Res Ipsa Loquitur
A/N: Enough has been said about the premiere – six season long slow burn takes the Ice Bucket Challenge. Anyway, this silly ficlet was inspired by the promo for episode 2, so I guess *spoiler alert* goes here. I'm fairly new to this fandom, only started watching about 6 weeks ago, so the characterization might not be 100% yet, working on it. Adult themes are implied.
A big shout-out to my friend, Sam MjM. Thank you for playing grammar cop.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. When you have cats, you are owned.
The woman beneath him stiffens, but it takes Harvey's blood deprived brain a few seconds to register. He inhales deeply and stops moving, opening his eyes.
"Are you okay?" he asks.
The frown between Paula's brow deepens. "What did you just say?"
"I asked –"
She shakes her head. "Before that."
Harvey is at a loss. Conversation isn't high on his list of priorities at that exact moment and he wasn't even aware that he has spoken.
Paula huffs and pushes against his chest, leaving him no option but to roll to the empty side of the bed. She sits up, pulling the sheets across her chest.
"Get out." Her tone could refreeze the melting ice caps on both poles.
"I'm sorry," he says lamely. "Let's talk about this."
He's stalling, frantically searching his brain for the cause of the problem. His suggestion is met with a glare and a swift kick to the calf. It hurts.
"Get. Out."
Knowing when to admit defeat Harvey slips out of bed and pulls on his boxers. He starts gathering his clothes when two hands are shoving him towards the door. For such a small woman, she is surprisingly strong.
"Paula, just hang on a moment," he says.
She ignores him, and he barely has time to pull on his coat before he finds himself outside, the door slamming shut in his face. He takes stock of what he's managed to grab in the scuffle – his tie, phone, and one sock. He wonders if he'll ever see his favorite Tom Ford suit again, but the thought is quickly replaced with worry over contracting frostbite in unmentionable places.
Force of habit has him pat his pocket for his keys, only to be reminded of his pants-less, and hence keyless, state. He swears under his breath and starts scrolling down his contacts. It's three a.m. and his options are few. Ray comes to mind first, followed quickly by the realization that he's currently upstate, enjoying a well-deserved vacation. Mike still cycles that stupid bike everywhere, which leaves only one other person…
And that's when it hits him.
Shit.
He spins around and hammers against the door with the side of his fist. "Paula! That was from a Ritchie Valens song. I swear!"
A/N 2: Okay, let's all sing together now: Oh, Donna…