Chapter Text
After the initial shock wore off, everything became strangely distant. Not easier, not less painful, just… distant.
The phone call, the funeral, the awful finality of knowing that there would never be another Christmas with his grandmother, never another silly argument about one thing or another, never a surprise visit because he worked too much and never another irritated reminder that he was supposed to call her more often.
And though everything had become distant, at first, he'd still felt everything.
And hadn't that been the worst part of it all?
He'd cried until his head hurt and a migraine sat just behind his eyes. He'd been angry at everyone and no one, muffling screams so his neighbours wouldn't call 911. He'd sat on the edge of his bed at three in the morning and stared at the wall because sleeping seemed impossible.
And so he'd worked.
Of course he'd worked.
What else was there left to do?
It was what he knew how to do and it had been something his grandma had been proud of. Of him working so much he forgot her, of him having a stable income, having a career that equally challenged and fulfilled him.
And he'd been happy to make his grandma proud.
To prove to himself and everyone else that he did something with his life. That he was someone. Someone, one could be proud of. Someone who mattered.
And so he'd buried himself in case files and depositions and research until the words on the pages stopped meaning anything and the ringing in his ears became just another background noise. He'd stayed at the office until everyone else had gone home and arrived the next day earlier than everyone else and did it again and again until, eventually, even that stopped working.
So he'd fallen back into an old habit.
A familiar exchange with an unfamiliar guy selling papers on a street he’d walked everyday and he had one little bag in his pocket.
He'd known exactly what he was doing. It wasn't like he hadn't been in his right mind. Admittedly, his mind hadn't felt any clearer than when he'd decided to buy drugs.
And it had been so easy, too easy.
If he would think about that for a second too long, he would feel horrible. So he didn't. Because he didn't think about much at all, especially since the drugs worked.
At least, for a while.
The first time, the relief had been almost immediate. His thoughts slowed down, the pressure behind his eyes disappeared and the constant, frantic noise in his head finally went quiet.
He didn't feel like crying anymore.
He didn't feel like screaming.
He didn't feel like dying.
Honestly, he didn't feel much of anything at all.
He didn't notice that his apartment had become a mess, more of a mess than usual. With empty takeout containers crowding the kitchen counter, a coffee mug sitting beside the sink with a dark ring dried around the bottom and papers covering the coffee table, some of them belonging to work, some bills and some unopened mail.
And the curtains stayed closed, keeping the outside world at bay while inside, with smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling, slowly filling his lungs, he could pretend that nothing was happening at all.
For a little while, he could survive.
Maybe tomorrow would be easier.
Maybe everything wasn't as bad as it had seemed.
And then there was Tess.
She'd always been easy. That was what he liked about her. They'd known each other since they were kids. There was history between them, but not the heavy or hurting kind. Just the comforting familiarity with no complicated conversations or expectations.
Just Tess.
And when she'd sat beside him on the couch, close enough that their shoulders touched, everything felt a bit lighter.
"You don't have to talk," she'd said quietly.
Mike had laughed at that. It was a dry, humourless sound that caused a puff of smoke to escape his lips.
"Good."
"Mike."
"I'm fine."
She'd looked at him and even though he'd avoided prolonged eye contact, she nonetheless seemed to look into his soul.
"No, you're not."
For a while neither of them said anything. Then she'd reached over and squeezed his hand and something inside him had broken loose and he'd turned toward her and kissed her and she… She had kissed him back, just for a second, before pulling away.
"Mike."
He froze at her tone.
"I'm married."
The room seemed to tilt and he instantly felt ill.
"What?"
"I'm sorry."
Mike stared at her and suddenly, he could smell the smoke in the apartment and could hear the refrigerator humming in the kitchen.
Married.
Right. Of course she was. Why wouldn't she be?
He stood so quickly that the room swayed. Or maybe he was the one swaying.
"Mike—"
"You should go."
"Please."
"Just go."
She'd tried to say something else, but he couldn't listen anymore as the word ‘married’ replayed again and again in his mind. And by the time the door closed behind her, he was already in the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before he threw up his meager lunch.
And after that, somehow, the drugs didn't work quite as well anymore. Nothing really did.
Work didn't.
Sleep didn't.
And being around people certainly didn't.
His friendship with Rachel felt different now because every concerned look seemed to carry pity with it. So he avoided her at work and didn't answer her calls when he was home.
And Donna was so kind it made him feel sick.
And Harvey was worse somehow. Not because he coddled him. He certainly didn't, at least it didn't feel like that. But because Harvey had become familiar too. Complicated, occasionally infuriating, sometimes infuriatingly protective, but familiar.
His presence was comforting and maybe that was the problem, because lately Mike couldn't be around him without thinking about things he absolutely did not want to think about. Things he didn't have the time, energy, or courage to name.
So he'd avoided him too.
Louis was a refreshing change, if one could call him that, because Louis was Louis. But him being Louis also meant being an inconsiderate and insufferable arse most of the time that made people feel infinitely worse about themselves. Or maybe that was just Mike's insecurities and hidden lies talking.
Either way Mike liked to keep his distance from him, especially because Louis was still bitter about the whole Daniel Hardman thing.
And Jessica, well Jessica was one bad day away from firing him, so at the moment he liked to not cross paths with her and really, he would have preferred to just stay home and avoid work, except… the firm was in trouble and so eventually, Mike couldn't avoid either of them anymore.
So he'd put on his suit, gotten on his bike, and told himself he wasn't going to think about anything while he’d buried himself in work again.
And his grandmother was dead.
That thought still came without warning.
Sometimes in the middle of reading a case, sometimes while brushing his teeth, sometimes when he reached for his phone because he had something he wanted to tell her…
And beneath the grief was anger, back again with a vengeance and without drugs numbing his pain.
He was angry that work had gotten in the way. Angry that he'd thought postponing dinner had been reasonable and angry that she'd never been angry with him about it.
That was almost the worst part, because he'd wanted her to be disappointed, and wanted her to yell at him. Anything would have been easier than knowing she'd understood.
And then there was the guilt.
All the lies, the secrets, the things he'd done and the things he'd kept doing.
And Tess.
God.
Tess.
He'd kissed her. He'd kissed a married woman. And though he hadn't known that back then, he should have known better.
He knew that.
There was no excuse for it.
So he worked.
He worked until his eyes burned and until the words on the page blurred. He worked until everyone else had gone home.
When he finally looks at the clock, the office is silent. It is well past midnight when Mike closes the file and for a moment, he just sits there… then he sighs. It's time to get home… he sighs again and grabs his coat and heads downstairs.
It would be pitch dark outside if not for the blinding lights of a still bustling city and when he heads to the bike racks he keeps his head down to avoid another migraine triggered by flashing lights, too much noise and too little sleep.
He doesn't see the man waiting in the shadows of the building he just existed and the first punch comes so fast that he barely registers it before pain explodes across his jaw a second later.
Mike stumbles backward.
"What the—"
The second punch catches him in the stomach and he doubles over in pain. Before he can regain his balance the next punch makes him hit the pavement hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs.
Mike tries to push himself up, but the man towers over him, pressing one boot down on his chest.
"You kissed my wife."
And suddenly this makes sense.
It’s Tess's husband.
“I know.”
Mike says, even though the man doesn't wait for an answer and probably does not want one either.
When the next punch connects with Mike's face, his lip splits and he tastes blood.
“I know,” Mike says, again.
He doesn't know why, but it feels liberating. Saying it out loud. Admitting it.
A kick to his ribs causes Mike to gasp. And then, unexpectedly, he laughs. But it isn't a pleasant sound. It's cracked and breathless and almost hysterical.
Tess's husband stops for half a second. Maybe confused or irritated as to why Mike is laughing while getting the shit beaten out of him.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" He asks.
Mike laughs again as his eyes burn, and he realizes he is crying, which just causes him to laugh harder.
"You're crying now?" the man spats.
Spit lands too close to Mike's face for his comfort and he automatically wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His fingers touch something wet and he looks at the blood on them.
"I don't know," he whispers.
The man stares at him for another moment before shoving him back onto the pavement.
"Stay away from her."
Then he is gone.
Mike remains where he is.
For several minutes, he doesn't move as the city continues around him. Cars pass. Someone shouts somewhere down the street. A siren wails in the distance.
And Mike…
Mike lays in the dirt and stares at the dark sky or at least what can be seen from the sky between tall buildings, blinding street lights and swollen eyes.
And for the first time since his grandmother died, he feels strangely, horribly alive.
His ribs hurt when he breaths, his jaw throbs and his hands are shaking. But he's here, he's still here.
Alive.
Eventually, though, even adrenaline can't keep him awake much longer and home seems impossibly far away. But the office isn't and so he drags himself back inside and tells himself he'd just sleep on the couch in Harvey's office, maybe look over a few files again. Maybe if he keeps working, tomorrow will be easier.
He doesn't remember making it as far as the couch.