For MusicalLuna1. And for me, really, because I love blowing things up.

Disclaimer: I do not own Suits.

There is a bomb in your office.

A bomb.

There is fear in your associate's eyes where he sits on your couch, tense, but you're calm. You don't believe he'll do it, not from your meeting with him just fifteen minutes ago. He's gone, he's left, except you've just received a phone call with threats and demands and promises of suffering. Reading people is what you do, and you read him. He wouldn't do this, he's not smart enough.

No, not smart enough.

There is confidence in your voice when you tell him this. You're not stupid, and you know an empty threat when you hear one. Telling him so will make him falter; telling him so will back him down. Then the horrified looks from your associate and your secretary can cease and your muscles can unclench. You're not really worried.

No, you're not worried.

There is heat rising up your body, making you sweat when he tells you that he can see you. He points out your positions, how you're sitting, how Mike is chewing his fingernails right now, at this very moment. He points out how you're looking through the glass window, when you move to the left, how you just stood up and turned on your heel. Points it all out, because he's not bluffing.

No, he's not bluffing.

There is reasonable tension that cuts through the air while he rambles on with a startlingly precise calm that makes the blood drain from your face. It frightens Mike, and it frightens Donna, and the clear, cool voice on the other line threatens again that, should anybody move or make any sign for help, he will know, and he will not hesitate to take them all down with the push of a button.

No, he won't hesitate.

There is doubt in your mind as you try to remember where he stood, what he touched, how he slipped it past your notice. He sat, paced, wrung his hands, fooled you. Mike would have known if Mike had been here for the whole meeting, if you would have had him come sooner, if you hadn't made him run ridiculous errands that just weren't important anymore.

No, not important.

There is understanding that isn't spoken between Mike and yourself when you lock eyes, while the man on the other line continues his desperate monologue. Mike shifts nervously, and who can blame him for this? But you need him to keep a level head. You need him to focus; need him to be ready to run as fast as he can from that room, to flee. He shouldn't look back.

No, he can't look back.

There is a realization that dawns on you: Mike won't leave you standing here alone. His damned emotions get in the way and he shakes his head ever-so-slightly. Those damned emotions you told him not to have. The ones you've convinced yourself you don't have, and the ones that are getting in the goddamned way right now as you stare back. He's going to die in here, because of you, but you're not ready to let it happen.

No, you will not let it happen.

There is silence, you make the wrong move, then, "Oh, no you don't", and a click, and you scream. You scream at Mike, at Donna, at anyone who will listen as you fall below your desk. You think they heard you, heard the sound of the button. You think they listened. You think they're out of the way, and then you can't think anymore because the blast is echoing and the heat is burning and you just cannot think.

No, you can't think.

There is blindness and pain and confusion. Your heart hammers inside your chest, ready to burst, literally aching with each thump against your bones. You are dazed. There is noise, but you can't figure out which direction it's coming from. Still under the now splintered desk, you hear the yells and wonder if your body can move. You wonder if you're broken.

No, not broken.

There is relief when you stretch out your legs and look yourself over. You're bleeding somewhere, there's blood, and small splinters of wood are all over your no-longer-perfect suit. Hazy thoughts fill your head, running a mile a minute, and you think they sound like Mike and—"Shit," you croak, banging your head on the top of your semi-destroyed desk. He better not be dead on your floor.

No, God, not dead.

There is panic you refuse to acknowledge, rising up your throat when you stand on unsteady feet. "Mike?" you call out, only you can barely hear yourself. The smoke is making your eyes water, and the bits of your office belongings glow slightly as they smolder. They're unimportant, for the time being, and you search for what isn't. A hand curls neatly around a leg of what used to be the table in front of your barely-scorched couch. It's bleeding.

No, please don't bleed.

There is adrenaline pumping through your veins because you suddenly don't feel the dull pain from moments before as you rush over, lifting the table off your groaning associate with a grunt of your own. Kneeling, you look him over, and there is blood and charred suit and burnt skin on his hands and the side of his neck. He's breathing, but your unease doesn't settle.

No, it won't settle.

There is a moment of disbelief as you look around your once pristine office. Surveying the damage, it's not as bad as you figured it would be. The glass is badly cracked, but not completely smashed. Your record player is in pieces, the wall is black and the room is smokey, but it seems as though the blast were small. Still, your office is destroyed, you're bleeding, and Mike is drifting in and out of consciousness on your floor. This day hasn't gone as you expected it to.

No, not anything like you expected.

There is anger in the pit of your stomach as you watch Mike's head roll back and forth, watch Mike moan in pain, watch Mike bleed. It's ridiculous, and unnerving, that this happened in your office. On your watch. Your time. Glass cracks from behind where Donna, determined, tries to open the door. Small pieces break off and shatter, but the door stays put. "The hinges are melted!" she calls, her voice drifting through open slivers. She isn't happy.

No, not happy at all.

There is worry crawling over your skin, seeping through, attacking your bones. You hate it. It's unnatural, strange inside of you. You focus on Mike, block everything else, even the sound of sirens, of help, because he's breathing rapidly, panicking, and he needs to calm the hell down. "Mike, calm down," you say softly, close to his ear. It is said gently, you, but not you.

No, not you.

There is a lump in your throat when he calms at the sound of your voice. How he needs that reassurance from you, of all people. You. The feeling is a powerful one; one you only want to use against him when it's for him, to help him. "Good, good. Keep it even. Don't do this shit to me, Mike. I have other things to worry about."

No, nothing to worry about but this.

There is a grin on your face, lopsided and small, but it's there when Mike's eyes flutter open. They're glassy, they don't recognize anything but you, and he whispers, "Worried?" Smart ass. You turn your head, look calm as your hands shake, and reply, "About the Yankee game tonight, yeah. Those tickets cost me a month's pay." You don't mean it.

No, you don't mean it.

There is the sound of glass breaking, the sound of help from behind you, but it doesn't matter. It's what you don't admit, how nothing matters but Mike, breathing, alive on your floor. Calm. Not dead, eyes open, fine. He's going to be fine. All that matters is that he is going to be fine.

Yes, everything will be fine.

The idea behind this was that the bomb wasn't as strong as the crazy guy thought it was. He screwed up somehow, but the story is supposed to be more about the emotions, anyway. Either way, I hope it was enjoyable.