A/N: Part of the fic dump. Sorry, if you've already read it.
I also wrote this before seeing a full episode of suits, so discrepancies may occur.
Title: Chili Con Carnage (1/1)
Summary: After one joint and too many shots Trevor coerces Mike into a Chili Con Carne eating competition. Only, now, Mike's in a world of pain, and Trevor's merrily eating his way through his second bowl of molten lava and seemingly ignoring Mike's universal sign of distress. So he calls Harvey instead.
Characters: Mike, Harvey, Trevor
Genre: Gen, h/c
Warnings: some cussing, idiotic behaviour, mentions of drugs.
A/N2: so this... thing is totally inspired by a article I saw in the UK's Metro paper (free paper you get at the train station). This, apparently, happened. And several contestant's had to go to the hospital (one at least twice) because the restaurant used some ridiculously hot peppers (one of the world's hottest) and admitted that they might have added extra. But that's okay, because they got the idiotic shmuck's to sign a stupidly funny disclaimer before entering... I can't find the original article but if you go to my lj I give a link to the Guardian's coverage.
Disclaimer: Suits and the character's are not mine. Title from Metro paper article.
Chili Con Carnage
'And even though I don't need you
You're clearly the best thing to happen to me
We should be happy ever after,
happiness and laughter
What a natural disaster' Natural Disaster (Laid Back Luke Vs. Example, From Example's Playing in the Shadows album)
"No way, Trevor!"
"C'mon Mike," Trevor says and claps his hand across Mike's back. "It will be fun."
Mike eyes the menacing sign wearily – Chili Con Carnage – the words dripping with what he presumes is supposed to be enticing Chilli but only resembles blood and he hiccups with a nervous flutter of a giggle. Whether it's from the several multicolored shots and one – just one (because it's the weekend and Trevor's in town and he's drunk and Harvey wont find out. And what Harvey doesn't know wont hurt him...) small innocuous roll-up or the mere thought of inflicting the carnage that the sign implies, he's not sure.
"I don't think our 'Drunken Indian Takeaway' consumption counts," Mike counters back, with a shake of his head. Wrong move, apparently, because the panorama vision around him shifts and he blinks in surprise. Another chuckle rolls out of him because Trevor's looking kinda goofy. "I don't think it's a good idea."
"We're doing it!" Trevor announces confidently, taking a step towards the building. "We'll I am, any way."
"Why?" Mike asks after him, still eyeing the sign. "What's in it for us?"
"There's a crown!" Trevor announces, turning around and throwing his arms out in the air in a somewhat exuberant and drunken exclamation. As drunken and as stupid as it sounds, it's also starting to make some sense and Mike's eyes widen a bit. "You get to be the Chili King."
It's funny how several shots and one joint can make the entirely wrong decision for you.
"I really don't think this is a good idea," Mike repeats – staring into the deep folds of Chili. Trevor's sitting opposite and grins wide at him – spoon poised and at the ready for the go ahead.
Both sides of the table are lined up with (mostly) willing participants. There's a a tattooed guy on Mike's left – arms taught and rippling with muscles, probably abs of steel too, and he looks like, he alone, could consume the entire table and then some...
On Trevor's right – there's a small girl, probably late teens, who sneers at Trevor. Trevor blinks in surprise and grins even wider.
"What ever happens," Trevor leans across the table towards him, "We're not letting a girl win."
Mike doesn't say anything because the girl looks kind of scary looking and actually bears her teeth at him.
"What ever, pretty boys," she sneers, picking her spoon up and pointing it at Trevor first and then Mike. "You're going down."
The rules are pretty simple – but in Mike's head pretty alarming;
- eat as much as you can
- do not stop (because if you do, you're out)
- do not drink any water (because if you do, you're out)
- do not drink any milk (because if you do, you're out)
- and most importantly do not vomit (because if you do, you're out)
None of them sound appealing at all.
But, then again, it's funny how several shots and one joint can make the concept of being crowned Chilli King sound appealing.
Mike gets through half a bowl (of huge spoonfuls and instant swallowing) before he regrets the shot and joint-induced decision.
Eyes sting, breaths escape him, and instant sobriety hits the same time as the peppery explosion ripples through his stomach. Heat and clammy sweat rises with it, settling between his shoulder blades, lingering in his hair line and pooling in his arm pits. Pain shoots out of every pore, out of every inch of skin, rolling out from the core in his stomach where it's furiously and stubbornly refuses to move.
With a startled gasp – hot air escaping his (oh my god) burning mouth – he pushes the offending bowl away with a clatter of porcelain and cutlery hitting each other and crumples in on himself. Right there on the table. His fingers curl in as the ravaging acid inside of him settle into his joints.
"Whoa," a offending voice announces unnecessarily. "We've got someone out."
Mike lifts his head with a grimace – because fuck, he's a world of pain – trying to catch Trevor's eyes. He waves his hand around tiredly, one arm clutching around his pulsating stomach, but Trevor's merrily eating his way through his second bowl of molten lava and seemingly ignoring Mike's universal sign of distress.
He ends up stumbling away from the table, snagging a glass of milk with him, and making a beeline for sign that blinks Exit enticingly. The glass feels ice cold and he rubs it greedily across his face and down his neck, feeling the tainted flush burning into his cheeks. As soon as he steps out through the fire exit, he sighs deeply, letting the cool air wash over him and he ends up leaning heavily against the dumspter.
He needs to chase away the burn, so takes a tentative sip of milk.
And instantly vomits. Violently.
He's going to die. From Chili Con Carne. And Harvey's going to kill him. Or Fire him. Again. Because he's ringing him. The one person who wont get any of it, least of all the pot. But, strangely, he's the first person he thinks of in the midst of shot-pot-chili-induced dying.
His hand's are shaking as he pushes the phone to his ear, knees locking at trying to prevent a free-fall into the vomit below.
"...'lo..?" Harvey's sleep driven voice washes over him. He sighs and tries to blink away the darkness to his right eye.
"Harvey?" Mike says, voice scratchy and burning. He's fully aware of the miserable and pathetic sound to it. "I'm really sorry. I really am-"
"Mike?" Harvey's voice is instantly awake. There's a rustle of sound and movement in the background.
"It was just one," Mike's says, pleading before he's even told Harvey anything. "Just one – I haven't done any since that day. It was just one..."
Harvey's silent on the other end. The rustling stops. Mike's breath stills in his mouth. It fills with heat and then opens, words rushing out quickly.
"I had loadsa shots," Mike says in a jumble of words, nausea rising with the cramp of his stomach and he bends with it, pushing the phone tighter against his ear despite the pain flaring across the side of his face and pants through it. "And Trevor made me go to this stupid Chili Con Carne competition."
Some of his words get stuck and distorted around a retch and he moans pathetically into the phone "I think I'm might actually be dying, Harvey."
"Where are you, kid?" Harvey finally says with a sigh and a little exasperation.
Harvey makes his way through the restaurant with distaste, stopping briefly to survey the so called competition still going ahead. The table was covered in food and other questionable substances. He's made good time – Ray was on call due to a case he and Jessica were working on that could go tits up any minute now – and there's still some people going at it. Harvey thinks by the looks of their bodies and the color to their faces, they're actually minutes away from death.
Shaking his head, he moves away from the mess and and heads for where Mike told him he would be.
When he finds him, Mike's hanging off the dumpster with clenched fingertips, back taught with pressure and shirt damp against his skin.
With a roll of his eyes he strides forward, announcing his arrival to his associate with a "Chili Con Carnage? Really?"
Mike startles with the sudden announcement and starts to pitch forward. He's saved by an epic fall by Harvey whose hands encircle around his arm tightly and before Harvey can truly scrutinise – and interrogate – him, Mike suddenly starts to hurl his Chillied cookies again.
"Jesus Christ, Mike!" Harvey exclaims shocked. It's horrendously violent and Mike practically convulses in his distant hold. Harvey really has no choice, because Mike's suddenly making a horrible keening kitten noise in between each purging, and he ends up shuffling closer, one arm encircling around him and bracing against his heaving and tight stomach muscles. He brings his other hand up and cups it across the kid's forehead. He's pretty sure he's the only thing keeping him upright.
From this position Harvey's getting a close up of the younger man's face and, although alarming, it was a welcome distraction from the vomit splattered floor. Mike's face is flushed red, his cheeks emanating two red bullet-like bullseyes. His face and, from what he can see, his entire body is clammy all over. He desperately wants to remove his hand from Mike's forehead and wipe the clamminess away, feeling it seeping into Mike's hairline but he doesn't because the kid is panting away and leans into the touch, head hanging heavy.
"Oh, god," Mike groans through another retch, although they seem to be distancing themselves, slowing down and tapering off. "... 'm sorry."
"It's okay," Harvey grouses, although it's not really. The great Harvey Specter Does Not spend his weekends holding drunken and high associates' hair back while they vomit up their ill-advised choice of dinner. "Just breathe through it."
Harvey grits his teeth and tries to breathe through his own mouth as a bitter smell rises and wafts around them.
Mike continues to heave and retch and whine while moving restlessly in Harvey's arm's. He's just in the process of a particularly painful dry heave when the door crashes open and a heavily tattooed guy flies out – loosing gallons of the stuff and sounding even more pathetic than Mike did.
It appears Mike seems to think the same thing because Harvey feels the kid's hand's tighten around Harvey's arm's as he mutters, "I am sorry."
"It's okay," Harvey repeats, turning his attention back to his charge, with no intention of abandoning his stupid idiotic puppy. "Are you done?"
He feels Mike nod against him and adjusts his hold, manoeuvring him slowly so that he was standing more upright. Mike's still a bit too wavering though so Harvey slinks his arm around his shoulders and steers him back through the restaurant. He palms his phone to his ear.
"911. What's your emergency?"
"I think you might need to send a bunch of ambulances to..." Harvey says, reeling the address off to the operative.
Mike's muttering to himself under his arm and Harvey just rolls his eyes at Ray whose opened the door of the car to them but staring over Harvey's shoulder at a man in his twenties sat on some steps whilst crying 'I'm on fire' and clutching his stomach.
There's no sign of Trevor.
Harvey pushes Mike in first and once he's secured him in place, takes up his previous hold – arm around shoulder, wordlessly accepting a carrier bag that Ray pulls out of nowhere with a grateful nod. He hands it to Mike who fingers it tightly in his lap.
"I'm sorry Harvey" Mike finally says for the hundredth time. His voice sounds rough and scratchy. "Trevor said-"
"You always do what Trevor says?" Harvey interrupts. He wants to sound angry and authoritative and rip the kid a new one but that tone completely and utterly fails him and it comes out quiet and just too damn soft.
Mike closes his eyes and drops his head back on to Harvey's raised arm, and shakes his head with a shaky sigh.
Apparently, that was that.
Harvey makes him go to the hospital much to Mike's chagrin. When Harvey explains Mike's plight the receptionist eyes him with bemusement and waves them off to the waiting room with a bored expression.
He feels restless again – fidgeting – as he rubs away at his sternum and tells Harvey pissily that all he really needs is a pepto-bismol.
When Mike's phone chirps to life, Harvey grabs it out of his hand angrily and talks rather menacingly into it, leaving Mike staring at him in a little 'oh' face.
"Trevor," Harvey sing-songs, a painted smile, teeth exposed. "Did you win? No, I didn't see you there, so you couldn't have been the last man standing?"
Mike continues to stare and makes a feeble attempt to pull the phone away but Harvey easily slaps his hands away and ends up leaning further away with one arm pushing Mike in the opposite direction.
Mike looks around him and realises the waiting room is filling up with people he vaguely recognises – tattoo guy, sneering-teeth-bearing-spoon-wielding-girl and countless other people from the Chili Con Carnage establishment. The absence of Trevor makes Mike think that he might actually be the rightful heir to the Chili throne.
"Care to explain why you abandoned your supposed BFF?" Harvey asks. Mike gives up on the phone retrieval and sags to the side, ill-placed laughter building at Harvey's choice of words. It causes some burning pain to riase it's ugly head again.
Harvey's taking great pleasure telling Trevor about the last hour of Mike's life and his mouth quirks in a dangerous half smile. He finishes the conversation with a pointed 'No, we don't need you. Stay away.'
Because, apparently, that was that.
When Mike finds a way of talking again he looks at Harvey with an indignant raise of the chin.
"It's not his fault," Mike says slowly. "I am a hundred percent responsible for my own actions..."
"Save it," Harvey shuts him up quickly. Or maybe it's the sudden onset of puking again, because suddenly Mike hunches over and vomits between his legs. It's only bile and watery gut acid now and because Mike is clearly not dying any more, Harvey chooses to inch away and take a new seat.
"You want to move away from the vomit?" he asks after Mike's panted through it. Mike nods dumbly and shuffles one seat closer to Harvey much to Harvey's distaste because the stupid kid has managed to get some on his shoes.
"I'm going to get a sick bowl," Harvey suddenly announces when Mike settles in next to him and makes a quick exit, feeling a gag rise within him.
He seeks out the receptionist from before. She gives him a pointed look but doesn't say anything. Even Donna has better people skills than this.
"My boy over there," Harvey says with a thrust of his thumb, " - needs a sick bowl and by the look of the situation brewing you might need to keep a supply up front."
The receptionist – Maddy – straightens and looks at him in confusion.
"The idiotic shmucks in the waiting room. Chili Con Carnage-" Harvey says with a wave of his hand and the most perfectly executed eye roll ever. "Any of this ringing a bell?"
Maddy looks mildly offended but forces a polite smile to her lips.
When Harvey returns with a small supply of sick bowls and a damp cloth, Mike looks close to tears, arms tight around his stomach. Harvey sighs, dropping heavily back into his chair and slapping the cloth across the back of Mike's exposed neck.
Mike lifts his head slightly with a tired smile and gratefully accepts one of the offered bowls, clutching it tightly with grasping hands. He still looks pathetically pathetic, tired and miserable, so Harvey again has no choice but to grasp the back of Mike's neck and knead the cloth and tautness there. Mike makes a loosened noise in the back of his throat.
"What am I going to do with you, pup?"
Mikes makes some undistinguished noise and gives a little shrug.
"What the hell were you thinking?"
Knead, prod, probe.
"Not thinking," Mike practically purrs. "Drunk, remember."
"And a little bit high?"
Knead, prod, probe.
"A little..." Mike says with a long, drawn out sigh.
"You signed a disclaimer, right?" Harvey asks. "Because only stupid, drunk and a little bit high people sign their lives away."
Mike turns his head slightly and peeks one eye at him.
The kneading stops.
He stands corrected – only stupid, drunk and high associates go head-first into a Chili Con Carne eating competition without being fully informed. It was one the stupidest and smartest things the kid had done that night.
Mike seems put out by the sudden discontinued neck kneading and pushes a little into Harvey's palm that still rested against the nape of his neck. Harvey eyes the people around them – two more have turned up. None of them bat an eye at the others predicament – too engrossed in trying to control their own bodily functions.
His eyes fall on a young girl that Mike had muttered was a 'spoon wielding psychopath'.
"Hey, Chili Girl-" Harvey calls out to her, catching her eyes with his own to say yes you, "Tell me you signed a disclaimer?"
He can feel the smile building in him. This would totally be a win situation. A full ass wiping class action.
"Harvey?" Mike whines from below his palm."It's just a small business. You'll destroy them. We're all idiots. End of story."
"You could've died," Harvey growls, squeezing his neck tightly, leaning in close so the words feel hot in ear.
"Pro Bono - no one who frequents that place can afford you," Mike squeaks under the pressure. "And leave me name out of it. I'll be a laughing stock. The other associates don't need another reason to make my life hell."
"Never," Harvey hisses in his ear, squeezing once more to elicit a little yelp from Mike before completely letting go and straightening. "You're the only reason I'd even bother."
Mike straightens too and bats an eye at him.
"You're not really going to file a lawsuit, are you?"
Harvey quirks a genuine smile this time and wipes his hand across his trousers.
"I might be inclined to, if you had actually died," Harvey says nonchalantly.
"Because good associates are hard to find?" Mike says with a broadening smile that actually says you so care.
"Exactly," Harvey says with a shrug and pointedly does not looking at the triumphant grin splitting Mike's face wide, "Besides, I have bigger fish to fry."
A/N3: So, Harvey probably would have fired Mike for getting high again, but after vomiting his entire stomach contents out, I really couldn't bring myself to let Harvey do it to the poor boy. He's been punished enough :D