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It’s immediate for Harvey.
One minute he’s getting his ass handed to him by Jessica, guilt gnawing at his innards as he recalls the way he petulantly emptied Louis’ pen cup onto his desk, and the next he’s staring at Mike’s battered face. The puffy skin around his eye is a dark circle of purple and black hues and his nose looks just a tad swollen. There’s a hint of dried blood on his bottom lip, like the cut had split open again after the initial hit from Mike talking and he hadn’t gotten around to wiping it up.
And even though he wasn’t there, he can see it. Imagine how Mike must have looked when he was fresh from the beating, his face dripping blood and his eye not yet black, but shining brightly. He can almost hear the groans his associate must have made, can picture the way he held his arm across his stomach, cradling the wounds that threatened to knock him to his feet as he stumbled back to his shitty apartment in Brooklyn and fell into bed with no one to take care of him.
It’s like he’s seeing double for a split second. He barley notices Jessica’s pointed glare or hear her heavy sigh. All that Harvey is aware of is the suffocating, overwhelming need to hit something. Someone. He’s reminded of childhood memories of the playground and seeing his younger brother walk up to him in the same way, chattering a mile a minute, as though if he just talked fast enough maybe Harvey wouldn’t notice the bruises. He remembers the familiar wave of rage that washed over him, the way he’d always curled his hands into clumsy fists, before marching off to find the bully who’d dared to touch a Specter.
He’s having the same feeling now, only it’s Mike standing in front of him, not his kid brother. And he wants to cup the associates face in his and pull him close, comfort him in all the ways he knows how. He used to run his fingers through his brothers hair, crooning soft words and cleaning up his bruises. He wanted to run his thumb over Mike’s bottom lip and feel the plumpness of the cut, press their lips together in the gentlest of kisses.
It takes all of his power to force the words out of his mouth, the concern thrumming beneath his skin like a living thing. “Who did this to you?”
Mike says he’s fine, and Harvey can hear the echo of his brother saying the exact same thing. It’s not a big deal, Harv, he used to say. I’m fine. And Harvey would glare at him, pull him into his arms, and tell him all the reasons he was wrong. Because he was a Specter and he was Harvey’s kid brother and nobody had a goddamn right to put their hands on him. He’d say all of this to Mike if it made any sense. Instead he can only say this:
“You’re not,” he growls. “And after I’m done kicking his ass, the guy who did it isn’t going to be either.”
The anger rumbling in his chest is familiar in all the best ways. It’s like a live wire threatening to scorch anyone who gets too close. He’s ready. Ready to pull off his jacket and tug up his sleeves and bloody another man’s face. He’s done it before and will do it again – and anytime he looks at the swelling around Mike’s eyes, he has to stop himself from going in search of that fight right now.
Mike tells him to leave it and Harvey wants to shake the kid. “That’s not who I am,” he says, sounding out the words like he’s explaining something obvious to a child. And maybe he is, because the more he looks at Mike, the more he sees his brother. A foot shorter wearing a dirty shirt that he’d use to sop up his nosebleed, and all he wants is to shake him. He wants to make him understand that he will always be protected, that Harvey will be there for him no matter what, because that’s what big brothers do. That’s what Harvey does. Because some people are too good to get beaten like this – there are people who deserve it and people who don’t, and Harvey’s always considered Mike to be part of the latter group.
But maybe he’s wrong.
“I deserved it!”
The words are still hanging in the air between them, and he doesn’t know what to say or how to respond. He can only stare, quietly befuddled and slightly on edge as he runs through all the reasons that Mike might think that. “What did you do?” he asks, his voice hollow and dangerous. The associate has the decency to look shamed as he mutters something about not wanting to say, and Harvey can only hear the pounding of his blood in his ears. This wasn’t how this morning was supposed to go.
“I wouldn’t call this getting your shit together,” he says slowly, challenging Mike for an explanation but fearing the response he might get.
And maybe he should have listened to the kid. Left it alone and gone over the files in his hands rather than pushing for more information. Because suddenly Mike is staring at him, his face schooled into a blank expression as he says, “I don’t want to tell you because of the story you told me about your mom and your dad.”
It’s like his heart is in his throat and his stomach’s twisted itself around, because suddenly he can’t breathe. It feels like he’s been punched in the gut and he wants to keel over and never stand up. He looks at Mike and he doesn’t see his brother anymore, he sees all the nameless, faceless men who he imagined with his mother and it hurts. It hurts more than seeing the kid’s face battered and bruised, and he’s trying to control his emotions as he forces himself to stand up from behind his desk. All the air seems to have rushed out of the office and Harvey feels hot and the rage inside of him is confused, unsure as to whether it’s directed at Mike or supposed to be protecting him.
He wants to figure it out, but he can’t. So instead he says, “You got off easy.”
Mike stares back at him, his jaw having gone slack, and Harvey still wants to kiss it. Still wants to tend to the aches and pains of this thirty-year-old kid standing in front of him. Still sees the same slope in his associate’s shoulders that he used to see in his brother’s. It’s not the same, but it’s familiar enough.
He says, “I know,” and they leave it at that.