Title: Unraveled
Disclaimer: I do not own anything in relation to Suits. Just playing with these amazing characters
You pause briefly at the entrance to his office and take a look around, not completely unprepared for the scene spread out before you. The "research" he'd been working on seems to have multiplied exponentially overnight; there are boxes, files and loose papers now littering every available surface of the room.
He's sitting on the arm of one of his lounge chairs, gazing across the room. To the vast majority, his expression would be unreadable, the one and only aspect of him that is exuding any ounce of control. He's clutching a mostly-empty bottle of single malt in one hand, the other hanging languidly by his side, and there is no telling how long the remains of his glass have been scattered at the base of the far wall.
You recognize what's left of yesterday's suit; jacket and vest, long since discarded, strewn carelessly on the desk, shirt sleeves rolling into wrinkles above his elbows, tie swinging loosely around the partially unbuttoned neckline.
He drops his head back against the wall and his eyelids droop heavily as you walk in. Despite your best efforts, your soft footsteps thunder against the dead silence in the room. Nevertheless, he doesn't move, save for a despondent sigh; his chest rising and falling as though it's carrying the weight of the world. You place a hand on his shoulder; feel the tension curling around every fiber of his being.
He reacts to the gentle pressure, swallowing imperceptibly before tilting his head to meet your gaze with his own. He hasn't slept, again, that much is clear; fine spider webs bleed through the whites of his eyes, and you're certain the dark bruising circles around them are mirrors of the shadows coiling around his soul.
The exhaustion, and something else you can't quite define, have indubitably crushed him; you see no attempt to shield himself behind his mask, even as a single tear slips from the corner of his eye. You raise the palm of your hand to his cheek, smooth the moisture away with your thumb. He settles against your touch, closes his eyes for a moment, and exhales languorously.
Your own breath falters, your heart sinks steadily to the pit of your stomach; the shift enough to give you brief pause. While you attempt to disguise the sensation with what you hope is a reassuring smile, you can't help but suspect there is more than a glimpse of distress shining through. Your palm lingers on his jawline, thumb hovering close, so close, to the corner of his lips.
You don't break contact, not yet; you've danced this dance before, so you wait, your focus anchored to his. It takes only a couple of beats before you see the walls slam back up into place, closing off all traces of vulnerability. You return his curt nod with a small smile, watch as he reaches for his spare suit.
When you return ten minutes later with coffee, he's wearing confidence and security the way he wears his suit. It doesn't fool you, though, only serves as a reminder that, while he may be against having emotions, someday, they may just break him.