Disclaimer: I do not own Suits.
Uh, this may look FAMILIAR to some of you but do not fret my little Batmans! I have an account on livejournal so that's where this is coming from :P that's why it's kinda SHORT. D: Yeah that's right. It's short. WHAT?
There's a good chance there will be random spaces where there shouldn't be b/c my spacebar is currently being possessed by the Devil itself
Mike was sitting in a pure white room, on an uncomfortable blue, plastic chair. His was twirling his thumbs round each other and biting his lip in apprehension. There was a single desk with a mildly outdated computer on it and an exam table in the corner; cabinets were mounted above a counter with an array of capped and sterile needles with unknown - and intimidating - fluids in them, purple gloves dangled from a cardboard box, and cotton swabs and bandages contained in glass jars.
The whole room seemed to screech. It felt suffocating. Everything was clean and appeared untouched. Suddenly the knob turned with a daunting creak, Mike's eyes halted at the door - his heart felt as if it would jump through chest and onto the floor. And right now, that seems like a favorable situation.
The door opened and an old, bald man stepped (shuffled) in. His eyes were barely discernible under loose skin and wrinkles. The man was hunched over at an obtuse angle, his arms bent at the elbow with a manila folder in hand with Mike's full name printed on the tab in diminutive, curvy writing. The man was wearing glasses, for what Mike didn't know considering he barely had eyes! His overall appearance caused Mike to bounce his leg compulsively. This old, possibly un-dead, man was Mike's physician. The man he trusted to accurately diagnose and treat him. Mike watched in fear as he made a snail's pace to the swivel chair by the desk and sat. "Mr. Ross," he began in a deep, trembling tone, "how are you today?" Mike fidgeted in his seat. "I'm fine." He replied with a fake smile.
"Well, Mr. Ross we have your results from last week's procedure." Mike continued to shake slightly, which went unnoticed by the older doctor. "It seems you have a perforated eardrum; now this can seem as a minor and possibly insignificant condition but if you do not have a procedure to ameliorate the problem it can lead to infections inside your ear." He paused. Mike's breath stopped. Why did he stop speaking? Is he finally dying? Mike's eyes widened a millimeter as he heard a raspy intake of air.
"Does this mean I'll need surgery? Or can it heal on its own?" His words came out in a rapid jumble. The doctor sat back in his chair with a wise smile.
"Oh, do not be too worried about it, Mr. Ross." He leaned over to pat Mike on the knee like an anxious child – his appearance probably wasn't far from that image either.
"I'm not worried, I just – do I need surgery?"
"I recommend you have a type one tympanoplasty procedure." The old doctor was leaning back on his chair again, making Mike feel like a child. "This wouldn't require you to stay in the hospital for more than a few hours after the procedure, but you will be required to have someone pick you up afterward. The procedure involves an anesthetic and we wouldn't want you to die after having fixed a minor problem." The doctor let out a low, throaty laugh. Mike, though, had a horrified smile on his face. "He's making jokes at my possible death…," he thought to himself. "Oh, but do not worry about that, Mr. Ross. We'll schedule an appointment and you can be on your way to better hearing."
"Haha…yeah. Um…what happens if I can't find someone to take me home?" He asked nervously, hoping he could avoid the procedure entirely. "Or if I can't take the time to have the procedure done?"
"We can postpone the procedure until you find someone. There's always someone whose willing to care for you after such events, Mr. Ross. As I said, do not worry." He flashed a gentle smile at Mike, who felt a bit more at ease about the whole situation. The only flaw he found was finding someone to take him home and help him while he was "handicapped" for a few days.
Mike set up an appointment at ten for next Wednesday – he wanted to be over as quickly and innocently as possible, this was his ear after all. Nor did he want to spend hours at work dying from dehydration and starvation; he knew Harvey wouldn't give him breaks for "basic human needs". Which Harvey Spector could live without, so as his associate Mike must be able to live without as well.
Once he'd left the doctor's office he went back home to his messy apartment to consider the people who would actually show up to take him home.
Trevor would have been a viable option if he still was in the city and was reliable, but he was neither, this exempted him from ever being Mike's after-care "nurse". He considered Donna or Rachel for a moment, but then remembered he may need help getting to the bathroom…there was no way in hell or New Zealand he would allow either to assist him to the bathroom. Donna was Harvey's, hence she did Harvey's bidding without ever needing him to say a word and who knows how Harvey will handle his precious associate being out of work for a few days! So, both were out of the bidding. He couldn't have his Grammy take care of him, as she needed care herself and was living in a home. This left Mike with either trusting his drugged, limp, nauseous body to another idiot associate or Harvey himself. He paused.
Mike stared down at the paper he'd been scribbling his options on. It was covered in oversized red X's and abusive crossing outs. At the bottom were the names: Harvey, Harold, Gregory, Louis. He took a black marker and scribbled over Louis' name; why would Louis Litt ever be a viable option anywhere!
Gregory seemed trustworthy, before he tricked him into proofing thousands of pages in exchange for filing a patent. Which he didn't really do for him anyway, leaving Mike to be reprimanded by Harvey. He crossed out Gregory's name as well.
Harold was nice. If he had a brain Mike might be able to ignore the image of Harold literally dragging him down concrete steps of the hospital and tossing his body haphazardly into a car. His arm and head possibly dangling from the window as Harold drove at fifteen miles an hour. Harold leaving him on the curb of a building that was not his apartment and crack-heads stealing everything of value on him, then vultures would come to peck at his liver each day, but it would regenerate. Thus forming a cycle of liver-eating and Mike withering.
Mike blinked hard. Why did he even think that? He heaved a sigh, swiping a hand over his face in frustration. Now the only name left was Harvey Spector.
Shorty short short. :P I know. Now I have TWO stories to update D: Which isn't gonna be good for my already possibly failing health! I'm getting over a cold, I have to stay up late to finish homework, and these stories to OBSESS about. And little ideas which storm around in my addled brain.