Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Harvey takes him home, and Mike lets his mind go quiet.

Not the forced silence of the past several days (years, if he’s being honest). Not the hyper focus of a fake associate. Just...quiet.

He’s still kicked to shit and unemployed. The wound on the back of his hand is still scabbing and itchy from where he’d ripped out the IV, and he’s got an amendment to his arrest record.

But Harvey holds the door for him, and in the shared and tentative smile, Mike finally feels safe enough to simply be. He enters, breathing in the cool, familiar scent - woodsy and clean. The condo is quiet. It’s also a mess.

“Harvey, what -”

“Keep it to yourself, rookie.”

There are binders scattered on the couch, and a frankly impressive number of empty beer bottles in the sink - cheap beer, too. Harvey remains impassive, but he wastes no time in tidying the place, crumpled napkins and files and take out containers all swept into the trash.

“What the hell happened?” Mike gathers a haphazardly folded newspaper and sets it to rights.

Harvey stills in the center of his cleaning whirlwind to pin Mike in place with a look. “You.”

They shower, rinsing sweat and come and tears from their bodies, reverent hands apologizing for wounds that are just as much their own fault as anyone else's. Harvey wraps Mike in a towel and shoves him gently into the bedroom, while he stays in the bathroom, tidying the mess of a counter next to the sink.

There's a little table on Harvey's side of the bed, the drawer filled with random crap: pens and a crossword book and earplugs and condoms and lube (and sour patch candy, but Harvey would flatly deny that), with the shelf below reserved for worn-soft sleep shirts. Mike rifles around for his favorite, a grey crew neck with Harvard emblazoned on the front, but something else catches his eye.

It's one of Mike's old tees - Harvey'd been wearing it the last time they'd fought and made up, that morning in Mike's apartment. It's set to one side and folded neatly, but when he shakes it open there are no wrinkles where the creases had lain. Hesitantly, he presses the fabric to his face and breathes deeply.

“It doesn’t smell like you anymore,” a voice says from the doorway.

“You won't need it to,” Mike replies quietly.

Harvey buries his nose against Mike's throat as they sleep.

--

Sun, not pain, wakes him in the morning, stealing soft and rosy through the window-walls.

Over the warmth, echoes of the past few weeks make themselves known in surprising ways - the deepened hollows of Harvey's cheeks, the way Mike's back cracks all the way down when he stretches, in the absence of dread - a tangible lifting of weight from his chest. It's all very poetic until his stomach growls so harshly it wakes Harvey.

“Was that your body?” he grumbles into the pillow.

“Sorry.”

Mike assumes Harvey's gotten up to pee until the gentle clanking of cutlery and cookware rouses him, intriguing enough to entice him from the obscenely soft bed.

He makes it no further than the doorway.

Harvey's standing in boxer briefs at the counter, knife moving with almost disturbing efficiency through a bell pepper, an onion, zucchini. The lines of his clavicle and the veins in his forearms catch the honey of the morning light, more mouthwatering than the bacon sizzling on the stove. Harvey catches him staring and grins. “Mornin’ sunshine.”

Mike's response isn't particularly polite but Harvey doesn't seem to mind him crossing through the cool room to press his lips to the smooth expanse of silken skin over Harvey’s sternum; he lets the knife clatter to the wooden cutting board to wrap the kid up in strong arms.

It’s so spectacularly intimate, and the reality of what is, and was, and what could have been sweeps through Mike's bones. He could have lost this forever, this man just crazy enough to understand him, stubborn enough to put up with him, brilliant enough to keep up, and dumb enough to try. He only registers the panic once Harvey murmurs into his hair, “Hey. Breathe, kid.”

He hears his own gasp from a distance, coming back to his own body and the comforting pressure around it.

“You can cook,” he observes in lieu of an explanation, and Harvey huffs a laugh.

“Yeah, both my parents were pretty unhelpful in the whole raising kids department. I was responsible for Marcus - school, clothes, food. Good life skills.”

“I had no idea.”

“I know,” Harvey replies softly. “I'm...working on that.”

Mike sits on the counter, burning his fingers and tongue on bacon swiped fresh from the pan, teasing Harvey and mainlining coffee like his life depends on it.

They read through most of the afternoon, and though Harvey refuses to disclose what he's working on, he grips Mike tightly for an extra moment every time one of them goes to get up. Mike sprints through a copy of The Elegant Universe, then orders four hundred dollars worth of books on Harvey's credit card before settling into a law text so gargantuan he’s pretty sure it’s going to leave a bruise where it’s resting on his knee, but it feels so goddamn good to be back where they belong that the twinge feels like a shout of celebration.

There's a knock at the door.

It's Donna, and Harvey let’s her in and pulls on a tee shirt with a nonchalance that indicates he’s been expecting her. He does not, however, seem to anticipate the way she flings her arms around Mike, voice tight as she whispers, “You idiot.”

“Sorry to worry you,” he murmurs, holding on. Harvey’s not the only one who’s become family.

“Just explain yourself the next time you plan on doing dumb shit to keep us safe.”

“Harvey told you.”

“No, those champagne gummies told me.” She pulls back and daintily wipes beneath her eyes.

Harvey blinks. “Gummies?”

“Mike left them in my desk the day he resigned. The chocolate for Rachel, the note for Harold - lovely, obvious gestures, but the champagne gummies … well. Our rookie is a lot more observant than either of us gave him credit for.”

“No way Harvey knows there’s a Secretary’s Day,” Mike says. “Which means your gift was from you, something you really like. You’re important, Donna. Couldn’t leave without telling you.”

“But didn’t feel the need to tell me,” Harvey interrupts.

Mike glares. “‘Excuse me, boss? I’m the worst luck you’ve ever had, I'm about to get myself arrested and there are so many options I'm not even sure what I'll get locked up for, but hey, I love you!’”

The corners of Harvey's mouth creep up as he grabs Mike by the back of the neck and kisses him soundly, murmuring against his lips as he pulls away, “Watch your mouth.”

“Make me.”

The air conditioning clicks on in the charged quiet. Donna’s covering her mouth gleefully. Mike rolls his eyes and steps away to avert any untimely hard ons. “What are you doing here anyway?”

“I,” Donna declares. “Am pacifying your lunatic boyfriend. Also, doing my level best to help Hardman rot in jail.”

“He’s not my -”

“He absolutely is,” she declares, brushing past them both, tossing a file of papers in Harvey’s direction. “And here’s a question - Why were the fourth quarter earnings for the last eight years edited after the submission deadline?”

“What?” Harvey takes the folder and uses it to wave her onto the french press she’s eyeing.

Mike joins her, pouring them both a steaming mug. “So that’s what he’s been working on.”

She nods. “The only thing more important to him than the firm is you, and you’re both caught up in this mess.”

Mike grimaces at the amount of sugar she swirls into her coffee. “Thanks?”

“What the hell?” Harvey grumbles. “Who made these edits?”

“We can’t trace it, and believe me, I tried. Benjamin says there’s some sort of encryption when we try to access the ID … I don’t know. What did Boy Wonder here think about the numbers from last week?”

“I haven’t had him look at it. Yet.” At her side-eye he adds, “I didn't want to stress him out! I'm the idiot that didn't believe in him in the first place!”

The sentiment is more warming than the sun and steam filling the room, but Mike covers the complexity with a chuckle. “It's ok. I'd like to help.”

“And the other thing?” Donna probes, and Harvey freezes. “He deserves to understand.”

“No,” Harvey says quietly. “And you need to leave it alone.” Mike peers between the two of them, another unspoken conversation until Donna drains the mug, gives Mike a kiss on the cheek, and heads for the door.

Wearily, Harvey teases, “What, no lecture?”

“No, you fuckhead.” She reels him in for a hug. “You’re gonna have to start putting that trust in your boy to good use. Or not. It’s your life. And Mike,” she adds over her shoulder. “Look through the new stuff. My money’s on you finding something Harvey missed.”

Mike takes the file from Harvey as she exits with a wink. “We’re lucky she doesn’t have her sights set on world domination.”

“Says who?” Harvey grunts.

To the first page he adds, “What did she mean about putting your trust in me to good use?”

“You misheard. She said it’s none of your goddamn business.”

Incredulous, Mike stares. After all this? “Fine.” The word sounds more exhausted than anything else.

Now that he knows the stack of documents on the coffee table are Hardman related, Mike makes his way with purpose to organize Harvey’s discard pile into something he can actually work with.

“Mike,” Harvey attempts.

“Which of this is new? From before I...quit? Or do you not trust me with this either?”

“Mike.”

“That old age affecting your hearing? It’s a yes or no answer, Gramps.”

Mike’s staring at the coffee table, but every synapse is focused on the sound of Harvey moving behind him, crossing to the bookshelf. There’s the hush of a book opening, paper against paper, and then nothing but the quiet of Harvey’s bare feet across hardwood.

The newspaper clipping flutters to a stop inches from his hand. Mike’s too familiar with the formatting of obituaries to mistake it for anything else.

Gordon Specter. Drug overdose, the twelve year anniversary only days prior.

Harvey’s sitting on the couch, forearms on knees, head bowed. “I do trust you.”

“Is that why you're showing me this? Some sort of emotional bargaining chip?”

If he didn’t know better, Mike would liken Harvey’s tone to something close to begging as he shakes his head, insisting, “I don’t regret many things, Mike. But the way I treated you…”

A pang of guilt resounds behind Mike’s ribs. “Hey. I was a dick, too. I knew that stuff bothered you, and I still -”

“I just couldn’t stand the thought of finding someone else I love dead.”

Time scrapes to a tremulous, vulnerable halt.

“You found him?”

Harvey gives the smallest of nods, and Mike crawls across the floor to kneel at his feet.

Of course. Donna was right. It puts everything into context. Harvey loses his mind over drugs because in his mind, it's a death sentence - the kind that haunts a man, sinks its roots in and never really lets go.

“Harvey. Hey.” It takes a hand on either side of the older man’s face to bring his eyes up, but he does finally look at Mike, one lip tucked firmly between his teeth as he vies for control.

“I forgive you for being a human being with complicated emotions,” he smiles wryly. “You can't scare me off.”

The older man reaches out to caress the breadth of Mike's brow. “If you leave -”

“I won't. Don't think you can get rid of me that easily.”

“You’ve always been good at rolling with the punches.” Thoughtfully he adds, “It'll come in handy when we work together again.”

Mike sits back on his heels, frowning. “Harvey, I can't go back.”

“No, of course not. I was thinking of a different firm. And a different senior partner.”

“Who?”

“Me.”

Mike blinks slowly. “You're crazy.”

“Hear me out. Jessica’ll be gone soon, and I can't stay there after all of this. You and Donna and I could do pretty damn well on our own.”

“I don't have a license!”

“So get one! You may have fucked up at Harvard but you could test into any school on the planet, and a law degree’d only take you a few years. You could work in the same capacity you do now, and you're so fucking brilliant I doubt anyone would question it.”

At some point Mike had gotten to his feet, and he finds himself pacing. “I don't know Harvey. Just the three of us…”

“Oh, come on Mike. We’d expand. Each of us does the work of five people already. And you can't let fear make decisions for you.”

Mike's about to add a smartass comment about reacting out of fear when the realization hits him so hard his knees buckle. “What did you just say?”

“What?” Harvey frowns. “You can't let fear make decisions for you?”

“No.” Mike slides to a halt next to the coffee table and sweeps entire binders to the floor in search of the document he's already reading on the back of his eyelids. “Doing the work of five people.” He whips a list in Harvey's direction. “Count the employees in each department.”

There's no snark or pushback, just a warm gleam in Harvey eyes as he tears them away from Mike and forces them to the page.

The frantic quiet is broken by Harvey depositing a neatly annotated spreadsheet at Mike's elbow. “What are you thinking?”

“It just doesn't seem possible, does it? That so much money could disappear into nothing? Johnson mentioned that he favored Hardman because the guy spent a shit ton of time schmoozing down in payroll. What if he wasn't down there just to gain approval? What if there was another reason he needed those guys on his side?”

“You think he got them to falsify something?”

“No. I think he got them complacent, and then added employees to payroll when they weren't looking.”

Harvey looks like a college kid crouched next to the coffee table and Mike has to take a moment to appreciate how fucking gorgeous he is. Fortunately Harvey's far enough down the rabbit hole he doesn't notice.

“How? There's no way to add people to payroll without their routing and Social Security number.”

“I'm guessing there is a routing number attached, and I bet it's not theirs. I don't know what to tell you about the social security numbers though.”

Harvey taps a packet against his chin thoughtfully. “Employees’ Socials are kept in the system even if they don't work at the firm anymore. I wonder if he just added back people who actually used to work here.”

“OK, but are you telling me payroll really didn't notice a bunch of extra employees that don't even work for the firm anymore on their End of Year review?

“Oh, rookie,” Harvey grins. “What did Donna just say about fourth quarter edits?”

Mike's jaw drops. “Holy shit. Harvey, we got him!”

“If we got him, it's because you're fucking incredible. But there's no proof yet.” He sighs. “Quit grinning like an idiot, ‘incredible’ is an objective assessment of your abilities.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it, you love me. Now let's find that bastard.”

And just like that the two of them are sitting on the hardwood, shoulder to shoulder in worn pajamas tearing through page after page, Mike's cramped handwriting and Harvey's narrow, looping letters cluttering margins and indents.

It's kinetic, electric, a ceaseless flow of brain power until Harvey's breath catches. “You were right.”

Mike grins. “Sorry, can I get that in writing?”

In a flutter of paper Harvey tackles him, pins him to the ground and licks into his mouth. Want so fierce it takes Mike's breath away lances through him and he gasps against Harvey’s lips, sinking his fingers into the fabric of the older man's shorts.

“Like I said,” Harvey breathes. “Incredible.”

“Hey, you found the numbers. Although I'm guessing that one employee doesn't account for all of it. There must be more.”

“Right again. And there’s years of paperwork there.”

“Lucky I'm a fast reader,” Mike sasses.

“And talker,” he observes, bemused, leaning in slowly.

“You got a problem with that?”

Harvey rolls his hips against Mike. “Does it feel like I do?”

There aren't many feelings more heady than than knowing Harvey Specter wants you badly enough to dry hump you on the floor of his condo.

“It feels like you want me,” Mike mutters, sinking his teeth into the meat of Harvey's shoulder.

The older man groans. “You have no idea. But we're going to find the rest of this money first.”

“Really?” The air is cool and the lack of pressure is overstimulating as Harvey gets up. “You expect me to get anything done after that?”

“Thought you said you were a fast reader.” The tone is sarcastic but Mike takes comfort in Harvey having to adjust himself with a wince.

“You better make it worth my while,” he grumbles.

Thank god Mike's looking up to catch the fire in Harvey's eyes as he says, “When we finish here, I'm taking you into the bedroom. You're going to strip for me, and you're going to listen while I tell you how gorgeous you are. I'm going to suck you off until you can’t think straight. Then I’m going to fuck you ‘til you’re covered in my marks, and you'll come when I do, because when I say every part of you belongs to me, I mean it.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Harvey.”

Mike’s just about ready to crawl out of his skin and onto Harvey's dick, but the older man settles on the couch and flicks open a file, calm and disinterested, as if he hadn't just carefully planted specific, personalized, and eloquent pornography into Mike’s mind, taking root and setting him afire.

Mike only barely manages to stifle the growl, but he realizes the long game will be more fun for both of them in the end. “Fair,” he concedes mildly, pulling a stack work from the table and setting it on the end table. He sees Harvey glance up and then pretend he didn't.

Mike conceals his grin.

“What are you doing? I just said -”

“Years, of paperwork, man. I'm getting comfortable.” It's the exact opposite, in fact, but Mike's not the only tease in the relationship.

It's not that he doesn't want to catch Hardman. He does, and they will, he'll make sure of it. But it doesn't seem fair that Harvey can focus so easily and Mike’s so hard it hurts.

Mike kicks his feet up on the coffee table, flopping down with deliberate sloppiness, allowing the hem of his shirt to flip up, revealing a stretch of skin, the line of his hip running through it. Harvey stares blatantly for a moment - Mike catches the reflection in the the window but manages not to give the game away, recording the current sum they've discovered on a notepad he leaves between them.

He's a little shit, but his brain works on overdrive whether he likes it or not, so the room and the man and the arousal sink into the back of his mind as the numbers rush up to meet him.

To be honest, he's kind of impressed with himself. Eidetic memory does not a mathematician make, but with numerous calculations on a scrap of scratch paper he sifts through variables easily. His body hasn't forgotten Harvey's words, even in his distraction, and he tugs at his collar absently, carrying a two and jotting a sum and Harvey makes a little punched out noise. Mike blinks up at him. “What?”

Harvey reaches out and ghosts his fingertips across Mike’s now exposed clavicle then shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Mike rolls his eyes, collar bone tingling.

He finds $20,783 in one go, and triumphantly records it.

“There're probably only a few more, if these sums are any indication,” Harvey observes absently, staring at the page like it's magnetized. He's trying not to look up, Mike realizes triumphantly, when a realization of his own hits him.

Harvey doesn't have scratch paper, and the notes in the margins are names and dates, not numerals.

“Are you doing this math in your head?” Mike chokes out.

Harvey blinks up. “Yeah.”

“H-how?”

“I'm good with numbers.”

“It's years worth of information.”

“And…”

“Of random data entries! How could you possibly -”

“Chill out, kid,” he chuckles. “I told you -”

“Oh fuck you.” Mike dumps files to the floor as he gets up, pushing even more from Harvey’s lap before straddling those slim hips and grinding down, and then Harvey’s grabbing him by the hair and pulling him into a kiss.

It's enough to melt Mike from the inside out - turn him to shivering liquid gold and he whines, too overwhelmed to contemplate decorum. Unsurprisingly, Harvey doesn’t seem to have a problem with that.

He grips Mike’s waist, holding him in place and rocks up against him. “You are too goddamn much.”

“You want me to stop?” Mike laughs breathlessly.

“Not ever, but we do have to get to the bedroom at some point.”

“Why?”

“Lube.”

They’ve both done enough fucking to know that’s not really negotiable, but Mike’s not looking to prolong the wait, so he hops up and heads back, stripping as he goes. He hears Harvey chuckling behind him. “Thought I told you to give me a show.”

Mike retrieves the lube from the dresser and tosses it to Harvey. “Oh, don’t you worry. I’m getting there.”

The city throws colors across the floor, end of day, soft and warm and hazy, and it's glorious enough to catch Mike's attention, drawing him to the window.

“It's beautiful, isn't it?” The skyline sprawls lazy and majestic beneath them. “Bet you never get tired of this view.”

“No,” Harvey rasps, though his eyes are fixated on Mike. “I can't imagine I will.”

Heart in his throat, Mike unconsciously reaches up, brushing the pulse point with his fingertips. Harvey's eyes follow the path from across the room as that wayward hand drifts down across lightly bruised ribs, the cut of one hipbone, but a breath from wrapping trembling fingers around his cock, Harvey steps forward and knocks Mike’s hand to one side.

He gets surprisingly close without touching, so close the delicate wrinkles beneath his eyes are visible, and he's studying Mike more intensely than his work, than a contract, than those documents out on the coffee table. Like something exquisite and rare. And then he whispers, “You. Are. Mine,” and Mike's eyes slide closed of their own accord.

He finds himself backed into the glass, warming quickly against his ass and Harvey gives one firm press to his hips, indicating that he'd better stay put. Mike's lost the presence of mind to hatch an escape plan even if he'd wanted to, so he obeys, sinking his weight back, pawing at Harvey's shirt.

“Pushy little shit,” he says, but as he sinks to the floor, he discards the garment leaving that glorious torso exposed.

“God, Harvey,” Mike groans, about to elaborate, but then Harvey licks a torturous line up the crease of his hip. “Fuck.”

“Beautiful boy,” Harvey whispers and he's close enough that Mike imagines he can feel breath against his skin, but then Harvey takes him into his mouth and the only thing left in the world is heat.

He goes slow, though Mike can tell he’s out of his mind with lust. There’s an agony stretched beautifully across his brow, and his shorts are tented over what’s surely a painful hard-on. But his attention never wavers from Mike, hands roaming across his skin, and his gaze is only broken when his eyes flutter shut as if by necessity - overwhelmed and grateful.

After all they’ve been through, to taste and flirt and tease like they have time feels like the most terrifying of blessings, a too-good-to-be-true that might fall through at any moment, but they’re here, now, and it’s enough. Mike whines and it makes Harvey smile, tightening his mouth around Mike’s cock as he pulls off.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous like this.”

Mike blushes. He has no genuine response. If Harvey were a client there would be a million sassy responses, but they’re more, now. As if sensing his discomfort, Harvey continues.

“You always are,” he drawls, jacking Mike off with the slick of his spit. “But there’s something about you when you’re really gone, when you’re not paying attention to anyone else or what they think of you. Vulnerable, under all that bravado.”

He wraps his fingers under Mike’s balls and pulls him forward, in and down his throat again. It's too much, but out on the couch Harvey’d said Mike shouldn't come until he does, so he clenches every muscle in his body and sinks his fingers into Harvey's hair.

The click of a cap resonates, faint and distant, but Mike's understandably distracted, so he jumps when Harvey's finger brushes his hole. “Fuck, oh god, no Harvey, I won't last.”

The man on his knees grins wickedly. “Then how about that show?”

The idea of teasing right back has Mike's stomach flipping excitedly, and he swipes the lube on his way to the bed. Lying down on the comforter, he stretches, arching his back like a cat, and it's less performative than it is a necessity after being brought to the edge half a dozen times while leaning against a window. He pulls a pillow under his head and glances to the foot of the bed, where Harvey's standing.

He's absolutely naked, backlit by the evening glow, every inch of him strong and solid, but the look on his face is so needy and open it makes him look years younger. Mike's squeezing lube onto his hand as Harvey says, “For a minute there, I thought I'd lost you.” Mike knows what he's talking about, identifies exactly the raw pain scraping up the inside of Harvey's throat, but they're safe now, finally, and he pulls the older man from his own head by saying, “Wouldn't that have been a shame. You'd never have been able to touch me here,” and he brushes a slick thumb over one hipbone, leaving a trail of shine. “Or here,” and he runs a nail down his chest. “Or here,” and he pulls his knees up, brushing his fingers over his hole and Harvey hisses in sharply.

“That would have been a tragedy.” His voice is gravel.

“Wouldn't it, though?” He presses one finger in, and whines in spite of himself. He's still tender from the night before. It feels like heaven. With his free hand he adds a little more lube and let's a second finger toy at his entrance. “Somebody else would've had to fuck me senseless.”

Harvey growls and leans in but Mike catches him, holds him back with one foot pressed to Harvey's sternum. “Uh uh. Not yet. I'm not ready, and you're too big to do this without thorough prep.”

“How thorough are you planning on being?” Harvey snips, pretending to be annoyed, but actually preening. Mike wasn't exaggerating, and they both know it.

“Oh I don't - ah! - know. What do you think?”

“I think you're exquisite,” Harvey exhales. “I think I've never met anyone as incredible as you. I think you're a smartass. I think you’re perfect for me.”

Mike's voice trembles, but he manages, “That might be stretching it a li-”

“I think if I don't get my mouth on you now, I'm going to go crazy.”

Mike slides his foot away. “Can't have that.”

Harvey's on him in a flash, and in him almost as fast, fucking deep and rough and perfect. Mike knows he's making a whole goddamn bunch of noise, but there's no stopping it, and he doesn't care.

It’s the first time Harvey’s fucked him with adoration shining openly in his face and Mike almost weeps realizing that affection had been (poorly) hidden (just barely) below the surface from the very beginning.

“Harvey -”

“I know, kid.”

“I love you.”

He bites his lip, then, “I know, kid.”

It's not that Mike was expecting an even reply, and he's too far gone to be upset about it, and Harvey’s getting close, and Mike's been there for almost an hour, but it's nothing, all of it, compared to the vulnerable tension in Harvey's voice as he kisses Mike, then makes sure he's looking up as he says almost nervously, “You know I love you, right?” and Mike would laugh from sheer joy but instead he gasps, “Idiot,” and throws back his head and comes so hard he stops breathing for a bit. Harvey follows after.

When his brain rejoins his body, Harvey's lying to one side, a gentle hand on Mike's chest, watching him.

“What?”

“I'm serious. You mean so much -” his voice catches. “I fucked up enough times to know, I can't let you go now.”

Mike grins ruefully. “You might want to, at some point. I’ve heard I'm very difficult to work with.”

“I don't just want to work with you. Obviously.” Is he blushing?

“Dude, that’s the worst pickup line I’ve ever heard.”

“Don’t call me ‘dude’. And I don’t need to pick you up.” He raises his eyebrows and Mike’s bare body, covered in a thin sheen of sweat.

“Yeah, you do,” Mike teases, rolling over to prop himself up on Harvey’s chest. “Because you care about me. You don’t just want to fuck me, you want to take me to dinner. You want to date me. You worry about me, and you miss me when I’m gone and …” He’d been waiting for Harvey to cut him off, but there’s no protest there, just a soft smile, amused and sure as hell not arguing, waiting until Mike says, “Oh.”

“You done?”

“Not by a long shot.”

Harvey tugs him down against him, voice low and safe against Mike’s cheek and into his brain. “Good.”

--

“You're here,” Mike murmurs, surprised, into his coffee.

“You may have noticed,” Harvey responds dryly. “That I live here.”

“What about work?”

He brandishes a file. “This is work.”

“What about the firm?”

“This is about the firm.”

“What about Jessica?”

He doesn't answer, but there's a sadness in his expression, an acknowledgement that makes Mike hurt for him. He doesn't prod.

Harvey's fridge is too big, but the eggs are easy enough to find. Bread, milk, butter then cinnamon and sugar from the cupboard. A giant pan.

“What are you doing? You don't have to -”

“Shut up, will you?”

He catches Harvey watch him a dozen times before he stops paying attention, too engrossed in the process of perfect caramelization to bother with it. At some point, Etta James makes her way onto the turntable, and there's an almost unreasonable pile of French toast stacked alongside a mound of bacon and an overflowing bowl of freshly washed berries before he realizes he’s been dancing and humming and generally looking a complete idiot, but when he turns, Harvey’s leaning against the island watching, many shades of hunger dancing in his eyes.

Mike grins. “Hey. How's the work coming?”

Harvey hums, noncommittal, and steps in to wrap Mike up in a hug, then bites gently at his neck. A diversion if there ever was one.

“Come on, old man. Help me carry this crap to the balcony.”

The air is warm and soft outside, and they eat themselves tired again, though it's not even noon.

“You're not too bad a chef yourself,” Harvey comments, sucking syrup from his fingers.

“My Gram used to make this when I was little. After my parents died.”

“How old were you?”

“Nine. Poor Gram. I was a mess.”

“I'm sure she handled you just fine. She's crazier than you are.”

“Ha. True. How’d you get stuck taking care of Marcus?”

Harvey sits back thoughtfully, sipping his drink. “Dad was gone a lot for work, and when he was home he wasn’t always...lucid. When my mom wasn’t working, she was sleeping around. I told her if she ever brought them back to our house, I’d tell my dad. She fucked it up eventually.” He takes another long pull of coffee, looking forlorn and young. “Some days I wish I’d never said anything.”

“That wasn’t your weight to carry, Harvey.”

“Maybe.,” he says softly. “But I have a feeling you’ve taken on your share of responsibilities that weren’t intended for you.”

His smile is bittersweet and he replies, “Maybe.” And then because he can’t really bear to continue this line of discussion he says, “You find the rest of the money?”

To Mike’s surprise, Harvey shakes his head. “I’ve been -” But he’s cut off by his cell phone, a call he apologizes for, but takes nonetheless.

Mike watches him pace the length of the living room. He’s speaking with absolute focus, a set to his jaw that spells trouble for whoever fucked with him, and it’s enough to spark a whole forest fire of curiosity, but when Harvey returns to the balcony, he speaks before Mike can even formulate the question. “I have a favor to ask.”

“I’m listening.”

“How would you feel about going solo on the preparation for the embezzlement lawsuit?”

“Against Hardman? That’s huge. You trust me with that?”

“I do. There's something else I’d like to prioritize my time around. Something that deserves my full attention.”

“Something you’re not going to tell me about, I’m guessing.”

“Not yet.”

“But it’s important to you.”

“Yes.”

“More than the money?”

Harvey reaches out, absently brushing the scar from Mike’s shoulder surgery with the tip of one finger.

“Absolutely.”

--

It's a schedule that doesn’t leave much time for each other, but the lawsuit is creeping up, and they both feel it.

When Mike wakes around 10 every morning, Harvey's already been up for hours, sometimes still sweaty from a workout, sometimes having already gone to the office and returned, always vague and suspicious with his answers, but Mike leaves well enough alone.

It seems only fair considering he's got a few secrets of his own - like crawling out of bed after Harvey's fallen asleep each night to fill out endless college applications. He'd memorized the responses after the very first round. It should be a breeze, rote, but Mike finds himself second guessing, rewording his essay responses, editing the shit out of the short answer portions after obsessively researching the schools and their admissions departments…he knows he's overthinking it, but he wants a chance at this life, this world where he might really get to help people - himself included, so badly it terrifies him.

He sighs hard enough that something twinges in his back as he clicks ‘submit’. Another one down, and his fingernails are looking worse for wear. It'd be easier to have Harvey look over his work, bounce ideas off of him, but that will absolutely not be happening. It’s too heavy. Too much room for disappointment if he fails.

When Harvey gets home that night, Mike’s findings on the money trail are compiled into neatly sorted documents, with policy, precedent, and potential charges annotated on every square inch.

“That’s everything.”

Harvey nods approvingly as he reads through the summary options. “This is good work, Mike.”

He's a grown goddamn man. Statements of fact shouldn't make him grin like an idiot. “Thanks.”

“We need to talk.”

Mike’s heart sinks. The most menacing sentence in the whole English language. “Ok.”

“It’s about the other case I was working on. The reason I needed you to take this one.” Mike waits. “It’s against Hardman, too.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? It’d be useful to work together if -”

“I’m charging him with felonious assault.”

“What?” The room is freezing all of a sudden, and Mike stands to turn off the air conditioning. “Against me?”

“Amongst others. Look, Mike -”

“Harvey, no. It’s over. Let it go.”

The older man stares, incredulously. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Absolutely not, he almost killed you!”

“I was his employee, Harvey! He was paying me. I could’ve left any time I wanted.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“It’s the truth.”

“Unbelieveable.”

“Why are you even telling me about this? You're obviously not interested in my help, or my blessing.” He pauses, sucking in a breath. “You want me to testify.”

Harvey’s mouth twists, but he nods.

The bruises are barely healed. They still ache, probably because Mike hasn’t been getting enough sleep; He’s been too busy with these fucking college applications, and the embezzlement case, and being fucked senseless by his ex-boss, and recovering from a terrifying encounter that really could have killed him - It’s a lot. It’s...too much.

“Fine,” he says softly, and he goes to the bedroom to shove his jeans and a few tees into his bag. Goddamnit, how did so many of his things get into Harvey’s dresser?

“Mike?” Harvey’s voice is soft from the doorway.

“I said fine. I’ll do it.”

“Where are you -”

“I need to go home, Harvey.”

He stills. “Home.”

“I can’t be here right now.”

“Mike, I know this will be hard, but we -”

“You don’t know fucking shit about any of this! I’ll tell you whatever the fuck you want to know, but only once, in the deposition. I’ll say what you need me to say in court. And then we're never talking about any of this ever again.”

“Mike, wait!”

He looks desperate, and even hurt as he is, confused and wrapped in his own mind, Mike gets it. “I'm not leaving you, Harvey. I just - need some time.”

Harvey reaches out then stops himself, sticking his hands into his pockets instead.

Mike sighs. “When's the deposition?”

“Look, if you can’t -”

“Harvey,” he bites out.

“Tomorrow. I'll have Donna call you with the schedule.”

“Then I'll see you tomorrow.” It hurts not to kiss him goodbye, but right now, Mike can't bear the idea of being touched.

It's bad. What happened in that penthouse had been the worst kind of pain - for all of Hardman’s playthings. Mike certainly wasn't the only one who’d suffered, though it’s possible that he got the worst of it. And even that had been his fault.

He rides numbly back to his apartment. It’s been vacant for almost a week. Fortunately there's nothing in the fridge or pantry to spoil, so it just smells like old smoke and aging furniture. He curls up on the couch. The blackmail envelope is right where he left it on the crates.

The picture he'd held into wear is too poignant to dwell on, but he digs through the others, stumbling on a photo from that last night before everything fell apart - the networking event. There're dozens of frames of a handful of conversations, and Harvey's looking beautiful and fond, but what really rocks Mike's world is how he looks, himself. Confident, capable, at ease. Whole.

That's the man Harvey loves. The cocky asshole kid with a comeback for everything.

But the kid who'd done whatever it took to survive… well, like he'd said to Louis - ‘Whatever it takes’ covers a multitude of sins.

---

Mike sleeps until noon, but his phone remains silent, so he sets about cleaning. The apartment could use it. The quiet helps. He hasn't been alone in a while, and he barely knows what to think of himself, much less anything else.

Around dinner time, Donna calls.

“Donna, hey. When’s the deposition?”

“Don't worry it.”

“What?”

“Harvey changed his mind. We got a couple other people in, and a few more hands on deck. You’re off the hook.”

“Wh - I - does that mean I won't have to testify?”

“Hell if I know, kid.” Her voice softens. “He's trying to keep you out of it as much as possible.”

“He still there?”

“Left a little while ago.”

“Thanks.”

“Hey Mike?”

“Yeah?

“Don't go doing anything stupid now.”

--

He considers knocking, but to be honest, he doesn’t want to give Harvey the upper hand. And besides, the guy’s probably not even home.

Mike lets himself in quietly, just in case.

The condo is almost completely dark but for one lamp on an end table, and the glow of Harvey’s laptop balance on the arm of the couch.

“He was just a kid,” the voice on the computer is saying. It’s familiar. “He looked so young. But the balls on him -” There’s a snort in the background, Harvey maybe, though that’d be no way to comport oneself in a deposition - not that he ever had much respect for that kind of etiquette.

“What do you mean?” It’s Harvey alright, his voice only slightly thinner through the computer speakers.

“He watched out for us, all of us. He was always sticking up for somebody, even when the old man got him fucked up.”

“Fucked up?”

“I know he'd come in high sometimes, we all did, but the old guy had no problems slipping him something now and again, especially when he got mouthy, which was just about always.”

The recorded Harvey says quietly, “I've noticed that about him.”

“It was real bad. The kid stayed longer than he needed to, and I know he needed the money, but he was worried about us, too.”

“You knew he was going to sabotage Hardman.”

She shrugs. “He warned us. Him and his friend Roger helped us make plans. Got us out. He coulda cut and run. But he didn't.”

Maybe Mike's imagining it, but Harvey's voice sounds rough as he continues, “Please elaborate on other instances of assault, towards any of his service staff, with as many specific details as possible, dates, times, witnesses, anything you can give us could help.”

Mike’s been quiet this whole time, one arm wrapped around himself, one hand pressed to his mouth, but Harvey hits pause and says into the darkness, “I thought I knew. But I -” His voice cracks and Mike comes around the sofa and slides down to crouch at Harvey's feet. Something glints on his face. “I'm sorry. I should never have asked to you go through that again.”

Mike toys absently with the fabric of Harvey's slacks. “‘S not what bothered me.”

Harvey moves to take Mike's hands, but hesitates, unsure if he's allowed, so Mike takes it upon himself to twist their fingers together. “What, then?”

Mike tries for nonchalance but they're too far into it now. “I let him use me. I was scared that maybe...you would realize I'm not the man you think I am.”

“You're right,” Harvey breathes and Mike's chest clenches, then burst beautifully as he adds, “You're so much more.”

“I’ll do it, if you need me to.”

Harvey nods. “I know.”

The distance is suddenly too much, the foot and a half between them. Mike crawls into Harvey’s lap and they cling to one another, almost too tight for comfort. It feels like being pressed back together, the filling of a hole, the mending of a crack - another streak of gold.

--

He’d left that morning intending to be gone for most of the day, but Gram is getting over a cold, and after she falls asleep in the middle of a meal, Mike figures he’ll let her be. He wants to get home anyway, with the trial so close.

He’s getting on his bike and pulling out his phone, about to hit Harvey’s number in speed dial when it rings.

“Speak of the devil,” he murmurs. “What’s up?”

“You don’t have to testify.” He sounds ecstatic, and a little out of breath.

“What do you mean? How the fuck else -”

“What’d I just say, kid? You’re a free man.”

“What are you hiding?”

“Why, whatever do you mean?”

“Hey Harvey -” someone says in the background, and it can’t possibly be, but it sounds like Roger.

“Does this have something to do with what Donna said about you calling more hand on deck?”

“Maybe.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Maybe.”

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

“Maybe. See you at dinner.”

Mike decides to keep some secrets of his own, and doesn’t bother mentioning he’s going to be home early.

--

Harvey’s definitely going to regret having given him a key, Mike thinks as he lets himself in.

He needn’t have bothered. The living room is a small war zone. And also, he’s clearly fallen through an alternate dimension.

“What the fuck?”

Donna and Roger are shoulder to shoulder on the couch, the most ridiculous juxtaposition of human beings Mike has ever witnessed - she’s dressed to the nines in a form fitting aquamarine dress and he’s wearing worn cargo shorts, sandals, and a loose tank top with some bullshit quip about the beach. They’re looking at the same computer screen though, where it’s propped up on a stack of books atop the coffee table, and he’s pointing something out with the back end of his pen.

In one of the armchairs is René, sitting pretty with a small glass of what must be brandy. He’s got his own laptop, and he’s grinning manically at something in a way that both encourages and disturbs Mike.

“What are you doing here?” Harvey says softly.

Mike whirls around to see him standing there in very modified work attire - bare feet, slacks, waistcoat, and shirt sleeves rolled up - it’s impossibly attractive and it takes a moment for the shock of it to wear off.

He chokes out, “You look nice.”

“Don’t I always?”

“Yes,” Mike replies guilelessly, then, “Why are they here?”

It can’t be happening, anything less than blinding confidence would not be Harvey Specter, but he looks for a moment young and hesitant as he says, “I needed to find a way that you wouldn’t have to testify.”

“I told you I would.”

“I know. But you’ve been through... ” his voice trembles just slightly, and he covers it with the casual clearing of his throat. “What kind of a lawyer, hell, what kind of a boyfriend would I be if I made you go through all that just because I’m too lazy to find my own evidence?”

“A pretty shitty one, if you ask me.” Mike teases, but he’s pretty sure the whole slew of emotions he’s feeling are showing in his face.

“Bionic Boy!”

“Roger!” He accepts the hug emphatically. “The fuck are you doing here?”

“Your man called me in, said you needed my help. I was here in a flash. Why didn’t you ask me before?”

“Not my case,” he smiles tightly, not trusting his voice further than that.

To pull these people together, to bring Roger into this mess though Mike knows what Harvey thinks, or at least used to think of him, to invite them into his home and his fight, to ask for help, that he cares that much -

More somberly, Roger adds, “This dude’s a piece of fucking work. If I’d’ve known how bad -”

“What’s past is past, Rog. What can I help with?”

“Come type out this chronology,” Donna says from the couch. “I have to head back to the office.”

“On it,” Mike says, snagging her up in a hug on her way to the door. “Thank you,” he murmurs into her neck, and she kisses his cheek.

“Puppy,” she says. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world. It’s a family matter.”

Mike swallows hard. “I’m starting to see that.”

For hours they pour over documents and deposition transcripts, leaning heavily on Mike’s remarkable mind, Roger’s vast knowledge of subterfuge, and René’s disturbingly effect web search skills. (Mike’s pretty sure some of it was blatant hacking, but he doesn’t ask.) Harvey sits to one side, listening in, contributing occasionally, but mostly immersing himself in his own work. He looks up a handful of times, frowning or cool, but Mike figures he’s down the rabbit hole and thinking in their general direction.

It’s good to work with Roger again. They used to spend nearly every weekend playing poker, getting high, talking endlessly. He’s a movie buff, too, and despite the rough presentation, and the whole criminal mastermind thing, he’s a genuinely decent guy. He pays his people well, treats the women in his life like human beings, and isn’t afraid to laugh at himself. Mike forgot how easy it was to just be around him. There’s nothing to prove.

As the evening winds down Roger and Mike see René to the door, then steal some beer from the fridge and stand at the island, chatting.

“Trial’s coming up. How do you feel?”

Mike shrugs. “Harvey’s the best there is. He’ll win, always does. And he loves that firm.”

“And you,” Rog points out, gesturing with the top of his bottle.

Blushing, Mike nods.

“I’m glad. There was a time I thought you weren’t ever gonna let anyone in.”

“Let you in, didn’t I?”

“Nah. Not really. And it’s cool man, you were on my payroll, you had an image to maintain, and hey, you were a different person back then.”

“He and I haven’t spoken ten words to each other since you’ve been here. How do you know he gets the real deal?”

A small smile plays at Roger’s mouth. “Look at him.”

Mike glances over. Harvey’s got his feet kicked up on the coffee table, pen in his mouth, and he’s typing lightening fast with one hand while checking his phone with the other. He looks exquisite bathed in the dying light from the windows, wonderful in his rumpled shirt and increasingly messy hair, imperfectly perfect instead of an untouchable icon.

“That’s how,” Rog says quietly. “You can’t even look at him without giving it all away.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

Quick as a flash, Mike has him in a headlock, and just as fast Roger pinches a spot under Mike’s arm that perfectly disengages the muscle. They stumble apart, laughing.

“Still quick on your feet, Mikey.”

“And you still play dirty.”

“Speaking of playing dirty, do you remember Amanda?”

“Ellis? Sure.”

“Oh man, have I got a story for you.”

Roger fills him in on the details of the life from which Mike has removed himself, without an ounce of accusation or malice, just shared acquaintances, memories, a million tiny details that feel good to relive. They’re in stitches over some shit one of his guys had pulled a few weeks ago when Harvey stands from the chair and says with a bit more roughness to his voice than Mike thinks is necessary, “Thanks for the help Roger, but I think we’re gonna to get to bed.”

Roger smiles knowingly and salutes. “Sure thing, big man. Let me know how it goes. I’m pullin’ for ya.”

“Thanks. Good night,” and he practically shoves the guy out the door.

“Jesus Harvey. What’s the issue? We both know neither of us is going to get much sleep tonight.”

A muscle twitch in his jaw and he shrugs. “He’s so loud.”

“So’m I,” Mike responds suspiciously. “You want me to leave?”

Like Mike’s ridiculous for suggesting it, Harvey scoffs.

And then it clicks. “Harvey Specter. Are you jealous?”

“Of course not.”

“Because guys like you don’t get jealous.”

“That’s right.”

“So your boyfriend talking to an ex-fuck buddy doesn’t bother you in the slightest.”

He stiffens. “You fucked him?”

Softly, Mike replies, “I’ve fucked a lot of people, Harvey.”

“That’s different.”

“How.”

“You like Roger.”

“You are jealous.” Mike moves into his space with a grin. “Of all the stupid fucking -”

Harvey kisses him roughly, effectively silencing Mike’s tirade, although now he’s making a whole different kind of noise. Harvey licks into his mouth again and again, biting at his lips then sliding his tongue across them, overwhelming and exquisite until Mike’s panting against him and relying heavily on the arm around his waist for balance.

“You done being a smartass?” Attitude or no, Harvey sounds gratifyingly undone.

“Never. But I am yours, you know.”

“I know. I just -” It’s an unusual sight watching him struggle for words, so Mike takes pity on him and interrupts.

“I get it, idiot.”

His smile is beautiful, then he sombers. “One more day.”

“And then the takedown of the century. And I’ll be sitting at the back, cheering you on.”

“It’s your call, kid. Whatever you’re comfortable with. If it’s too much to see him -”

“I want to be there. Just in case you need me to testify.”

“I’ll do my damndest not to let that happen.”

“I know. But don’t throw the case to protect me. I’m a big boy.”

Harvey smirks. “I’ll say.”

Mike smacks him. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”

“Or you could get in here with me.”

Mike’s never been particularly classy to begin with.

--

Day one goes to the larceny charges. And it’s over in a flash.

One minute Mike’s sitting in the gallery sweating at the sight of Hardman for the first time since their conversation from his jail cell, and the next Mike’s watching the color drain from the old bastard’s face as the jury finds him guilty on all charges.

Turns out Mike built a damn near foolproof case, and with René’s fuck buddy in the banking world they’d gotten some backstage advice that lay the money trail out for even the densest juror to see plainly. Routing numbers, safe deposit boxes, a car Hardman had bought for his wife, and the payroll document with edits that Mike and Harvey had torn apart - it was almost too easy. He can’t believe they put it off for so long.

The jury votes unanimously and the judge convicts for a Class C Non-violent Felony, though the fifteen year sentence comes with the possibility of parole.

One his way out of the courtroom, Hardman stops, sneering at Mike. “I’ll be out before my next birthday.

“And which would that be? Your hundred and fourth?”

“You’re lucky you had your Daddy to fight your battles for you.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Mike sees Harvey stand quickly as he notices the exchange, but Mike just smiles lazily and relaxes against the back of the bench.

“What are you talking about, Daniel? Harvey didn’t build that case. I did.”

The old man’s face flushes in a way that Mike recognizes as a sign of danger before he realizes - Hardman’s in cuffs. What’s he going to do?

“That explains why you couldn’t get me on anything higher than Class C.”

“We both know it was less than a million dollars. The best lawyer on the planet couldn’t’ve gotten it raised.”

“You better hope whatever bullshit Harvey throws tomorrow sticks better than this, or we might be seeing each other sooner than you think.”

“Oh don’t worry,” he says with a wink. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He’s shaking slightly when the old man leaves, but his breath comes easy and his mind remains unclouded. Their case is solid. He has to trust this.

Mike hadn’t asked, really about Harvey’s case. Maybe it would be in defense of Mike, but maybe it would be the girl from the deposition video, one of Hardman’s many mistresses, or the whole group of them on his payroll. Maybe the case would be about his wife. Assault in the first degree is punishable by twenty five years in New York. If Harvey can prove it, they’re looking at forty years between the two lawsuits, which might as well be life for someone Hardman’s age.

“No matter what happens tomorrow, I wanted to say thank you.”

Night fell hours ago, and Harvey’s been leaning on the balcony railing, staring silent and somber over the city since the light faded. He turns now though, elbows propped up on the wrought iron, to observe Mike.

“You’re welcome. But this is as much for me as it is for you.”

“Because of the firm.”

“Because of you.”

Shocked, Mike manages, “What?”

Harvey turns away to collect his thoughts, and Mike joins him at the railing.

“The first night we met, you’d just gotten shot. Remember?”

Mike laughs. “Hard to forget.”

“Yeah. Well I remember this cocky fucking kid getting into my car with pain and more than a few sleepless nights in his eyes, and by the time we got to that goddamn party I fucking cared. At which point I probably should’ve driven your smart ass home, but I didn’t. Do you know why?”

“Why?”

“I liked you,” Harvey replies simply. “And I wanted you more than I've ever wanted anybody. And then I looked down, and you had a fucking bullet hole in your leg. And you wouldn't tell me who, or how, and it wasn't my business to ask, so I didn't, just spent the next few weeks wondering which undeserving bastards were getting to touch you, and whether you were safe with any of them.”

Mike watches Harvey’s profile against the skyline.

“The next time I saw you I thought you were gonna bleed out on the sidewalk. And then that client bruised you up, and you flatly fucking refused to take care of yourself-”

“Hey, that's not fair.”

“And every time - Christ - I was so fucking angry.”

Small and defiant Mike supplies, “At me.”

Harvey jerks to look at him. “No, you idiot. At myself.”

“Why on earth?”

“Because I couldn't protect you! I couldn't keep you safe or heal any hurt, all I could do was stand by and watch. Helpless.”

“And with this suit, you're not helpless anymore.”

“Exactly. Why are you smiling?”

“You're very romantic.”

“I am absolutely not.”

Mike leans over and kisses him, intending something short and sweet but Harvey chases his mouth as he pulls away and it lingers.

“If you say so. You're the boss.”

“Damn right.”

--

Maybe it’s self preservation, but Mike’s not nervous as he watches the attorneys give their opening statements. He catches himself checking out Harvey’s ass a number of times (René’s work is a goddamn gift to humanity), zoning out, and it’s not until he realizes one cheek has gone numb from the way he’s sitting and the first witness takes the stand that Mike even tunes in.

It’s the woman from the deposition.

“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help you God?”

“I do.”

The judge nods, satisfied, and Harvey begins.

“Could you please state your name?”

“Mallory Jones.”

“Thank you Ms. Jones. Could you tell us how you know the defendant?”

“I was his Mistress.” She says it with a detached cool that jogs Mike’s memory.

There’s a murmur in the room, but the judge twitches a brow at the lookers on, and it falls silent.

“Could you define the terms of your relationship?”

“I would visit his penthouse when he stayed downtown, maybe three times a week. We were sleeping together.”

“Be clear for the record. By ‘sleeping together’ you mean ‘having sex’.”

“Yeah.”

“Were there other people at this penthouse while you were there?”

She nods. “Almost always. Business partners. Employees. Other ‘service staff.’” The air quotes make Mike chuckle in spite of himself.

“And how did he treat the service staff?”

“Objection, leading the witness,” the defense says, bored, from his chair.

“Sustained.”

Other than a twitch in his jaw, Harvey appears calm. “Where were you on the day after Thanksgiving two years ago?”

She sighs. “Daniel’s residence downtown.”

“The penthouse.”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me what happened that night?”

Mike knows what’s coming, though he doesn’t remember the specifics. He’d been too fucked up to retain much of anything.

“He’d asked me to come over. I got there around nine. The kid,” and she gestures to Mike, “Was passed out on the couch.”

“How do you know Mr. Ross wasn’t just sleeping?”

She smiles sadly. “I mean, I didn’t give him a breathalyzer. But...it’s a look you learn. And I’m pretty sure he called me because the kid was out of commission”

“What happened next?”

“Danny was pretty drunk. We talked for awhile, but when we got down to business he had trouble performing. He got angry.”

“At you?”

“I guess. He started shouting. Slapped me. The noise must’ve woken Mike up, ‘cause he came upstairs to the bedroom to see what was going on.” She finds Mike in the audience, and as she speaks, the memory of that night begins to return. “He told Danny to let go of me - he had me by the arm, real tight - but Danny wasn’t listening. He started shouting about how we were pieces of shit, toys for him to use and throw away… Mike said something that distracted him, and I got free, but Danny kept this little handgun in his bedside table… He grabbed it, and when Mike saw, he screamed at me to get out, put his body in the way so I could leave. I got about halfway to the door when there was this crack. Danny pistol whipped Mike so hard he started to pass out again, and he fell down the stairs. His arm was at this awful fuckin’ angle.”

The sick thud resonates in Mike’s mind - the sound of a body coming apart within it’s own skin. Suddenly, it’s far too hot in the room.

“I was crying, I told him he had to take the kid the hospital or I’d call the cops.” She gags on the memory. “He put the gun to my head and told me if I ever told anyone what happened, he’d kill me.” She laughs bitterly. “So if I turn up dead somewhere…”

“Ms. Jones. We won’t let anything happen to you.”

“Oh honey,” she says sadly. “You of all people should know - his reach is farther than anything this court could enforce.”

“Then why are you testifying?” It’s Harvey, the man, not the attorney, who asks that one.

“Because that stupid kid almost died half a dozen times in situations like that one. It’s about time someone stuck their neck out for him.”

Harvey gives her a more genuine smile than most people get, and turns away. “The prosecution submits evidence, item 3C, a hospital bill for November 27th - 30th of 2015 for one Michael Ross being treated for a concussion, a broken rib, and surgery to repair a fractured collarbone and acromioclavicular joint separation. Made out to and paid for by one Daniel Hardman.” He turns a steely look to the defense lawyer. “No further questions.”

Mike realizes his body’s been clenched for the duration of the interview - one of his legs is cramping and he can barely breathe. The defense rises and asks some questions of the witness, but Mike misses the first few because Harvey’s looking at him with what is an unnecessary amount of concern. Mike smiles disarmingly. He’s fine. He has to be.

“Ms. Jones, did you ever receive payment for your services?”

“Payment?” she repeats slowly.

“Sure. Checks, jewelry, cash…”

“I - He’s given me gifts...”

“In exchange for your services.”

Fire returns to her eyes, and Mike grins. He always did like her.

“And by services you mean sex. But prostitution is illegal in the state of New York.”

“That it is.”

“And since I plainly said gifts, given freely, and not compensation, it seems downright rude for you to insinuate otherwise, don’t you think?”

“I’m just clarifying. Since you’re not a hooker -”

“Watch your language, Counselor,” the judge murmurs.

“Apologies. You weren’t his escort, you were his girlfriend.”

“Sure.”

He flashes his teeth, a shark cornering its prey. “So, you could have left at any time?”

Harvey stands. “Objection, your Honor -”

The defense attorney puts up his hands in patronizing placation. “No further questions, your Honor. Defense calls Daniel Hardman to the stand.”

Mike’s palms ache - he’s been clenching the back of the bench in front of him so hard it’s left a purpling mark, and his hands are shaking.

Hardman, on the other hand, looks positively delighted. After what feels like an eternity of banal questions the attorney says, “Mr. Hardman. Ms. Jones has given us an account of that evening. Could you please explain your version of events?”

“Of course. Michael was helping around the house. My employees are like family, so I offered him a drink - Holiday cheer and whatnot. Perhaps he’d been drinking before work because after a few beers he passed out, so I laid him down on the couch to sleep it off.”

Tears of rage start to burn hot behind Mike’s eyes. It had been one part starvation - he hadn’t eaten since lunch with Gram the previous day, and before that it had been at least another 48 hours - and one part what he suspects was a downgraded version of Rohypnol, one of Hardman’s favorites whenever Mike was particularly resistant.

He never gets blackout drunk. Never.

Harvey’s watching him instead of the Hardman, and Mike tries to school his expression because it looks like the other man is physically restraining himself from violence.

“Mal came over, we talked, had a few more drinks, started to get intimate. Mike must’ve heard us. He got jealous. He and I had come close to having a “thing” in the past, and with the beer I think he got carried away. He started shouting… I told Mal she should leave, tried to spare her an unpleasant scene… She was on her way out when Mike lost his footing and backed onto the stairs. Took a nasty tumble.”

“So you took him to the hospital.”

“Of course. I take good care of what’s mine.”

He sneers out at Mike.

Bile rises in his throat.

“What about the head wound?”

“What about it?”

“Did you hit him with a gun, as Ms. Jones suggests?”

“Lord no,” Hardman scoffs. “It must have been from the fall. I don’t own a gun. Check my record,” he smiles. “No license to carry. I’ve never believed in firearms. Nasty, dangerous things.”

Mike doesn’t hear any more. He’s in the bathroom, puking.

The first few recollections have knocked loose a whole other lifetime of memories, and while some of them are lovely - playing drinking games with Mal, cards with Rog, dancing with some of the other people he’d worked with - most are horrible. Echoes of pain and shame rise to the surface like scalding water.

“Mike, babe, hey, come on…”

Far away, Harvey’s voice is tugging at him, and reality begins to swim back. He’s on the bathroom floor, back to the wall, and Harvey’s on his knees in front of him.

“You’ll get your suit dirty,” Mike whispers, brushing at the slacks but Harvey catches him by the wrists and holds tight.

“I don’t give a damn.”

“Wait, why are you here? Shouldn’t you be -”

“Called for a recess.”

“Unnecessary. I’m fine.”

“I’m not.” Harvey pulls them up to standing, and wraps Mike in his arms. “Needed to touch you.” He shudders. “Christ, Mike. I’m so sorry I brought you into this.”

Mike shakes his head and pulls back to look Harvey in the eye. “Don’t do that. This isn’t just for us. He hurt a lot of people, and you’re going to make him pay.”

“We’re going to make him pay.” Harvey kisses his forehead, holding him there with a hand to the back of his head for a moment. “I gotta get back. We start again in ten minutes, but if you want to go home, Ray can be here in a half hour.”

“Harvey?”

“Hm?”

“I’m not gonna leave you to do this alone.”

He can tell Harvey hears the important part - “I’m not gonna leave you” - by the catch in the older man’s breath. Sweet and shy, Harvey gives him a wry smile, and disappears through the swinging door.

Mike washes out his mouth, straightens his tie, and goes back to the courtroom. It’s perfect timing, because he gets to watch the color drain from Hardman’s face as Harvey calls Carson Dye to the stand.

Dye looks much older than the last time Mike saw him, the wrong parts of him thinner, and thicker, than before. From their one conversation, Mike expects him to be the nervous type, but instead he sits at the witness stand resigned, like he’s headed to the chopping block and there was never any other option.

“Please state your name for the record.”

And so begins Harvey’s masterful set up - a magician with all his favorite tools at his disposal, and an audience waiting with bated breath. It’s glorious to watch. The facts paint an incredible narrative, and they have the added benefit of being absolutely true.

Ryan Kane, previously of Pearson Hardman, had been late on a deadline - a signature he hadn’t even known he was responsible for until the morning the deal was set to expire, when his boss, Daniel Hardman, informed the poor guy that he was about to get canned for his lapse in judgement, but that there was a saving grace, a delivery boy faster than any cab. Ryan called Roger asking for his fastest guy, Roger gave him Mike’s number, and the plan was in motion.

Dye describes how Hardman had gotten in contact - burner phones, different numbers each time, culminating in a face to face interview - and told him there was five grand in it for him if he’d do a messy job, half the money paid at their meeting, the other half to be delivered upon completion of the task. Hardman gave him the time, the place, and a photo of Mike.

The way Dye is describing the incident makes it sound like the incident had been a minor thing, a tap with a bumper. Harvey’d anticipated it, and after Dye gives his account, the prosecution plays a video of the assault. The jury watches with horror. Harvey grits his teeth so hard a muscle in his jaw bulges out.

Strangely, it’s not bad for Mike, in fact, the opposite is true. There’s a vindicating feeling in having survived, and thrived, in the face of such a vicious attack. He’s whole again, after everything that Hardman had put him through. And then -

“Defense calls Michael Ross to the stand.”

He has a memory from so long ago his life still looked normal - his parents had been chatting in the kitchen, long after Mike’s bedtime, about an incident earlier that day, at the park where Mike had stood up to a bully on the playground.

“That boy was twice as big as him,” his mom had said, and he could hear the smile in his father’s voice, saying, “Yeah. But when something’s the right thing to do, Mikey’s gonna do it.”

“Even if he’s scared.”

“You know,” James had said thoughtfully. “I don’t know if it even occurs to him to be scared. When it gets down to it, all he sees is what needs to be done.”

And maybe his dad had been right, because as he walks through the courtroom, his pulse settles, his muscles loosen. It is as it should be. And he’s not afraid anymore.

He swears to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help him god.

It’s not until he’s seated in the surprisingly comfortable chair that he notices Harvey, expressionless and rigid behind the desk. Mike gives him a small smile, and a surprising number of emotions crack through Harvey’s shell before he seals it off again, regret and fondness and pain, but ven the ice that settles again is less cold than when they’d first met. It’s closer to hope than despair.

“So, Mr. Ross.”

“Sir.”

“How long did you work for Mr. Hardman?”

“Two years, give or take a few months.”

“What did you do for him?”

“I was hired on to keep the penthouse clean and in working order.”

“Did you two have sex?”

The abruptness of the question has one of the jury members gasping, but Mike answers calmly. “Yes.”

“So you were in a relationship with him.”

“No.”

“But you were sleeping together.”

Mike smiles, and informs him of the objection Harvey’s a breath away from making. “Asked and answered, counselor.”

Irritation appears on the guy’s face, but Mike keeps his amusement to himself.

“Alright, was the sex consensual?”

“Some of it.”

“Some of it,” the lawyer repeats, dubiously, but it’s not a question, so Mike waits. “Was he the only person you were having sex with at the time?”

Mike knows what he’s asking, but he subverts it, if only for a moment. “You mean did we have any threesomes? I mean, the old guy’s more flexible than he looks…”

Harvey laughs into his notes.

“Mr. Ross, don’t play dumb. Were you involved with anyone else at the time you were seeing Mr. Hardman?”

“Yeah.”

“How many others?”

“Objection,” Harvey says. “Relevance.”

“Speaks to character of the witness,” the lawyer replies.

Harvey stands, rebuttoning his suit coat, and Mike thinks he looks taller, power and rage barely contained. It’s a sight to behold. “Not in the slightest. There is no correlation between the number of one’s sexual partners and one’s morality. This line of questioning is irrelevant and you will desist.”

“Sustained.”

The lawyer rolls his eyes and turns back to Mike. “Do you do drugs, Mr. Ross?”

“No.”

“Did you?”

“Counselor, could we stop pretending like you don’t know the fifth amendment exists?” Mike asks calmly. “Actually, you know what, here’s what I’ll do for you.”

The guy looks suspicious, and even Harvey appears to be holding his breath, but no one interrupts.

“You obviously called me to the stand with the intent to discredit me, insinuating that I’m a hooker or a junkie. Maybe you thought you’d intimidate me. But you gave me the stand, and I intend to use it. For the record, Daniel Hardman raped me a number of times, assaulted me - the shoulder was not the only injury I sustained from him -”

“You never reported him, and you didn’t quit until months later.”

Mike nods, and cheats towards the jury. “My parents died in a car crash when I was a kid. My Gram took me in. We’ve been through a lot together. I wasn’t in a place where I could balance school and life so I never finished college, but taking care of her has always been my primary concern.” Several of the jurors are watching him with interest on their faces, but empathy is a close second, so he continues. “She got sick. Daniel paid me a wage that afforded her the best medical care, the best nursing homes, even without a degree. Gram saved my life. For a long time, she was my only family. So yeah. I stayed, even after things got fucked up. Because I wanted a good life for her. The kind of life she deserves. After everything she’s sacrificed for me, it seems like the least I could do.”

One of the jurors has tears in her eyes. The defense looks furious. “No further questions.”

In the shifting of the courtroom as Mike returns to his seat, he hears the lawyer whisper ferociously to Hardman, “You said he’d be -” but the rest is too quiet to be heard.

“Prosecution calls Jessica Pearson to the stand.” Mike startles.

“Ms. Pearson is not on the list,” the judge murmurs

“Nor was Mr. Ross, but in an effort to tarnish his credibility the defense called him and you allowed it. I”m just asking for the opportunity to reestablish that credibility.”

The judge shrugs. “Alright.”

Jessica looks resplendent as ever in a black dress and heels, and while he can’t for the life of him imagine why Harvey would call her as a character witness for him, he has to admit - any help she can give will have more weight than the other witnesses so far.

She’s sworn in, and Harvey asks, “Ms. Pearson, how do you know Mr. Ross?”

“He’s a contractor for my firm.”

“What kind of work does he do fr you?”

“A lot of clerical work, editing and revisions. Transcribing depositions, researching precedent - he’s a remarkable man with an incredible mind. We’re lucky to have him.”

Mike kind of wants to cry.

“And how would you rate the quality of his work?”

“Excellent. He’s meticulous and dedicated.”

“And in terms of his ethics, do they mesh well with the expectations given by the firm?”

She smiles. “Mr. Ross is a good man. He’s thoughtful and generous, to an extent which might prove a liability we’re he ever to become a lawyer himself. Then again, it seems to be a trait that serves him well, so perhaps he’ll prove me wrong.”

“No further questions.”

The defense attorney asks, “Did Mr. Ross help with privileged cases?”

“Of course.”

“So you violated attorney client privilege?”

“Except I’m not an idiot, and my firm is one of the best in the country, and every client signed a contract with a provision for Mr. Ross being a part of the team working on their case. Additionally, upon receiving his job with us, Mr. Ross signed a number of documents binding him to confidentiality. I’d dare you to find a loophole in our legal strategy, but that question was so low and poorly thought out that I don’t think you’d be able to get through the documentation, much less discern their meaning, so I’ll leave it at that.”

Suppressing giggles is apparently a weakness Harvey and Mike share. Jessica shoots them a dagger of a look, though Mike catches the smile on her face as she returns to her seat. ‘Thank you,’ he mouths.

She nods, wisdom and fondness for him alone, and it’s a better gift that he could’ve dreamed of, to have her blessing.

The defense calls Hardman back, wrapping up for their closing statements. The trial has been remarkably calm, especially considering the depth of emotion held by all parties involved. Each side laid out their arguments, and aside from sloppy attempts to discredit the prosecution’s witnesses, both sides played fairly. The jury could go either way.

Mike’s honestly kind of surprised. He’d expected Harvey to have some ace up his sleeve to send them right on into a clinched case, but instead, the trial is winding down normally, a volley of information, and a wait for deliberation. As Harvey rises, though, to take one more shot at Hardman, Mike thinks he sees something different about the set of Harvey’s shoulders, less relaxed but without nervousness. It’s the tension of a predator about to strike, and weirdly, Harvey appears to give the judge some sort of nod. While the man doesn’t move, there’s understanding in his face. Awareness. Mike finds his heart racing.

“Daniel. Just one last question.” The room holds it’s breath. “How does it feel to know that some punk kid derailed your entire life?”

There’s a silence, and then Hardman snorts. “Ross didn’t derail my life.”

“Sure he did. He was the one who figured out how you’d been stealing from the firm.” Daniel looks surprised, like he hadn’t believed Mike’s declaration yesterday. “And he dismantled both of your primary relationships, which in turn had a lot of your guys ditching you… I mean, it’s kind of impressive really.”

His voice is tight as he says.“Mr. Ross is an intelligent man, but I take responsibility for my mistakes.”

Harvey nods, absently murmuring, “Sure, sure.” He walks a few steps, deep in thought. “You know, I had a fascinating conversation with the CEO of Itel Industries yesterday.”

It’s strange to see a flush appear and retreat with such alacrity, leaving Hardman’s face oddly grey. “Oh?”

“Yeah, Evan Mackeroy He says he’s been using Mike as a courier for ages.”

“Really, Harvey, what does this have to do with anything?”

“Mike’s just a kid, you know? I mean, he’s so young, and so sweet. So when he’d show up with bruises, Evan would always ask. He was concerned. And when I talked to him yesterday, he asked me if Mike was still alive.”

Hardman swallows, and says nothing.

“Which is a bizarre thing to ask, don’t you think? I mean, Mike’s a little reckless, but dead? So I asked Evan why he’d think that. You know what he said?”

“How on earth should I know?”

“He said the last time you visited his condo, you shot Mike.”

“I most certainly did not!”

“Evan’s not a liar.”

“Apparently he is.”

“Mike has this scar on his leg. From a bullet.”

“You said it yourself, Mr. Ross is reckless.”

“But he’s not stupid. He burned your empire to the ground, and helped everyone in it get out. And you couldn’t find him anywhere, but I bet you knew he couldn’t leave. He’s got his Gram to look after. It must’ve killed you to know that he was out, free, happy, and your wife left you, your mistress left you, your men left you… they believed him when he told them who you really are. They chose him over you.”

“Objection, argumentative,” defense spits. The judge remains silent.

“So I tried to put myself in your shoes. Picking up the pieces of your life, trying to keep up appearances, and who should show up at your evening with Mackeroy, one of your few chances at rebuilding, and the skinny little shit who took you down shows up at the door.”

“You’re making this up.” But he’s sucked into the moment, remembering, and Harvey’s not far off from the true course of events. Mike wonders how much Evan told him.

“Evan welcomes the kid with open arms, and Mike looks good, healthy, happy even, and you can’t have him, can’t touch him. Maybe he smiles at you. Tosses out a smart ass comment. Everyone laughs. Everyone loves him. He’s their golden boy.”

“Golden boys don’t have to make a living bringing cocaine to parties,” Hardman grinds out, and Harvey practically glows.

“So you were there.”

“Sure.”

“And so was Mike. What did you say to him?”

“Nothing.”

“Why? Don’t like talking to your victims? Or,” Harvey smiles. “Did he ignore you? I imagine that must have been salt in the wound. He’s still there, in your world, with your people, and he doesn’t even talk to you.”

“It doesn’t -”

“Doesn’t even look at you.”

“He’s not -”

“Because you’re nothing to him, now. He doesn’t need you. He doesn’t want you, he’s not scared of you.”

“He should be!” Hardman shouts, and the whole room sees something snap behind his eyes. “He’s mine! How dare he ignore me? How dare he pretend I don’t exist!”

“So you shot him?”

“No! No - I -”

The defense attorney interrupts desperately, “Your honor, objection, you can’t -”

“The hallway cameras show it clearly, Daniel,” Harvey interjects, patronizing. “The bullet through the wood of the front door, splintering it. And Mike running into the hall. He’s faster than you, though, always has been, always will be. You got nothing on him. You can’t shoot for shit. You’re old. Your aim is -”

“If my aim is so terrible, why was there blood in the stairwell?” Hardman roars, then sits back, satisfied. “That’s right.”

Harvey nods, repeating softly, “That’s right.” He turns back to the jury, the judge, the room. “Prosecution rests.”

Shakily, the defense lawyer says, “Your honor, I move that this exchange be struck from the record. Mr. Specter was argumentative, inflammatory, that whole story was hearsay -”

“Sure,” the judge says casually. “Strike it.”

But the jury won’t forget. And they all know it.

--

Hardman is fuming and his lawyer looks exhausted and Jessica’s got this secret smile on her face, but Harvey is watching Mike as the head juror reads the verdicts of two counts of assault in the first degree, criminal possession of a firearm, and an attempted murder charge.

It doesn’t take a lawyer to figure out the sentences, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out Hardman’s going to die in prison.

Somehow, though, it took New York City’s best closer over a goddamn year to figure out he wants to marry the stupid, skinny kid giving him exuberant finger guns from the back row. He laughs and discovers his eyes are wet. He gives the kid a thumbs up and knuckles a tear away before turning back to the judge. Harvey knows Mike saw. He doesn’t really care.

--

Mike forgets about his PO box until after the trial. Jessica and Harvey hand over the reins of the firm to Louis and tender their resignation on the same day. It’s a weight lifted, only barely bitter with so much sweet, and Mike sees it on Harvey’s face. They’re going to get bored someday, but for now, pizza and sex and movies seems like a good way to spend the first break either of them have ever had in their adult lives.

The PO box door is difficult to open because the compartment is so jammed full of envelopes, and they tumble onto Mike’s feet as the latch clicks up. He plucks the first one off his shoe.

Cornell.

Fumbling, he grabs the other three that had fallen - University of Pennsylvania. Duke. Alabama. There are a few more in the box and he yanks the envelopes out, hands trembling so hard he drops them, so Mike sinks down, reading the letterhead from the tile of the post office. Stanford. New York University. University of Chicago. Columbia. Yale. Michigan. Berkeley.

He takes a bus home so he doesn’t get in (another) bike accident.

--

When Harvey gets home, it’s strangely quiet. Mike has a habit of cranking up the music and taking care of chores while Harvey’s out of the house, but there’s nothing today, though the kid’s bike is in the foyer.

“Mike?”

There’s a rustling from the floor in front of the couch.

He’s surrounded by paper, so much fucking paper, shredded envelopes, packets, stamps, and in his hands is a stack of crumpled cardstock, each page only slightly different in letterhead and font.

“You ok, kid?”

Mike looks up.

“Hey! What’s wrong?” Immediately he crouches down, brushing Mike’s cheek with a tender thumb.

He shakes his head and shoves the pile of papers into Harvey’s hands.

There are twenty two.

Twenty two pages.

Twenty two ornate seals bearing bold script.

Twenty two letters of acceptance to the top law schools in the country.

Mike makes a gasping noise and Harvey beams up at him. “You did it.” He’s not surprised in the slightest by the slew of acceptances, but his voice is creaky anyway. This goddamn kid and his contagious emotions. “I’m so fucking proud of you.”

“I’m gonna be a lawyer.” He sounds shocked.

“A damn good one, too.” Shifting an avalanche of paper, Mike leans forward and slides against Harvey’s body, arms ‘round his shoulders, face tucked to his neck, and Harvey kisses the bit of cheek he can reach. “I think an ‘I told you so’ is in order.”

Mike scoffs. “Really? It’s been like an hour. Can’t I bask?”

“Sure you can. But I’m still going to give you shit.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Can I make you dinner?”

“Do you think our stomachs are capable of digesting anything that’s not pizza anymore?”

“Only one way to find out, hot shot.” He pulls them to their feet and makes a move toward the kitchen, but finds himself held in place. “Mike? What on your mind?”

Those blue eyes look up at him, brilliant and blindingly sincere. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Loving me. Believing in me. Giving me chance after chance after chance. I never could’ve done any of this without you.”

Harvey huffs a smile. “Oh come on. You’re a force to be reckoned with, and goddamn stubborn. You would’ve found your way eventually.” Something on Mike’s face dims, the expectation of something deeper, more, and for once Harvey finds himself wanting to give it. His voice is softer than intended as he adds, “But I thank whatever lucky stars we still have that I got to be the one to help get you there.”

The kids eyes start to brighten. Harvey slides an arm around Mike’s waist, and takes his face in the other hand, feeling the silk of his hair at the temples against his fingertips. “You better listen up kid, ‘cause now’s the only time you’re going to hear this. You are, without question, the best thing that’s ever happened to me and I am the luckiest man alive that you haven’t gotten fed up with my bullshit and hit the road. I am so goddamn in love with you it terrifies me. So. You’re welcome. But thank you, too. For a life I almost missed, and wanted more than anything.”

Mike surges up, kissing him fiercely, and the salt on their lips isn’t from his eyes alone. Harvey melts against him.

This fucking kid. This ridiculous, incredible man who kisses with his whole heart and gives all of himself like he’s never been broken. He’s warm and strong and smells like soap and coffee and cotton and Harvey wants to breathe him in and never exhale.

“Who knew you were such a sap?”

“Well you’re stuck with me now,” Harvey replies, surprised by the inexplicable heat in his face.

“So,” Mike says casually. “How about that dinner?”

“Yeah, yeah, get us some beer would you? And then clean up this goddamn disaster zone. It looks like a shredder took a shit in here.”

“You’re just jealous.”

“Of some pipsqueak finally on his way to the big leagues? Please. I’m the king here.”

“King, huh? We’ll you get on your knees for me all the time. So what does that make me?” Harvey snaches Mike away from the open refridgerator and gives him a quick smack on the ass.

“It makes you a goddamn menace.”

Mike grins up over his shoulder. “And damn good looking.”

Harvey leans in and bites at his neck. “Easy. Cocky isn’t a good look.” The kid’s eyes widen comically. “On you. I can pull it off.”

Brows held high, Mike leans away, slowly shucking his shirt with an ease and elegance that belies experience. He folds it neatly on a chair, but when Harvey reaches for him, he waggles a finger. “Eh, eh, eh. Someone’s got dinner to make.”

“Then why the hell’d you take it off?”

Mike glances around demurely. “You said something about ‘pull it off’, and then I got distracted, oh right I’m supposed to clean up.” He winks and goes, shirtless, to tidy the living room.

“A menace!” Harvey repeats.

Buoyant gold, Mike’s laugh sings out across the room. “But you love me!”

Harvey fetches the cutting board and sets it neatly across a damp towel, thinking about the small velvet box hidden in the back of his sock drawer. “Yeah, yeah. Put some music on, would you?”

“What do you feel like?”

“Your pick.”

--

Elegant. It’s the only fitting word. Even after two years of law school and helping Harvey run their firm, parties like this still intimidate him, but in the best way, driving Mike to be brighter and quicker on his feet, and charming as hell. Not that he needs help in any of those departments.

The ballroom has gleaming hardwood floors, and the lighting is low and lovely, bathing every jewel and champagne bubble in a soft glow. He’s spoken with half a dozen prospective clients, but the man they’re here to see isn’t here yet. Nor, indeed is Mike’s husband.

He sighs, about to find someone to dance with, when a voice over his shoulders says, “It’s an actual crime for you to be standing around on your own, looking so goddamn sexy.”

“Yeah, you should tell that to my husband. Ironically, he’s a lawyer, and always,” and now Mike turns around. “Fucking late. Oh my god, René was right. That tux is incredible on you.”

Harvey grins. “Why thank you.”

“Dance?”

“Raincheck. Preferably at home, naked. Right now, we need to go meet with a client.”

“Burrows is here?”

Harvey nods across the room and they move through the crowd with ease, accustomed to moving in sync with one another.

The client looks familiar, but it’s been a few years, so Mike is halfway through his introduction when he figures where he knows the guy from. Whoops.

The guy shakes his hand, eyes narrowed. “You’re a hooker, lot a lawyer.”

Harvey goes from startled to murderous with satisfying alacrity, and Mike can tell from the shift in his stance that he’s about to hit the guy. Calmly and without being seen, Mike begins speaking while simultaneously reaching back and pinching Harvey, hard, on the leg, just below his left ass cheek. The mutinous look gets turned to him, which is just where Mike loves to be, the very center of Harvey's attention, especially when he gets to do shit like this.

“Mr. Burrows. I used to do a whole fuckton of things. But right now I’m the deciding factor about whether or not you end up in jail. So you can either figure out how to speak with respect to the team working on your case, or I will have you digging your own damn grave and then handing the shovel to the prosecution. You know the reputation of our firm. So. Are we clear?”

The guy nods, face a curious mix of ash and rose.

“Great,” Mike says with a smile. “Let’s get a drink, and sit down to discuss how Harvey and I are going to save your company.”

Burrows leads the way to the bar without a word.

Harvey grabs Mike’s arm. “That pinch fucking hurt.”

“I’ll kiss it better when you deliver on that naked dancing rain check. You ready to go kick this guy’s ass?”

“Born ready.” He let’s Mike go first so he can walk behind and admire the dashing figure his husband cuts, and no one hears him as he grins fondly, whispering, “That’s my boy.”