for Mike. That boy is gonna get whumped! So Harvey's a careless asshole who makes a whole lot of mistakes, and ends up driving Mike away. He does anything and everything to get Mike back, and suffers massive guilt attacks every few seconds. Because Harvey can really piss me off. And he needs to suffer a little bit.

Erm...Lemon? Maybe? Possibly? Depends on how I feel when I get to that point. Oh, and I just now watched the new episode. I know Katrina Bennett does actually work pretty hard, mainly just to one-up Mike, but she's going to be horribly lazy for the sake of this story.

It was roughly thirty, sleepless hours into the work day that Mike began to feel it. The pressure. His eyes are blurring and stumbling over the words, ink blots taking shape on the page. He can feel the beginnings of a tremble in his fingers. He wants to - to...

He isn't entirely sure what he wants. Thoughts are running together and buzzing like static in the back of his brain. He seeks out the nearest clock. It's just after six, and Mike feels himself go slack with hopelessness. Only six? "Fuck." He murmurs, barely audible in the stale quiet of the file room. Mike presses the heel of his palm into the burning pits that were his eye sockets. He's on the verge of mental malfunction, but he can't leave, not until these briefs are highlighted within an inch of their lives.

Precarious towers of manila and freshly printed paper ensconce him on all sides, taunting him with their sheer mass. Multinational Double Merger for Harvey, Insurance Fraud for Louis, Environmental Protection dispute for Katrina. He wants to laugh hysterically when his pen runs out of ink. "'S too much." His eyelids are falling fast and heavy, but he can't leave. He isn't finished.

Harvey would be disappointed again.

So Mike powers through. He works himself into near catatonia, barely catching the loopholes and deal breakers. He manages to drag himself from the crisp cocoon of paper and plastic by half past nine, and straggles into the elevator. He would gift Harvey with the fruits of his labour, be brushed aside like a particularly infinitesimal insect, and then sleep. He can feel the starchy linen of his pillowcase pressing into his cheek, the dent of his mattress molding to the familiar contours of his body.

He nearly moans.

The ping of the elevator rouses him from his strangely erotic fantasy. Silvery doors hiss open, and lo and behold, Harvey Specter. Posing dramatically, like Superman standing on top of the world [maybe that's just the sleep deprivation]. Harvey raises a dry brow. "You look like hell." Isn't that such a Harvey Specter thing to say. Mike wants to feel offended, but he can't summon the energy.

"That's the sweetest thing you've said to me all day." He croons.

Harvey steps in next to him, and smirks that smirk. "Is that for me?" He gestures to the manila file in his arms, and Mike brightens.

"You're damn right it is. Took me awhile, but I found the loophole that'll get you into the Stinson - Stella merger." Harvey takes the file with a barely look of satisfaction.

"Congratulations, kid. It seems you're not totally useless."

Mike pauses.

Ouch. Just, ouch. Harvey has said similar things to him, but this time it sticks, and it hurts. His chest tightens, his lungs shiver. Countless hours of work [no food, no sleep, no coffee, for God's sake!] delivered free of error and on time, despite the unreasonable deadline. He doesn't expect much, not from Harvey. A 'good job, Mike' at most, an appreciative nod at the very least.

Instead, he's deemed 'not totally useless'.

"I'll review these later tonight. I have an important meeting to attend first, so don't bother me." By meeting, Mike is certain he means the routine bag and tag of some nameless supermodel. He doesn't say anything, because he knows Harvey won't care. He cares, a little more than he should. They stand in [sort of] awkward silence, with Mike licking his emotional wounds and Harvey oblivious to the damage he's dealt, until they reach the lobby.

Mike hurries from the building, tossing a cracked 'later, Boss' over his shoulder. He doesn't look back, doesn't watch as Harvey slides into the back of his car with grace and poise and everything that Mike Ross isn't. He unlocks his bike, and slings the chain around his neck. He lacks the strength to pedal, and settles for walking.

The street is dark [silent, lifeless], and Mike kind of thinks he just stepped onto the set of a Wes Craven film. Shadows congregate in the corners and crevices of every alleyway, waiting to lash out as he shuffles past. His previous tiredness is all but gone, stark anxiety left in its place. "It's only a few blocks, Mike. You're a grown man." He chastises himself, his voice sounding frail to his own ears.

He hastens his pace, peeking over his shoulder every few seconds. It's all so embarrassingly cliche, and Mike should've seen it coming. He glances back for the umpteenth time, hearing phantom footfalls just behind him, then he collides with something hard and immovable [a person]. Mike breathes in too sharply as large hands clamp around his upper arms. He vaguely hears himself coughing. He's whipped around to face his impromptu captor.

It's an unkempt bear of a man, as tall as Goliath and wider than his goddamn refrigerator. Mike flinches back, cataloging every bedraggled detail out of desperate instinct. Eyes like a shark, glassy and hungry black. Square and shoddy jaw, matted thicket of flaxen curls [muscle like stone and cheap, tattered, polyester jacket]. He reeks of whiskey and ferality, his upper lip curled back over yellowing teeth. Mike tries calling out, but nothing respectable sounds. He's so fucked.

"What do you want?" His throat's closing around his words.

"Well, 'ello." An englishman, his accent thick and unmistakable.

Mike paled, jerking from the wash of rancid breath. "Please, I - Look, my wallet is in my pocket. Just, leave me alone." He can't bring himself to say more. Hot, heavy hands were slipping over him, cupping the back of his neck and delving down his side.

"Relax, poppet." His burglar laughs. "All 'm goin'ta take is your coin, I'll leave the rest'a ya for my dreams."

Mike feels fingers pressing into his coat pocket, rummaging through its sparse contents. His wallet is promptly discovered and seized. "Maybe we'll see 'chother again." His burglar whispers against the side of his mouth. Mike is suddenly pushed aside, as his burglar beats a hasty retreat into the alley. He stumbles over the curb [his ankle twisting and snapping with a subdued pop] and smacks against the road.

His vision goes white, then black, then fizzles back into shape and color. He's eerily calm, his body is strangely numb. He takes a moment to remember, and swallows down the swell tears. The pain hits him all at once, like fucking lightning bolts and tidal waves. His stomach rolls, and a tremor manifests under his skin. With a shaky inhale, he risks a look at his ankle. His foot is corkscrewed like a macabre mattress spring, and Mike can see the distinct rise of bone pressing against skin. "Shit!"

A keening breath, and he's panicking. "Shit! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!" Rapid gasping, wide eyed horror. Mike needs to be calm, and he's trying. He closes his eyes, and takes in slow gulps of nighttime air. He seriously wants to vomit, sob, and get lost in the panic attack hovering at the edges of his brain. He doesn't let himself, because he's a grown goddamn man. He breathes through the it all, and pulls together a ration of higher thought. He walks himself through this.

It's dark, he's alone, he has no wallet, and his ankle is very obviously broken [hindering his ability to move or defend himself]. Mike grits his teeth, and clings to his last vestiges of composure. He needs to prioritize. Okay, get out of the street, medical attention, put all debit and credit cards on hold, buy a fucking car.

He take a couple hundred deep breaths, and steels himself. With shaking arms, he crawls onto the sidewalk in slow, tiny movements. His ankle scrapes across the concrete, and he screams like shattering glass. Tears drench his cheeks, and he babbles hysterical nonsense into the ground. Black spots are decorating his vision, he thinks he might be passing out. "Calm down, fuck, you need to calm down." He blubbers, panting and spasming. It takes him ten horrible minutes to calm down.

A solution. He thinks, and thinks, and thinks, before finally remembering the phone that sits in his pocket. "Really?" He hisses at his own stupidity, and carefully retrieves it. His ankle cries out like a needy babe, and he does his best to shush it. Mike's first instinct is to call Harvey, so he does. The dial tone is like needles to his ears, and he's starting to taste pennies behind his teeth. He's panicking again [pleasedon'tletmedie], and then -

"I thought I told you not to bother me."

Harvey doesn't sound pleased, but his voice is like music. The relief is potent and immediate, and he basks in it for a second. Mike presses the phone to his ear and lets loose a shuttering exhale [thank God, thank God, thank God for Harvey fucking Specter].

"Harvey, I - "

"Let me just stop you right there." Mike blinks at his frosty tone.

"Whatever you're about to say, it isn't my concern. Handle it on your own." Click. Mike was alone again.

He stares into nothingness for a long moment. He tries to think, but he doesn't know what to think about. His hand slumps to the ground, and his fingers loosen around the phone. Maybe Harvey doesn't care. Maybe all those vehement denials and deflections were truths. The realization feels like an open-palmed-slap to the face. He closes his eyes, and tries to slow the hard thumping of his heart.

His emotions are seeping out of him, pooling in the grimey cracks of the sidewalk. It hurts, almost as much as his [probably shattered] ankle. He didn't get a chance to speak, or explain. He needed help, and Harvey just hung up. Apparently Mike isn't his concern, he isn't important enough. The thought was too bitter and too painful. He opens watery eyes, and just breathes. In, out. In, out.

Who can he call? He has no parents, no living relatives, no friends. Rachel? No, she's still angry [he can't remember why]. There's no one, is there? Mike coughs out a broken sob. God, his life sucks. "I could always call a cab." His laugh is miserable in every sense. Beggars can't be choosers. He dials the number of a reliable taxi service.

"1-800-TaxiCab, please state the city or metro area you need service."

"New York City, 35th and Main." He wheezes.

"Our nearest car is en route, and will arrive shortly." The reply is short and impersonal, but it fills Mike with relief. He murmurs his gratitude and ends the call. Now, he can only wait. He sits up [slowly and gingerly], and perches himself on the curb. He stretches his leg out, and nearly bites his tongue in half at the hot spikes of fresh hurt. It takes fifteen minutes and thirty seven seconds for headlights to flash through the twilight veil, and it's the longest fifteen minutes and thirty seven seconds of his considerably short life. He alternates between deep breathing exercises, counting bricks, and fighting back tears.

The cabbie pulls alongside the curb, and rolls down his window. His skin is dark, and his face friendly. "Are you going to get in, my friend?" Mike can hear subtle threads of an accent [ethiopian, maybe]. He grimaces, and gestures to the gruesome twist of his ankle. "I would, but I kind of...can't walk."

The cabbie jumps back with a loud shout. "Holy - ! Jesus, man!" He scrambles out of the car, and takes a knee beside him. His hands hover as if to touch, but there's hesitancy in the fine shake of his fingers. Mike tries to smile. "I know it isn't part of the job, but would you mind...helping me in?" He asks, shame coloring his cheeks. The cabbie gives a jerky nod. His eyes are big and frantic. "Yes, yes, absolutely!"

It takes them ten minutes and forty six seconds to get him strapped in. Ten miserable minutes. His foot can't bear any weight, can't even touch the ground, and he relies almost entirely on the cabbie's impressive upper body strength. He lay stiff as a board in the back seat, and concentrates on keeping still. Mike can feel eyes flashing at him in the mirror, probing and concerned. "The hospital?" The cabbie asks.

He huffs out a half-laugh-half-whimper, and the cabbie drops his shoulders in an awkward shrug. "Dumb question. But you can never be too sure. Americans are crazy, you know?" He explains, his accent thickening in his stress. Mike might have laughed under different circumstances. "I get it. We Americans aren't the most stable bunch." He pauses, and closes his eyes. "Any hospital, preferably the closest."

Then they were driving, hurried but steady. Mike holds himself tense against the worn vinyl. "Thank you for this." He says for lack of anything more conversational. He can almost feel the cabbie smile.

"Anyone would have done it." He sounds solemn, and Mike tries not to snort. "Haven't lived in New York very long, huh?".

"Ah, is it that obvious? I only recently move here." A bashful chuckle, and the mood is quickly lifting.

"Where are you from? I'm guessing Ethiopia, maybe northern Kenya." He asks in genuine curiosity. The cabbie shoots him a startled look. "Ethiopia. How did you...?" He's a little in awe, and Mike preens under the inadvertent compliment. Sometimes it's just good to show off. "Not obvious, but you have a pretty distinct accent."

"Impressive, my friend!" The cabbie rumbles a laugh. It carries over him like a balm, and Mike slackens into the seat. He's grateful to this man, for being here when Mike needs someone, even if just doing his job. The ride passes in what feels like seconds, with the exchange of easy small talk. It's comfortable, and he doesn't have to think [thinking was a simple recipe for depression].

When they pull up to the ER, Mike's at a loss. How exactly is he supposed to - ? Then Mr. Ethiopia [for lack of a more imaginative name] is leaping from the car, and helping Mike to stand. It was a-thousand-times-embarrassing, but necessary. He all but carries Mike to the nurse's station, and Mike realizes just how much he owes this guy. His health, his safety, maybe his life.

The nurse looks up at them and frowns. She looks down, and her face tightens at the unnatural twist of his ankle. "Nurse Hendee! I need a wheelchair. Now. " She calls to a passing colleague, a tinge of urgency in her voice. Mike is so exhausted, as the adrenaline is leaving him. Mr. Ethiopia lowers him into the wheelchair like he's precious and delicate. "Thanks. I owe you, man." He mumbles, offering his fist for a well-deserved-bump.

Dark knuckles clatter against his pale ones, and the cabbie is smiling like everything in his life is totally great. "I'll be waiting outside."

Mike watches him leave. Someone is waiting for him, even if just a nameless cabbie, and it felt good. A big, bleeding part of him wished it were Harvey, standing outside with that 'I'm-incredibly-concerned-but-will-never-openly-show-it' expression Mike loved. That was about as far fetched a notion as one can think up. He let his head fall back, pain and weariness taking their inevitable toll.

He's tottering on the peak of a blackout as they wheel him into a too white room. He's stripped and spread out and pumped full of drugs, and it's like a cloud taking shape against his back. He feels weightless. His mind is adrift through a calm sea of memories, some fond and some fragile. He can't feel his body, so he thinks. He thinks about Trevor and Jenny, the flawed part of himself that he peeled away. He misses that flawed part. He thinks about his Grammy, her withered hands and wooden chess pieces. The way she used to pepper his face with kisses and laugh like she was a young thing.

He thinks about the cabbie and his yellow cab [a friendly face in a heartless city]. He thinks about his shoebox apartment, with the carefully managed chaos and wonderfully pointless panda painting. He thinks about Pearson Hardman, Donna and Rachel and Louis. He kind of likes Louis. He thinks about long nights with shuttered lights and ink stains on fingertips. The whir and whistle of printing paper, keyboards clicking and clacking. He thinks about romance and revenge, the meaning of life. His life, specifically.

He thinks about Harvey Specter. Three-piece-suits, and perfectly knotted ties. Thick hair gelled into utter style, goddamn beautiful moles. He thinks of a strong jaw, handsomely wrinkled brow. Dark eyes that fuck and pick you apart with simple flicks and glances. Broad shoulders, chiseled and cut up to intimidate. He thinks about big, capable hands. A mouth that frowns and smirks and kind-of-smiles. Cocky, charismatic, perfection.

He especially thinks about the hurt he feels very deeply, the resentment and tight sadness. All the tears that burn behind his pupils, and all the things he wants to say. He thinks about telling Harvey the truth [how much he cares, loves]. How his heart strings are tied to those long fingers of his, to be tugged and manipulated at will. Then he laughs that thought away.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Mike wakes to bright, overhead lights. He winces, and claps a hand over his eyes. His mouth is filled with cotton, and his reality is a fluttering fog. There's a tight firmness encasing his foot, and he recognizes it as a cast. Plastic, not plaster. He steadies himself, and takes a quick peek. His right leg is trussed up in complicated strapping and sheathed in a hard plastic boot. It's ugly and unnatural, and Mike hates it. He sighs, and slouches into the mattress. "Fuck my life."

He recognizes the fine slide of a hospital gown over his skin, and searches out his clothing. They're folded and stacked neatly on the tabletop, a small tin of his personal belongings sitting next to the small pile. As if sensing his stare, his phone begins to vibrate and shiver in the metal tin. It's like raindrops thundering down a gutter, and his ears pinch at the sound. He snatches it up.

Harvey dominates the screen in black lettering.

Mike quickly answers. "Harvey." He starts, pleased for some unfathomable reason.

"I went through the files. Where the hell are the Carmical briefs?" He's angry.

Mike frowns, confused and a bit concerned. "Carmical briefs?"

"Yes, Mike. The Carmical briefs." Sarcasm. Mike flinches. "Katrina gave them to you this morning. You volunteered, remember?" He's shouting now, and Mike feels his heart sink into the soles of his feet.

"Volunteered? I - " He doesn't get the chance to explain himself.

"Don't bother with another goddamn excuse. I get that you want to prove yourself, but right now? You've proven yourself to be nothing but a fucking mistake. You can barely finish your own work, you have absolutely no business volunteering for more. Katrina should have known better than to let you handle it." And those words are enough to destroy him, crush his soul into colorless dust, and bring a quiver to his lips. Excuse? Mistake? He blinks back the dampness.

"But I - !" Strangled, he tries to get out a single sentence [I never volunteered, please listen!].

"Stop. I don't want to hear it. The Carmical case will either make or break me, and you fucked up. I should fire you right fucking now."

Mike bites back a high, quiet sound. It isn't his fault, it isn't! If Harvey would just listen - !

"I want you in the office at four, Mike. You will fix this, and maybe I'll ignore how much of a goddamn disappointment you are." The call ends with a crippling lack of noise.

Mike breathes in hitches and gasps, his eyes misting over. He can feel his red organ folding in on itself, wailing for a reprieve. The tips of his ears are on fire, and his brain feels too full. He isn't sure how to move his arms. The phone slips from his palm, slick and clammy, and hits the pillow with a quiet thump. Harvey thinks he was a disappointment. Harvey, the man he trusts, and respects, and lives to impress [loves].

Mike works hard, he knows he works hard. He does triple the work of the average associate, and he does that work with a mostly cheerful disposition. He likes to work hard, to accomplish his goals the right way. Even if he has to sacrifice a few hours of sleep and skip the occasional meal, that's okay. He's doing something worthwhile. Mike should be thrilled and fulfilled, but he isn't. He's exhausted, and lonely, and sad. He does excellent work at the expense of himself, and no one bothers to say 'thank you'. He isn't like Harvey, he can't work a hundred hours a day knowing it'll eventually pay off, and be satisfied with that.

It gets harder as time stretches longer, and he has to wonder. Is it worth it?

[maybe I'll ignore how much of a goddamn disappointment you are] He cries bitter tears into the crook of hot hands.

It isn't worth it.

Jessica is expecting three emails. One from Wiley Henson, one from Mecca Funds Incorporated, and one from the District Attorney's Office. No less than three. Her inbox counts four new messages, and she frowns at the unexpected turn of events. She opens her inbox with a somewhat pathetic sense of trepidation, and prepares for the worst.

Her eyes flicker like needlepoint searchlights, and pause. "Mike Ross?" Her frown deepens. Why the hell...? She clicks on the bolded name, and waited patiently for the message to appear. Jessica is more curious than she cares to admit. Mike is an interesting kid, rebellious and witty. She's grown a little bit fond of the classic movie quotes and near constant strokes of brilliance. He's one in a million, invaluable despite the illegality of his presence in her firm.

A short block of text loads onto her screen, and she scans through one dark line at a time. Her face hardens, and her mouth thins into an angry line.

Dear Ms. Pearson,

This is my formal notification that I am resigning from Pearson Hardman as your Junior Associate. Wednesday, February 13th, was my last day of employment.

I appreciate the opportunities I have been given here, and wish you much success in the future.

Sincerely,

Michael Ross