Mike groans pitifully, the pounding in his head pulling him out of an uncomfortable slumber. He hates being sick, hates how he’s simultaneously hot and cold, how his nose won’t stop running, how his brain feels like it’s got cotton stuffed in it.
He rolls over on the couch, pressing his head into the couch cushions, hoping it will somehow cure the headache, which seems to be getting worse and worse, the pounding getting louder and sounding suspiciously like –
Mike lifts his head from the couch to confirm his suspicion that the pounding is actually coming from his front door, not his head. He takes a second to glare at the door as if that will discourage his visitor. The pounding stops. Mike blinks in surprise, almost questioning if he has some kind of super power when a voice calls out to him.
“Mike, open the damn door.”
Mike scrambles up from the couch, his blanket tangling around his legs and almost making him face-plant onto the floor, although that could also be due to the nausea that overtakes him at the sudden movement. He half-walks, half-stumbles over to the door, belatedly realizing he’s shirtless and only in boxers, but the trip back to the couch to get his blanket seems like torture and he quite likes the thought of being able to hold onto the door for support.
He opens it enough to be able to stick his head through to blink questioningly at Harvey, who’s looking a little frayed around the edges. Mike would describe it as worried but that might just be his fever-addled brain drawing conclusions.
“You look like crap,” Harvey remarks.
“I feel like it,” Mike mutters, voice hoarse.
He can feel the coughing fit rise in his chest and he turns his head just in time to avoid coughing germs all over Harvey. It lasts all of a minute, but it feels longer. By the time he can breathe again and his eyes are no longer tearing up, he’s back on the couch with the blanket around his shoulders and Harvey opening up some windows.
“Do you want me to get sicker?”
Harvey briefly glances at him. “Trust me when I say this place smells like death. You need to air it out.”
Mike pulls his knees up to his chest and draws the blanket closer around himself. He’s still shivering, though not from the cold. He drops his head back against the couch and closes his eyes. He doesn’t have the energy to ask Harvey what he’s doing here, nor does he particularly care. He just wants to sleep, preferably until the fever is gone and he can look at case files again without –
Shit, the case. He’s pretty sure he was supposed to have handed in – something. His eyebrows knit together in a frown. Thinking would be so much easier if his brain didn’t feel filled with cotton. Or possibly snot. It could be either.
“The case, I’m sorry, I –”
“Mike, that’s not why I’m here,” Harvey interrupts. “I’ve got someone on it.”
“Then what are you doing here?” he asks, despite himself.
“I can’t have my associate dying in a puddle of his own vomit,” Harvey replies after letting silence stretch on for a couple of seconds.
A slow smile stretches across Mike’s face and he makes a humming noise that sounds just the tiniest bit disbelieving. Harvey rolls his eyes.
“I can leave, you know?”
“No, stay.” The words are out before he can properly think them through but he means it. He really would like to sleep but it seems nicer to be miserable when there’s someone around to hear him complain, someone who cares, despite what that someone might say.
Harvey studies him for a long moment. For a brief second, Mike thinks Harvey is actually going to walk out but then he sits down on a chair without a word and pulls out his cell phone, frowning at something he’s reading.
Mike lays back down on the couch and closes his eyes. He doesn’t really intend on sleeping, doesn’t think he’ll be able to with Harvey arguing on the phone but somehow, he drifts off anyway.
The next time he wakes up, it’s to his stomach lurching and before he knows it, he’s throwing up the whole lot of nothing that is in his stomach over the side of the couch, thankfully in a bucket. His throat is sore and he should be worried about the green-ish color of whatever it is that is coming out of his mouth, but all he feels is relief when he can sag back into the cushions, dimly aware of a soothing voice. He winces when something cold is placed across his forehead but it doesn’t deter him enough from passing out again right after.
His ascent into consciousness is slightly more pleasant the next time. And by pleasant, he mostly means that his stomach isn’t rebelling as much as before and he can pull himself upright without feeling nauseous. Unfortunately, his body still can’t decide if it’s hot or cold, so he doesn’t think he’s quite over it yet.
He sighs and runs a sweaty hand over his forehead, listening to the sounds of someone puttering about in the other room. The other room that he was in before he somehow migrated to his bed. Mike frowns, tries to remember making the trip but coming up empty.
Glancing at his alarm clock, he notices it’s a little after ten pm.
The pull of his soft mattress is very strong but he foregoes unconsciousness to go find out why Harvey hasn’t left yet. He grabs his bathrobe from the end of the bed, deciding Harvey’s probably seen enough of him shirtless and wanders into the living area, pleased that his legs don’t feel like jelly.
“You’re still here,” Mike says, voice only a little hoarse.
“You’re still sick.”
“Oh, I thought we were stating the obvious.” Harvey doesn’t actually roll his eyes, but it’s implied in his tone. “Sit down.”
Mike sits, because, yeah, good idea.
Harvey pulls a bowl of delicious smelling soup out of the microwave and hands it to him with a spoon. Mike raises an eyebrow.
“Did you have Donna bring this?”
“I made it. I had Ray do grocery shopping because there was nothing in your fridge that wasn’t take-out or expired back in 2008. Seriously, Mike?”
“You can cook?”
“I’ll attribute it to your fever addled brain that you missed the important part of that sentence.”
“Oh, no, I heard, I just think it’s more noteworthy that the great Harvey Specter actually cooks.” Mike grins and puts another spoonful of the, admittedly, awesome chicken soup in his mouth. His stomach seems to appreciate it too, because so far, it’s not trying to upstage him.
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Have you been here the entire time?” Mike asks, when it catches up with him that Ray apparently brought over groceries.
“The bile you were throwing up didn’t inspire a lot of confidence that you weren’t going to choke on your own vomit,” Harvey answers and somehow makes it sound like it’s all Mike’s fault. Mike doesn’t take offense. Harvey is still here, willingly, no matter what his tone suggests. He just hums again and finishes his soup.
“Go back to bed.”
“I’m not tired.”
Harvey comes over to him and before Mike can react, Harvey’s got his hand on his forehead. If Mike leans into a little, that’s only because Harvey’s hand is nicely cool, while his forehead is … not, apparently.
“You still have a fever, so you need to rest. Go.”
“Yes, mom… You don’t actually have to stay. I have battled fevers by myself before,” Mike says, because he has experience enough with not choking on his own vomit after nights out with Trevor.
“Why, are you propositioning me, mister Specter?”
That gets him an actual eye-roll. “I’ve already carried you there once, I will do it again.”
“Yeah, I’d rather not be conscious for that, thanks.” Mike salutes him and heads back for his bed, burying himself under the covers. He hears the soft murmurs of whatever show Harvey has decided to put on carry to his bedroom.
This is going to give him blackmail material for years to come.