Work Text:
How Mike regrets not splurging on a car.
When he had left his apartment earlier in the morning, he wouldn’t have said it was horribly cold, just a little chill on the breeze, but by the time he had made it about halfway between his apartment and Pearson Specter, it was snowing. Hard. The street ahead of him was covered in a sheet of white, and boy, was he freezing.
As he pedalled through the streets—going a bit faster than he usually would so he could make it into the warmth faster—he wished he had worn a jumper. While the suit jackets that were the norm at the office weren’t exactly freezing, they definitely weren’t made for the snow.
His hands had stopped shaking about 10 minutes ago; he supposed it probably was a bad sign that he couldn’t feel his fingers anymore, but it was less painful than feeling the biting cold the whole time as he rode. Though the rest of his body was definitely still shivering.
When he finally made it within view of the office, he practically jumped from his bike and rushed in, wiping the snow off his satchel.
He checked his watch, 6:04. He could’ve sworn that he’d woken up early enough to make it on time, but clearly not. “Shit.” He muttered, a slight tremble in his voice as his teeth chattered.
He put his hands under his armpits to attempt to put some warmth back into his fingers but the arctic temperatures of the fabric probably weren’t doing much so he just resigned himself to rushing towards the heated floors of the building, going to the elevator after wiping all the snow off him and running a hand through his hair to try and fix some of the mess the biking and snow had done.
His body shivering almost uncontrollably was not helping his reputation as the least office-ready person in the building. He was pretty sure that he looked like Frosty the Snowman's cousin at this point. He rubbed his hands together, putting them in front of his mouth so he could breathe some warm air onto them.
He stood rigidly in the ascending elevator as he tried—to no avail—to make himself look and feel a bit more ready for the day, but no matter what he did, he couldn’t get rid of the nipping cold that clung to his bones, the chattering of his teeth or the goosebumps that made him feel like a child again. He felt tired. Why did he feel tired? His brain was really not working with him today.
So when the doors opened to a less than happy looking Harvey Specter, you could say he wasn’t exactly ecstatic. He was tired, he was freezing, and most importantly, he would literally sell his soul to just go stand next to the heater.
“You’re late,” Harvey said, arms crossed, wearing his stupidly perfect goddamn suits and his unimpressed glare like it wasn’t literally 30°F outside. Something that Mike was honestly too distracted to decipher changed in his expression when he saw the distressed way Mike stood, the snow that still clung to his clothes and the ice that had embedded itself in his hair.
“You ever considered being a detective? You’re really good at it” He responded sarcastically, an unmistakable shake to his words as he pushed past Harvey, stumbling a bit on his frozen feet.
“What the hell happened to you?” The older man demanded quickly as he turned to follow him, Mike could’ve sworn that there was concern in his voice, but that’s not right, Harvey ‘I’m the best’ Specter didn’t do concern.
Mike didn’t answer, a little preoccupied by the fact he was suddenly really tired. Weird, he thought as he started to pull off his jacket. His limbs seemed to be moving without much input from his brain, resulting in his coordination going down the drain. He stumbled into the wall, pushing himself away from it clumsily.
“Mike, answer me,” Harvey said, grabbing Mike's wrist and pulling him in front of him. His eyes seemed to jump out of his head rather comically when he felt how icy his skin was. “Jesus Christ! Mike, did you bike in today? I thought I told you to catch a cab when it snowed!” Mike seemed to only realise how cold he was when Harvey felt like molten lava against him, he flinched back, the contrast in their temperatures sparking pain under his touch.
“I’m fine,” Mike insisted— though he was starting to not believe it, “I’m just a bit cold”
“A bit cold! Mike, you are a walking, talking icicle!” Harvey echoed, disbelief and concern blanketing his usually impassive features, “You’re coming with me. Let’s go,” Harvey said, shooting him a sharp look before Mike could even get the first word of his protests out. Mike, wisely, shut his mouth, his teeth creating an unstoppable and unpredictable rhythm in their taps.
Harvey practically dragged him towards his office, earning a concerned look from Donna, “What happened to him?!” She asked quickly, standing from her desk, her eyebrows shooting up as she took in Mike's pale complexion and blue lips.
Harvey barely spared her a glance, his eyes glued to Mike as he led him to his office, a hand on the dip in his back. “Donna, get some blankets and a hot coffee,” he said by way of non-answer.
Mike had long given up on fighting out of Harvey's grip; instead, he just tried to fend off the exhaustion and confusion that clouded his thoughts. Though that didn't stop him from muttering intermittent protests of various iterations of "I'm fine" and "I have work to do". Harvey, predictably, was having none of it, shushing him every time with a glare or a protective remark.
After a bit more of this, Harvey finally, though not without effort, managed to settle Mike onto the couch. "Seriously, Harvey, I'm fine, I just need to get back to work, The Porter merger files-"
"Can wait,” Harvey interrupted firmly, a foreign, stern yet concerned look coating his usually unemotional face. Mike didn't recognise that look, though he wouldn't say he hated it.
Donna returned a moment later, carrying a few blankets, a jumper, a change of clothes and a hot coffee. She set them down on the couch beside him and pushed the coffee into his hands. When Donna took to kneeling beside the furniture in front of him, studying him, searching for something - though he didn’t know what, in truth- he noticed the distinct edge of uneasy worry softening the snarky exterior she usually wears.
"Take your jacket off. Come on. We need to get those soaking layers off you," She says, eyes watching him expectantly. Mike tries to protest, but, of course, with one look at Donna and Harvey's blatant concern, he grumbles under his breath and pulls off the admittedly freezing and wet fabric from his shoulders. When he begins to do so, he only then notices the blue tint to his fingers and the tense, numb way they move as he fumbles with the pinching movement.
Harvey puts his hand over Mike’s and stops his blundering, helping him peel the jacket from his torso. "God, this is embarrassing, just stop, I'll do it." He mutters under his breath. The worry in his voice strikes Mike as odd, definitely different to the impassive boss he's used to.
About 10 minutes later, the two had managed to make Mike look like a bundled-up toddler, blankets wrapped around his whole body, a coffee in his hands that he sipped greedily, desperate for the warmth it provided and a new change of clothes replacing the soaked-through suit that now lay discarded in a hasty pile in the corner.
Mike hadn't thought that him, coming to work like a complaining popsicle, would be all it took to thaw Harvey's frozen heart, uncovering the (very well hidden) care beneath.
Ironic, isn't it? It takes him freezing half to death to wipe away the cold.