Of adjustments and resignation
[This is part of my demon!Harvey AU]
Summary: Five reasons why a human shouldn’t adopt an hellhound – pardon, hellpuppy.
Notes: .......So. It's been, uh, a minute LOL. Honestly, there is literally one (1) reason why I'm here now: you guys have been leaving such wonderful, enthusiastic and not at all pushy comments on this series that it prompted me to check if I had anything outlined for it. I found something, and then I just......did it. Thank you so much for all the nice comments you left me in spite of the latest fic being over a year old, I really, really appreciate it. Given that it's been that long since I've last written Marvey, I'm not sure how good this came out, I feel so rusty, but hopefully you will enjoy <3
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1.
Harvey thinks that, by now, he has come to expect the worst from Mike. Yet, sometimes he can still surprise him.
“So, I was wondering—” Mike begins, unfazed by Harvey’s already resigned tone of voice when he picked up the phone. “—how do you take care of an hellhound?”
Harvey, half-way through taking off his tie, stops dead on his tracks, blinking as if that could help him gain any clarity in the face of the absurd question.
“Excuse me?” he eventually asks, because perhaps he heard wrong: he’s had a long day, it’s raining and he doesn’t like chilly temperatures, he’d probably need some rest—
“I mean, is it like with a normal dog? I—” Mike gets cut off by a crashing sound in the background. When he begins to intimate to someone – or rather, something –, to ‘stop’ and ‘no, get off that’, Harvey has the sinking suspicion that he knows what’s going on.
Except—come on, Mike couldn’t be that stupid.
Harvey pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. For a blissful moment, he lives in a world of darkness, no humans, no Mike, no absurd problems. “Tell me there isn’t an hellhound in your house right now.”
The pause that follows is already incriminating enough.
“Well—I could lie, but I really need to know what to feed him—or her. I don’t know, I can’t see it.”
Oh, come on—he can’t see it. Mike has a hellhound in his house, for some godforsaken reason, and he is trying to figure out what he’s supposed to feed it, instead of running like any normal person would.
Harvey is almost tempted to ask how exactly he came to share an apartment with a hellhound, but he can picture it perfectly well: an invisible dog, soaking wet under the rain, comes to nuzzle against Mike’s ankle. The kid, whose common sense makes an appearance no more than once a month, decides that leaving the poor thing to freeze in the storm would be a crime.
(Eventually, the kid gets eaten alive. The end.)
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