The Art of Fainting

It was hot in New York City, hotter than normal, and it didn't help that Harvey had scheduled their client meeting at two in the afternoon, just when heat was the worst. The smog of the city kept the heat in and, by the time Mike slid into the back of the town car around 4 pm, he was fairly certain that it was hot enough for someone to cook bacon on the pavement.

He would've rolled down his window if he didn't know how much Harvey hated the wind in his hair. Speaking of Harvey, the man was utterly, unnaturally composed in this heat. He seemed perfectly coiffed, even though they had been standing outside in direct sunlight for the past fifteen minutes while their car pulled up. There wasn't a bead of sweat on his forehead. His suit must've been sewed with an air-conditioning unit inside, or something—or Harvey just grew up in an oven.

Mike, on the other hand, was sweating through his clothes. He loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt as soon as they were out of the client's view. He had about ten minutes until they were back at the office and he would have to look presentable, so he figured he might as well savor the feeling of ventilation while he could.

He peeled off his jacket after another minute, ignoring the look Harvey gave him, focusing instead on trying not to pant too loudly. The heat made him feel breathless, like his chest was tighter than normal. But as soon as he pulled on his tie a little more, he started feeling better.

When they got to Pearson Hardman, Harvey had things on his mind; he went immediately to his office, leaving Mike to meander back to his cubicle. The building had air-conditioning but it was still too hot, especially with this much clothing, and sitting in the confined space of his cubicle made it worse. The briefs Louis had given him seemed to have been printed in size two font; the multicolored highlighters just made him nauseated. And god, he was so thirsty.

Five minutes later and the drinking fountains by the bathroom became too tempting to resist. Mike got up, waving into Rachel's office as he passed it. Before he more than a few feet past her door, the door opened and she appeared beside him, pulling on his sleeve.

"Wait, wait," she told him, fiercely enough to make Mike take pause.

He shook his head and pulled at his tie, wishing he could loosen it. "What's wrong?"

"Are you okay?" She seemed to be analyzing his appearance. Then, quietly, she asked, "Are you high, Mike?"

"No!" He yanked his arm out of her grip. "Of course not, I said I'd never—"

"What's going on with you, then?" She reached out a hand, pressing the back of her palm against his forehead. "God, you're burning—"

"I'm fine," Mike said, swatting her hand away. He started toward the drinking fountain again, not surprised when she followed him. "It's just hot outside."

"It's almost seventy in here, though."

"But I was outside a few minutes ago." He shrugged one shoulder and wiped his forehead on his sleeve. "I'm fine."

"You look too pale to be fine, Mike."

He didn't answer; he was drinking. And then he kept drinking, only pausing enough to breathe between gulps. The water was cool and tasted so good.

Rachel pulled at his shoulder after a minute. "Mike, stop, slow down a little—"

"Jesus, Rachel," he said, shaking his head at her. "Calm down," he told her evenly, and resumed gulping down water.

She let him, this time, but huffed out a sigh and crossed her arms. Eventually, when he finished and stood upright, she raised a brow. "Feel better?"

Mike was about to say yes in the most condescending way possible when his stomach lurched. He felt himself sway on his feet a little—Rachel shot out an arm to support him—and he shut his eyes, bringing a hand to his face. He did feel hot.

"Mike, you need to sit down," Rachel said, trying to tug him toward her office.

He shook his head, and instantly regretted it. His stomach gurgled in the unpleasantly familiar way it did whenever he was about to vomit.

Rachel pulled his arm again. "Mike."

He opened his eyes, his hand moving to cover his mouth.

Eyes widening, Rachel swore and manually pivoted him by the shoulders, shoving him through the door of the men's room. She followed him in, one hand on his back, directing him to the stall in the far corner.

Mike gagged once, trying to hold it back as he kneeled—knowing full well that Harvey would kill him for kneeling in the bathroom in a suit—but as soon as he was in front of the toilet, the water he had just swallowed came back up, tinged with the acidic taste of bile. He realized then that he hadn't eaten anything since the morning, and even then he'd only had time for a piece of toast and orange juice.

As the heaving coughs subsided, Mike sat back on his heels, leaning his head against the wall of the stall. He noticed Rachel had left, or at least given him some space, and was glad for it. He felt bad enough; he didn't need an audience.

A few minutes passed and his stomach began to feel uneasy again. Mike shut his eyes, willing his body to calm down, but knowing that throwing up again was inevitable. He shuffled closer to the toilet seat, resting his elbows on the seat, his head in his hands. This was going to suck.

Another minute went by. Mike felt his breathing getting faster, his heart racing, his stomach tying itself into sickening knots again. His skin felt chilly now, damp with a cold sweat that was making his shirt stick to him.

The second wave hit him then, mostly bile this time, leaving him spitting and coughing just to rid the taste from his mouth. But at least he felt slightly better. Weaker, but not nauseated anymore.

Mike was still slumped against the toilet when he felt a hand touch his shoulder. He didn't have the energy to talk to Rachel, or to even open his eyes, really. But then the person behind him sighed; it was a noise he'd heard a thousand times—from Harvey.

Mike felt every muscle in his body tense. His head shot upright, turning too quickly to look back at his boss. "Harvey—"

"Easy, easy," Harvey said, crouching down behind him. The hand he had on Mike's shoulder grabbed him a little tighter, his grip firm and strangely comforting. "Rachel got me."

"I'm fine," Mike said. But even he didn't believe it, especially given that he was hanging over a toilet.

Harvey's eyebrows rose. "Yeah, sure, you're 'fine.'" He smiled, partly in amusement, and partly just to cheer up his associate. "You gonna throw up again?"

Mike felt his shoulders sag. "You were here for that," he guessed.

Harvey gave him an odd look. "No, but you're leaning over a toilet. It's kind of obvious. Unless you are actually a puppy and trying to drink from it, in which case there are more severe problems in your life."

"Ha, ha," Mike said, and groaned, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes.

"You haven't eaten yet today, have you?" Harvey asked, peering into the toilet, where the lack of solid food was obvious. "But maybe that's a good thing. Can you stand?"

Mike let out another groan instead of answering, but rocked back on his heels obligingly. Harvey helped him up, making sure he was steady before he let go; he still kept a hand on him though, just in case.

Mike stepped out of the stall, surprised to see Donna leaning up against the sinks. She gave him a wry smile and handed him a small paper cup of water, which Mike only used to rinse out his mouth before he spit it into the sink. He didn't think swallowing it would've ended well.

They led him to Harvey's office, where Mike all but collapsed into an armchair. He watched silently as Harvey spoke with Donna outside, where Mike couldn't hear them; he had the itching feeling that Harvey was going to scold him about everything soon enough.

Donna saluted Harvey and disappeared down the hall, while Harvey himself came back into the office. He unbuttoned his jacket as he came to a stop a few feet in front of Mike, then shoved his hands in his pockets and waited for Mike to look up.

"Sorry," Mike said, before Harvey could start in on the reprimand. "I know you're busy, and I would've stopped Rachel from bothering you if—"

"Really?" Harvey asked, his voice edged with a laugh of disbelief. "You think that's the problem here?" He shook his head, and held up his hand to stop Mike when the associate opened his mouth again. "I sent Donna to get your stuff." Mike's head jerked up. "You're going to go home, and spend the rest of the day drinking fluids and sleeping. Do you understand?"

Mike nodded, eyes glued to the floor. His skin already felt like it was on fire from the heat, but he knew his cheeks were burning redder than the rest of him. Harvey didn't think he could do anything, not in this state.

"Mike, I'm not mad at you," Harvey went on, tilting his head. "If you're sick, you should go home."

Mike looked up again. "I feel fine." It was a lie—he felt like he did before he got sick, but he could manage feeling overheated. "I can still work."

"It's not a matter of if you can, it's whether you should." He shrugged one shoulder. "If working is what put you into this position, I don't think working more is going to help things."

Mike opened his mouth to say it again, I'm fine, but Donna walked into the office just then and handed him his messenger bag.

It took Mike a second to realize why the bag was so light. "This has no files in it," Mike said, indignant. "I can—"

"No," Harvey said sternly, gesturing for him to stand up. "That's all you're getting. C'mon. I'll walk you out."

Mike frowned. He stared at Harvey for another few seconds before he realized the man was not going to let him take work home. Then he let out a sigh—which Harvey rolled his eyes at—and shoved himself off the couch, rising to his feet.

The sudden change in blood pressure didn't hit him until he was already a few steps away from the couch, but when it did, it hit him hard. Mike felt like the floor was tilting both ways at once; he stopped walking and audibly drew in a sharp breath. "Harvey," he managed, his tongue heavy in his mouth, his words thick. The walls were closing in around him, making it darker. "I… I'm…"

The next thing Mike felt was a cool hand pressing against his head. It took him another moment to notice that he was lying down on something soft, although he didn't quite remember how he'd gotten there. Slowly, he pried his eyes open.

"You fainted," came Harvey's voice, dry and exasperated. "Again."

Mike's vision cleared, and he saw Harvey sitting in a chair beside him, with Donna hovering over his shoulder. Mike himself was on the couch. He blinked a few times.

"The car's outside, Harvey," Donna said, giving Mike a once-over before she returned to her desk.

Mike swallowed, propping himself up on his elbows. "You have another meeting?" he asked. His mind was hazy, but he would've remembered if Harvey had somewhere to be.

"No," Harvey said. "But you're going home. And you can't make it there on that deathtrap of a bicycle when you're fainting every two seconds." He paused. "But first, you have to make it to the car."

Mike did make it to the car, after another ten minutes of lying on the couch, and then an excruciatingly slow walk to the elevators. Donna and Harvey escorted him, the latter keeping a hand on him the whole time; and Rachel appeared at the last second to check on him as well.

Finally, Mike slid into the back of the town car, almost surprised that Harvey wasn't sliding in after him. Instead, Harvey shut the door behind him and knocked on the front seat's window, leaning down to peer into it once it opened.

"Don't let him out anywhere but the address I gave you," Harvey said. "And make sure he takes his time." He shot Mike a glare. "For his own good."

Later that night, when a knock on the door woke Mike from a fitful nap, he half-expected to see Harvey in the doorway. Instead, it was Donna, with a grocery bag full of Gatorade and Pedialyte. When he told her all of it was unnecessary—but thanks—she just smiled at him, like she knew something he didn't, and left.