Bruised (Mike/Neal, Suits/White Collar, m) - Part 1 posted 7/30

[phoenix]

I haven't given up on the other story I'm writing, I just... found myself writing this instead. 

In my mind these two obviously crossed paths. The internet suggests that I'm not... quite alone in that? (But pretty close, lol.)

Here's Part 1. 

. . .
. . .

He's vaguely aware that people are yelling. Well, it's New York City; not like that's anything new. 

"Hey!" Focused. Closer. "Hey, man, you with me?" 

Mike groans and tries to get up, but something's keeping him down. He opens his eyes and finds a guy a little older than him kneeling next to him, a hand on his arm, shaking his head. 

"Nah, man, not yet. Just hang tight. Do you know where you are?" 

Mike coughs weakly. It hurts like hell. "On the fucking sidewalk?" 

The guy laughs. "More or less. You know your name, all that shit?" 

Mike nods. Things spin. He doesn't think it's from the crash. They've been doing that all day. He starts to sit up, and the guy gets a hand behind his back. Behind him Mike can see about half a dozen other people who've stopped to stare. "I'm okay." He just wants to get out of here. 

"I mean, I gotta tell you, you're bleeding..." The guy's looking at him with his eyebrows raised. Mike looks at his palms. They're torn up, but he's had worse. He squirms a bit, testing to see if anything's broken. His ribs are some kind of fucked up, but he can still breathe, so. Good enough. 

"I'm fine." He pushes himself to his feet, ignoring the concerned murmur from the crowd, and brushes off the guy who had stopped to help. His bike seems to be in one piece. He pulls it up and leans on it heavily. Straightens up with effort. Looks the guy in the eye. "Thank you." 

The guy still looks concerned, but not enough to, like, force him back to the pavement and call EMS or anything. "Yeah, of course, man. Take care." 

It takes two tries, but he gets back on his bike and keeps his balance long enough to get into a rhythm on the pedals. He's breathing ragged and shallow and fast, running on adrenaline and burning shame. It's enough to keep him going until he's out of sight of anyone who saw him fall. He keeps trying to wipe his nose on his shoulder, but the twist is a hot poker in his ribs. He makes it two more blocks before he sees a concrete pocket park, stumbles up and over the curb, and half-falls onto a bench. 

He takes off his backpack and helmet and lets his vision blur. He'd been so fucking close. The day had been a slowly rising tide of misery, from a raw throat and steadily dripping nose on the bike ride into work to a building headache and then, once the pain had settled in his sinuses, waves of wretched, unrelenting sneezes. Every time Rachel had walked by, she was worrying her lower lip like she wanted to say something, but they're still not really talking about anything other than work. He'd caught her looking and pretended he hadn't noticed, and coughed pitifully into his fist, only partly for show. She'd hesitated another moment, and then walked away. Fine. Fine. Everyone else had glared and kept their distance. He was supposed to have a client meeting with Harvey, but when he'd shown up at Harvey's door Donna just shook her head. "Nope." 

"What do you mean, 'nope'?" He hadn't realized until he said it how shot his voice was, rough and so congested that half the consonants were wrong. 

"I mean, no way in hell are you getting anywhere near a client like that. Or near Harvey, for that matter. Have you seen him when he's sick? I am not putting up with him whining for a week if you infect him. So." She'd slapped a full box of tissues down on her desk in front of him. "Take these, go quarantine yourself, thank whichever god you choose that it's a Friday, and," she softened a little, "get better. Okay?" When he looked through the glass, Harvey was pretending not to listen in over the intercom, but his eyebrows were drawn in a way that looked less like annoyance than worry. Huh. 

He'd ended up hiding in a corner of the library, steadily going through the box of tissues and reading maybe a page an hour. He was supposed to go to Neal's after work. He felt a little guilty about showing up contagious and pathetic (again), but the idea of going home alone was enough to get him to straighten up, tell himself firmly that he was feeling better, and cough his way through a little more of the casefile. He'd left at at five even thought it felt criminally early, with the internal justification that if Harvey had wanted him to stay, he could've tracked him down and said so. He'd actually been feeling okay as he flew up the street, riding high on momentum from hitting the last few lights, closing in on Neal's neighborhood, when the car in front of him had tapped its brakes and he'd cursed, swerved, hit the curb, and fucked himself up a mile from home. He blinks. Home. It's only been a couple of months, but yeah, that's starting to sound about right. 

He sniffs again, wishing he had any tissues left, and forces himself to take stock. His handlebars have been knocked a little off of true, and the grips are stained with blood from his palms. He opens and closes his hands in loose fists and hisses in pain. His throat flares. His sinuses are burning like a motherfucker. Everything's competing for brainspace, yelling at his pain centers all at once. What rises to the surface is an itch, deep in his nose, growing like sparks fanned into flame. heh...! Even the inhale hurts his ribs. He tries to fight back the itch through pure force of will. 

That might've worked his morning, but now... heh... hah-TCHHH! "Fuck!" Sharp, pained, loud enough that a couple of tourists turn to stare, and then his lungs betray him again: hek-TSCHHH! Ow, fuck— heh... hah... he just wants it to be over; takes one big breath, as deep as he can, his battered ribs on fire: ah.... kTCHOO! That seems to end things, for a little while, at least. He realizes distractedly that his whole face is dripping: tears and snot and spit. Manages to get himself out of his zip-up hoodie without screaming in pain. Looks it over. Decides it's going to have to be a sacrifice to the cause. 

Once he's dealt with things as best he can, he sits on the bench, absently wiping his nose on a cleanish section of the sweatshirt more often than seems reasonable. He's going to have to move. The adrenaline is wearing off, and he's starting to shake. He thinks about calling Neal, but it seems easier to just keep going. He's only a mile away. Maybe less. He coughs, and groans, and forces himself to his feet. The idea of swinging his leg back over the bike is too much to bear. He walks it instead, leaning heavily on the blood-streaked handlebars, sweatshirt/makeshift handkerchief balled in one hand. 

. . .

June's mansion looks like some kind of fairy-tale magic when he finally arrives. He lets his bike drop to the ground. Rings the bell in three long peals, and slides down the wall next to it. Wonders which member of the household staff is going to have to find him like this.

It's Neal who opens the door, and Mike half-sobs with relief. 

"Mike! What—" Quieter. "Holy shit."

Maybe he should've called. Warned Neal about exactly what was coming his way. "Can we just—" he's panting, trying not to cough, holding himself together with bloody palms on busted ribs. He can feel the sudden pins-and-needles buzz of all of the blood going out of his face. He slumps back and doesn't finish his thought. 

"Yeah, Jesus, just—" A breath, careful and steadying. 

Mike thinks vaguely that he's now found two ways to take Neal apart. This is not the one he prefers. 

"Okay. So. You crashed your bike?" Neal's back to being calm under fire. It's a relief to let him take charge. Mike lets his eyes slide closed and nods. "No, stay with me, here." He opens his eyes again. "Did you hit your head?" 

Mike squints at him. He's got such a headache that it seems like the answer must be yes. His nose is running down his lip. He swipes at it vaguely with his hoodie sleeve. Neal is still looking at him intently. "No, I... no." His voice is almost gone. "Went over the handlebars. Caught myself." He demonstrates, wincing, arms straight out, wrists flexed. "Didn't even break my collarbone. Or my wrist." He's genuinely proud of that one. "Not..." he pauses to pull in breath. "Not sure about my ribs." 

Neal's hands are on him, then, under his dress shirt that he's just realizing is torn in at least three places, exploring gently but with enough pressure to feel the curve of each rib. Mike's suddenly aware that they're still on the flagstone outside the front door. He tries to put together a protest, but he's just too tired. 

"I don't feel anything out of place. Do you want to go get it checked out?" 

"No." Breathless, but forceful. "Please. Let's just go inside." 

. . .

 

[TBC]

 

 

Edited March 25, 2021 by phoenix

[March Hare]

Oooooh, interesting! I'll give anything Neal Caffrey-related the time of day, and this looks promising indeed. VERY promising!

[Dingalingkling]

This is such a cool premise! I love both of these fandoms, and it's so nice to see that there are still people out there writing for them! We haven't really gotten any good Suits content in a long time, and White Collar has been gone even longer! Psyched to see what else you come up with