Absolution
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The quiet of the apartment was a heavy, expectant thing, broken only by the soft tick of the grandfather clock in the hall and the occasional creak of the leather sofa as Harvey shifted his weight. He sat in his usual armchair, the one that faced the windows and the city lights beyond, but tonight he wasn't looking at the skyline. His eyes were fixed on Mike, who stood a few feet away, hands clasped loosely behind his back, head bowed slightly. It was a pose that was both familiar and foreign—Mike, who never stayed still, who always fidgeted or paced or talked with his hands, now motionless, waiting.
Harvey let the silence stretch, feeling the weight of it between them. He knew this ritual. They had done it before, on nights when the guilt gnawed at Mike's insides, when the weight of his lies or his perceived failures became too much to carry alone. Harvey was not a priest, had never set foot in a confessional, but he understood absolution. He understood power. And he understood that Mike needed to give it to him, to kneel and offer his devotion in the only language that made sense to them both.
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Or, Harvey and Mike found a way to communicate.Series
- Part 1 of Absolution