[Suits/Criminal Minds Fic]: Amicus Curiae - T - 1/1
A/N: For maja_li's awesome prompt. I promised 500-1000 words and failed. In my defense, though, I've wanted to write a real crossover between these two fandoms FOREVER. A prompt like this was my first on the meme. Thanks to my wonderful friends for the muses. ♥
Title: Amicus Curiae
Disclaimer: I,
ladyknightanka, do not own Suits or Criminal Minds. Please don't replicate my silly work without permission. Pop-culture references aren't mine.
Warnings: Bad language, vague mentions of serial killing (all original character deaths), kidnapping and violence, inadequate research done on topics, and more silliness than should be accrued to a fic like this.
Other Notes: ~5k. There's a fine line between gen and pre-slash in this fandom, so either could apply.
Summary: When the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit visits, Pearson Hardman falls into a frenzy. Donna and Garcia are goddesses, Reid and Mike form an awkward friendship, and Hotch's profile of Harvey confirms his already evident awesomeness. Oh, there's also a serial killer on the loose, but we'll get to that eventually.
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Amicus Curiae
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“W-wait, Harvey! Wait!” Mike yells after his boss, who doesn't so much as pause. The younger lawyer huffs in frustration, hitches the many files weighing his arms down higher, and sprints to catch up, while Ray drives off behind them.
When he falls into step with Harvey, the man finally deigns to look at him. “Something you needed, rookie?”
“Really?” Mike grumbles. He glances pointedly at the black SUVs parked in front of Pearson Hardman, but Harvey only quirks an eyebrow. “FBI, Harvey! The FBI is here!”
“That's generally what happens, yes, when the victim of a serial killer was employed by Pearson Hardman, particularly if there's also speculation that the killer works here,” Harvey says, nonchalant like he's discussing the merits of relish on a hotdog. “You should be happy Jessica assembled the troops to put a quick end to this.”
“Well,” Mike exclaims, resisting the urge to throw his arms up in exasperation, since he doesn't want all the paperwork he's slaved over for the last week to end up dashed against the pavement, “if the FBI is here, I can't be! No way Fate'll resist another chance to kick me in the pants!”
Now, Harvey does stop and Mike nearly bumps into him. The security personnel inside the building are staring at them both. Mike thinks he probably shouldn't have shouted something so incriminating so loudly.
“Rookie,” Harvey begins patiently, his eyebrow still cocked in that insufferable way, “if you think I'm giving you an unwarranted day off in the middle of a case, you obviously don't know me well enough, which is tragic because I'm an amazing person.”
“B-but, Harvey, the FBI,” Mike says. This time it's a furious whisper. “They're going to find out. They're the freaking FBI.”
Harvey regards him for a moment, then smiles. It isn't the smile of a sadist, though Mike thinks it should be - wishes, really, because Harvey's handsomeness misrepresents the dark depths of his soul to the point of illegality. “No one will find out, kid. The only crime the FBI might pin you for is an atrocious fashion sense. Just play it cool.”
“Play it cool?” Mike repeats, the buzz in his brain preventing him from seriously considering anything else.
“Yeah,” Harvey says, starting for the firm's entrance again. Its glass doors part like the Red Sea before him. “The first step, of course, is to stop muttering about the FBI. That's fishy. Follow my lead.”
With that, he saunters inside Pearson Hardman. Mike stares after him for a moment, then does as he's bid: he follows. Hank, one of the two security guards, smirks when Mike shrugs off his bag and sets it on the metal detector.
“Not gonna find a gun, am I, kid?” he asks. His partner laughs, while Mike glowers. His bag is - unsurprisingly - deemed safe and he shuffles the files in his arms to rearrange it upon its return, before running to the elevators. Harvey doesn't hold one for him, but he manages to slip through the rapidly closing crack, anyway.
“Play it cool,” Harvey says one last time, ignorant to Mike's glare. It takes barely a minute for the elevator to ascend to their floor. It shudders to a stop, the doors drag open, and Mike's stomach does a weird flip.
Then the office is exposed, the same dull carpeting, cubicles and expensive stationary smell as ever, but Mike immediately feels off. All of his peers are sitting ramrod straight in their seats like they never do, except when Louis does his routine checkups. Harvey sweeps his gaze from end to end of the floor, but doesn't seem perturbed.
“I should keep proofing the Monroe docs?” Mike asks.
Harvey nods once. “And lay low. Be a good puppy,” he says with a smirk. Mike scarcely refrains from sticking his tongue out at his boss' back when Harvey lopes off. He does cuss him out, though. Mentally.
Twenty minutes later, he's half-listening as the other associates talk conspiracy theories. “Kyle, you're a fucking douche. Totally serial killer material,” Gregory says. Mike is inclined to agree.
Kyle, however, puffs up like a poisonous fish. “Dude, please. Your little wholesome Jewish momma's boy act just has to be a cover for something insidious! And Seth? I see you playing with the butter knife in the employee lounge, you creeper!” The last bit incites Seth to stand up, his chair screeching unpleasantly.
“G-guys, can we please not fight?” Harold begs.
He levels large, hopeful doe eyes at his coworkers, who pause, then simultaneously exclaim, “It's Harold!” which only makes the blond sputter.
The acute click of heels interrupts them. “Why is no one accusing Mike?” a familiar voice asks. All of the associates look up to find Rachel, her arms crossed, one hip cocked in her usual sassy way. Kyle and his crew start to guffaw, Harold releases a breath of relief, and Mike scowls at his friend, who ignores him to continue, “Never mind. Miss Pearson has requested our presence in conference room CMS. The FBI is ready to talk to us.”
Mike sucks in a sharp breath. Thankfully, the other men look nervous, too. Rachel pivots around and stalks away, not anxious so much as tense, Mike notices. The lines of her shoulders through her white blouse are rigid. He wonders if she knew Nora well.
“What's the matter, boys, afraid to run the gauntlet?” Kyle taunts, distracting Mike from his thoughts. It's obvious he just doesn't want to go first, though, so Mike rolls his eyes and stands up. Play it cool. He has to believe that Harvey wouldn't let him do this if it wasn't possible. Play it cool.
Mike ends up passing Rachel, who has stopped to talk to a pretty but unknown brunet woman, likely an employee of the FBI. Mike nods at them, then enters into the conference room, only to freeze at the doorstep.
“-ever this is, I assure you, Agent Hotchner, they are not an employee of my firm,” Jessica is telling a tall, dark-haired man. They are nearly at eye level. With their navy blue suits and somber expressions, Mike thinks they almost resemble one another - if not in physique, then in something deeper. They stop conversing the moment they see him.
“U-um, sorry to interrupt,” he stammers.
Jessica has new lines around her full lips that he's never seen before, a heady gleam in her dark eyes. Although she must be utterly exhausted, she says, “It's fine, Mr. Ross. About time the rest began filing in, too. Go take a seat.”
Mike does and her prediction soon proves correct. First, Rachel and the brunet woman from earlier enter, a blond with them, followed by other paralegals and Mike's fellow associates, then the partners, Harvey, Donna and Louis among them. Members of the NYPD are there, too. Finally, an older bearded man in a suit, a tall young man in a sweater vest and an attractive black man with sunglasses come in. The latter shuts the door behind them and the first man - Agent Hotchner, Mike remembers, head of the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit, about which he's read quite a few articles - takes the floor. He introduces his peers, then commences with business.
“As you know, there have been two murders in the last week. Alarm technician Burt Grayson was the first victim.” Agent Hotcher points to a picture on a board Rachel must have set up for the FBI. On it, there's the image of a grinning man. It isn't even a picture of Grayson from the crime scene, which civilians would never get shown, but something roils in Mike's gut, slick in his mouth like vomit, at the sight of the dead man's face. “Employee records from three days prior affirm that he outfitted Nora Shepherd, the second victim's, new apartment for her. There's speculation he was killed for access.”
Mike sees visceral reactions from several people. Louis' awful tan pales, Jessica's mouth purses and Donna gasps loudly in the otherwise silent room, to name a few. He doesn't blame them. He may not have worked with Nora himself, but she was one of them, and he respected her from afar for putting up with Louis' shit.
Agent Morgan steps up. “Security footage I've personally screened depicts a suspicious, hooded figure infiltrating Pearson Hardman the day after. The proximity of these events will be investigated further, but it suggests-”
“Wait! Are you saying you think one of us had something to do with it?” Seth cries, though all senior faculty shoot disapproving glances his way.
Harold frowns at the other associate, then mumbles, “We try to uphold the law, too. We're like you.”
Hotch grimaces and says, “It's unconfirmed of yet.”
“Actually,” Dr. Reid breaks in, his spindly arms gesticulating already, “approximately fifteen percent of serial killers are law enforcement officials. Policemen, lawyers, firemen. Charles Becker-”
Mike doesn't know what happens. One second, he's listening, enraptured, while the young agent speaks. The next, “-Becker was an alpha male killer with command over police officers and mobsters alike, punished with the death penalty for the murder of Herman Rosenthal.” The whole room freezes. Everyone turns toward Mike. Harvey is frowning at him and must be thinking, what happened to playing it cool, idiot? Mike swallows dryly, then says, “U-um, but he wasn't a serial killer. He only had one victim, whom he didn't kill with his own hands.”
“That's...interesting,” Harvey finally mutters.
“And right,” says Agent Rossi. He should know. His was the book Mike had read and recited word for word. The older man has an amused quirk to his mouth that makes Mike flush.
Dr. Reid just gapes at the young lawyer, his mouth opening and closing a couple of times. Agent Morgan reaches over to help snap his jaw shut, smirking slightly, but his obscured eyes are trained on Mike, as well. Mike sinks deep into his seat and wishes he could die.
“Well...” Agent Hotcher resumes the briefing, now telling them what traits they may see in the UnSub: Unknown Subject. The conference ends without disruption.
Mike tries to escape the instant it's over, but Louis catches him by his arm, his grip surprisingly strong, and hisses, “Good going, Ross.” Harvey shoulders past the two of them with one of his infamous looks. Everyone else follows and Mike is unwillingly impelled by the motion - shoved, really - back into the room, alone with the FBI agents.
“Morgan, we should start confiscating files from the partners. If the UnSub is not an employee here, he's a client, and we still have to figure out what was taken,” Agent Hotchner says, unaware of Mike's discomfort. “Rossi and Prentiss, do the same. JJ, you and I should talk further with Miss Pearson, before heading over to the NYPD field office with Captain Lowell's men. Can you handle the geographic profile, Reid?”
Dr. Reid nods. “Go easy on him, pretty boy,” Agent Morgan laughs, as he makes to follow his orders, his comrades trailing him. The younger man nods again, a mechanical jerk of his neck. Soon, it's just him and Mike.
“I'm sorry for interrupting you,” Mike says, shuffling his feet ashamedly, like the ten year old boy Harvey must think he is. “I totally didn't mean to be rude, man, but sometimes my mouth just runs, you know?”
“I know,” Dr. Reid replies, so quiet it seems like he's talking to himself. He faces the pinboard, not Mike, and Mike doesn't have to be a profiler to know what that probably means. “So...” the agent goes on at length, “are you a fan of Rossi? A serial killer enthusiast, perhaps?”
“No!” Mike exclaims. the doctor looks at him and he worries his response may have been a bit too fast. “I-I mean, I'm a fan of reading. That's all. You have an eidetic memory, right?”
Dr. Reid stares at him for a second, his mouth a bemused slash on his narrow face. “Yes. People with eidetic memories, also known as photographic memories-”
“-Can recall products of certain senses, generally sight, with near perfect precision, I know,” Mike cuts in, with a sheepish smile for interrupting the agent for the second time. “I have one, too. I read all that stuff in Agent Rossi's book once and just...remembered. Verbatim.”
Dr. Reid's already huge brown eyes go even rounder. “I've never met anyone else with it,” he breathes.
Mike dredges up a smile, more authentic now. “Me neither.”
Dr. Reid scrutinizes him for an even longer period of time, then murmurs, “You will excuse me, Captain-”
“-I have an appointment with eternity and I don't want to be late,” Mike finishes for him, his smile becoming a bright grin. “I've read a bunch of your theses online, but I never would have guessed you were a Star Trek fan, Dr. Reid.”
The doctor shrugs, but he's smiling now, too. “You can, uh, call me Spencer, if you'd like?” he says hopefully.
“Mike Ross.” The two men fall into a companionable silence, till Mike recalls he still has documents to comb through and returns to his cubicle, only to get a thorough chewing out from a waiting Harvey.
-
Donna glances up when someone stops in front of her desk. “You remember me?” the man asks, smiling slightly. He's taken off his sunglasses now and she notes that his eyes are a charming, but serious brown. They remind her of Harvey's.
“Agent Morgan, right?” she says. It's not really a question. She taps a crimson red nail atop the stack of files on her desk. “I've been waiting for you.”
The agent looks between her the curl of her glossed lips to the files, then inquires, “What, no hassle? All them other secretaries were giving me hell over attorney-client privilege and anything else they could come up with.”
“First of all,” Donna says, “I'm a personal assistant, not a secretary. Second, you're a profiler, aren't you, Agent Morgan? You read people? Well, personal assistants do a bit of that, too, and I know Harvey better than anyone. None of his recent cases have had anything to do with felonies, so attorney-client privilege doesn't necessarily apply, and Harvey would not stand in the way of the capture of a killer, no matter how stuck up you think he is when you look into his office and judge.”
She slides the files toward Agent Morgan. He blinks at her, before he laughs, every tooth is his mouth twinkling like stars. “Mm, baby girl, you are the fire goddess of this place, aren't you?” he asks, propping large hands on her desk. “You remind me of someone I know.”
“Goddess, huh? I suppose that's a mite better than insulting me with mere mortal gorgeousness. Your friend must be amazing,” Donna replies. Agent Morgan just grins and accepts the files from her. When he's already at the door, Donna adds, “Nora was amazing, too. She was my friend. Find whoever did this, Agent Morgan, or I'll do it myself, and you won't ever find his body.”
The agent hesitates in his step, but not his response. “We will, fire goddess. I swear.” Donna takes his word for it, because she doesn't think Agent Morgan is the kind of man to lie to a goddess, but also because she has to believe in something, so as to swallow the tears back till she's back home again.
-
Mike rolls his eyes when, the second Harvey starts for his own office, Seth declares, “It has to be Louis! Think about it, guys...”
“He always acts like a hotshot, but gets all self-conscious around Harvey,” Gregory continues.
Kyle furrows his eyebrows. “And he never considers anything he says or does wrong...”
“He's really mean,” Harold adds reluctantly.
Mike sighs and says, “You do know that sounds like most of the people here, right? You all included? And that Louis might literally kill you if he hears you mull over this crap?”
“Shut up, Ross,” Kyle snaps with a glare. “Besides, Louis is taking an early lunch. He won't be back for a while.”
“Whatever,” Mike mutters, going back with his work. If Louis does come back, he doesn't want to get dragged down with these morons, especially after Harvey had already reamed him.
But Louis doesn't. An hour passes, then three, then enough that it's almost time for the firm to close. “Where is he?” Jessica asks. No one has an answer.
“Morgan, Rossi and I will visit his condo. Prentiss and Reid can take his usual break areas,” Agent Hotchner says, an authoritative edge to his tone that even Jessica can't refute, but Mike doesn't have to be Harvey to know she wouldn't have, anyway. She personally texts the head agent Louis' address and the phone numbers that the junior partner won't answer, even when she calls. Agent Jareau - JJ, everyone calls her - stays to keep converging with assistants to try and gauge what was taken. The whole firm is on high alert.
Harvey stands over Mike's cubicle like some dark sentinel, his usually smug expression twisted by worry. “Mike, I'm taking you home,” he says, once Mike, with shaky appendages, has tucked everything back into his bag. “I'd have liked to take Donna and Jessica, too, but they and Jessica's aide are catching a ride together. Girl power or some such.”
“Okay,” Mike agrees, shouldering his bag, “but only because it's silly you're worrying about me. Whoever this guy is, he's probably after partners. Who will look after you, Harvey?”
It's not his intention, but his comment draws a smile from his boss. “Whatever convinces you, guard puppy, but remember that I'm only doing this so finding another associate isn't yet another consequence of this mess.”
“Sure,” Mike says, gulping down a chuckle. They get outside and Harvey doesn't object when Mike stands a bit too close to him or when he sits too close inside the town-car. That, more than anything else, speaks volumes.
-
The next morning, Harvey picks Mike up at his ramshackle apartment. Although he doesn't have a single hair out of place, as always, Mike can tell by the tight grip he has on his cup of coffee that Harvey didn't sleep last night, either. For the first time ever, Mike longs to see Louis when he gets to work. He'd agree to be the man's pony in a heartbeat if he was.
Instead, the office is in a frenzy, everyone but the junior partner present. “They found a witness who claims to have seen him get jumped,” Rachel informs Mike in a whisper. “There was some blood when they searched the spot the bum directed them to.”
“Oh God,” Mike says. Rachel nods and is soon flagged down by a gaggle of paralegals, who apparently want to stick together for the rest of the day, Agent Prentiss with them. Mike glances at his fellow associates, huddled close together, and wishes Harvey would have stayed. He picks up all his things and migrates to his boss' office.
Harvey looks up, smiling, at his entrance. Donna seems relieved as well, if the way she releases a contented sigh is anything to go by. Mike pulls up a chair next to Harvey's and says, “So, about Monroe's alleged affair with Cansada...”
Harvey contests his theory, Donna joins in with the occasional snarky remark, and it's enough to take their minds off of the Louis situation till Jessica knocks on the glass wall hugging the opening to Harvey's office.
“The FBI requires our presence again,” she says. She wears exhausted the same way Harvey does, as a subtle accessory Mike would prefer not to see, to preserve the infallible illusion he has of the two. He stands with Harvey and Donna to follow Jessica out.
Agent Hotchner is at the forefront of the conference room again, his people on either side of him, accompanied by uniformed officers once more. Spencer nods when he and Mike make eye contact, but is otherwise sober, his lips quirked down at the corners.
“Because Louis Litt was abducted yesterday, rather than immediately eliminated like the others, we have reason to believe he was our UnSub's intended target all along,” the head agent explains. Mike scrunches his hands into the material of his pants. Louis has never been his favorite person, but he never thought someone would go this far to hurt the man. Harvey sets a hand on the back of his neck and Mike leans into the solid warmth for comfort. “Because of this, it's likely the stolen file, if there is one, was Mr. Litt's. We have a problem, however. I'll have our technical analyst explain it.”
“Hola, suave ladies and gents,” comes a perky female voice from the cellphone Agent Hotchner has set on the table. “This is Penelope Garcia, goddess of all things supposedly non-sentient, and while I think that it's adorable your servers don't log the names of individual lawyers who complete cases to boost team morale, it makes finding anything a-”
“Garcia,” Agent Hotchner scolds.
“-miracle,” she finishes lamely.
“The hard-copies aren't much help, either,” Spencer says, holding a manilla folder up. “While they are, uh, filed and dated, the problem is that new information doesn't appear daily for each employee, so there are large, but viable gaps we unfortunately can't work with.” His eyes flit from skittish face to skittish face in the room, then stop on Mike's. “I've told Hotch one of you may be able to help.”
“M-me?” Mike asks after a moment. Harvey's grip tightens on his neck, yet not enough to hurt. “I can't, man. I'm not even Louis' primary associate, I'm Harvey's!”
“What's going on?” the technical analyst, Garcia, whispers loudly.
Mike can hear Agent Morgan as he leans down to the phone and murmurs, “Kid named Mike Ross has the same memory trick as Reid, baby girl. He's a genius, too.”
“Ooh, you have to take a picture of them together, Derek,” she squeals, but Mike pays no mind to the resultant answer.
“You've helped him enough that you may at least be able to identify the date of the missing file. Please, Mike.” Spencer roves hopeful eyes on him. He isn't the only one anymore.
Mike looks up at Harvey, who nods. “Okay,” he says, upon taking a deep, defeated breath that makes his lungs burn. “Let me see the files.”
Agent Prentiss, who'd been talking to Rachel earlier and now seems to be an honorary paralegal, steps forward with a box of Louis' data in her arms, which she sets before Mike. “You can do it, kid,” she says with a small smile. “Our resident genius never fails to surprise us and I'm sure you're no different.”
Mike swallows back the words, “But I'm not Spencer, I don't even have my bachelors, I'm definitely not FBI or BAU material. I'm just a screw up, that's all.” What comes out instead is, “I'll try. For, um, for Louis.”
“It would be better for Mr. Ross if everyone else went back to their duties,” Agent Hotchner - Hotch, Spencer had called him - suggests, to which Mike wants to protest, because Harvey can't leave, he just can't. Jessica is already getting up, though, and looks first to Harvey, so with one last comforting compression of his hand, the older lawyer is forced to withdraw with every other civilian.
Mike flips through files mostly to avoid meeting any agents' eyes. Slowly, the details for those he'd helped on - most, really, because Louis loved, loves, to harangue him - seeps back into his consciousness: names, dates, specific circumstances and outcomes.
He's moved from the fifth to the sixth file when he goes rigid in his seat and shoots a glance up. “Case number six of this month is missing. This one is seven.” He waves the contents of his left hand.
“Good, that's something to go off of,” Hotch says. “What other information can you give us? A name?”
“Um, Louis was settling the divorce proceedings of a rich couple. The wife, Mary Whittaker, now Mary Baker, was our client and was allotted ninety percent of the estate,” Mike replies. “Her husband was Percy Whittaker.”
“I'll take it from here, sweet thang,” Garcia singsongs. “Percy Whittaker, forty, was Mary's live-in-husband - AKA, cabana boy - until she moved on to smoother, twenty year old waters. He sued for assets, but received very little, thanks to the services of one Louis Litt. If anyone has a motive...”
“Address?” Hotch asks. Garcia prattles one off. Everyone, save JJ, Spencer and Mike, rushes off to Louis' rescue. Mike hears an inquiry into acquiring a SWAT team, directed to a policewoman, then lets the rest of the conversation fade away. He only hopes Louis is still okay when they get there.
“Coffee?” JJ inquires gently. He agrees for lack of anything better to do.
-
Mr. Whittaker can't be talked down. “This bastard's the reason I lost my life,” he shouts, holding a gun to a battered Louis' temple. Even if Hotch and the others weren't profilers, they'd know his loss has nothing to do with his ex-wife. It's the money he mourns.
“We have to infiltrate,” Hotch tells Morgan, who nods. They gesture to the SWAT team, then circle over to the side of Whittaker's dilapidated new house. He pushes Louis aside and starts to fire the second he catches sight of them.
The formerly unknown subject is the only one to lose his life in the violence that ensues. An injured but still conscious Louis is aided by Prentiss into a medical bus, en route to the local hospital. Morgan sends Garcia, who is still connected to JJ and the others, a final message.
“They've got him!” she exclaims. “Mr. Litt is okay!”
Mike allows himself to melt into his chair, his hands in his unruly hair, a manic bubble of laughter blooming in his chest. “You did it,” Spencer tells him, quiet and kind.
JJ and Garcia congratulate him, too, but it doesn't quite sink in till everyone else is informed of the good news and Harvey pulls him aside to say, “You did good, rookie. You probably shouldn't have been working on Louis' shit in the first place, but you did good.” He smiles the biggest smile Mike has ever seen on him.
“Harvey's right,” Jessica intervenes, and though it prevents Mike from staring at Harvey's megawatt beam for the rest of the day, he supposes it's meaningful enough for Jessica to praise him that it doesn't matter. Besides, even without an eidetic memory, he doubts he'll ever forget a millisecond this day.
“Thank you,” Mike tells both of his bosses.
“Harvey and I are going to Louis' hospital,” Jessica continues, her own smile vivid in itself. “If you'd like to join us, Mr. Ross, there's room aplenty.”
“I'd love that,” Mike says honestly.
Harvey claps him on the shoulder, then grins at Jessica. “Wait a minute? Since Louis is in no imminent danger of death, there's something I want to do. I'll be as quick as his wife is to leave his company.”
Both Jessica and Mike share a look. He thinks this is a real bonding moment for them. “Go ahead,” Jessica finally says, making a shooing motion with her hands. Harvey flounces off and Jessica leaves Mike alone.
A few minutes later, Spencer enters, his careworn cellphone, taped at the back, in his hand. “Garcia wants to talk to you. Alone. I'll, er, go.”
Mike accepts the phone from him, watches him retreat, before he holds the device against his ear. “...Hello?”
“Michael Ross,” Garcia declares, low though no one can hear her through the mouthpiece, anyway, now that the speaker is off, “I know your secret.”
Mike feels himself blanch. “W-what?” he manages.
There's a pause, then, “You're a nice guy. You're smart, you spend almost every penny of your ginormous paycheck on your sick grandmother or work, you don't take enough care of yourself.”
“Um, what?” Mike says again. The world is reeling. He's not sure what to think.
“Your secret is safe with me,” Garcia continues, as if he hasn't interrupted her. “When my junior g-man asks, tell him I just wanted to request that picture again. Two adorable geniuses, can you imagine? Although one cutie-pie doctor, my dark chocolate deity and other badass goodies will have to be enough, since you seem serious about that office job of yours.”
“I am,” Mike murmurs.
“I know, sweetie. Make sure to keep in touch,” Garcia says. With that, she hangs up.
Mike eventually hands the phone back to Spencer, offers up the excuse Garcia gave him and gets his picture taken by an overly enthusiastic Morgan, throughout which Spencer mimics Mike's embarrassed expression. Even after all that, however, Mike's still not sure what happened.
He only knows he should probably say a prayer to a certain tech goddess tonight.
-
“So...” Harvey finds Hotch and the rest of his team cleaning up. The dark-haired man looks up upon his arrival. “I wanted to thank you for keeping Louis alive. Things just wouldn't be as fun without him.”
“Something else you needed, Mr. Specter?” Hotch inquires dryly, once a moment passes and Harvey doesn't leave.
Harvey can't quite contain his interest. His fingertips drum against the desk the agents have adopted. “You're a profiler. I know you're a good profiler. I even saw you in action once before, during Brian Matloff's trial. I want you to profile me.”
“That's not exactly our policy, Mr. Specter,” Hotch says, frowning at him. “As you know from that trial, what we do isn't a simple card trick.”
Harvey does know. That doesn't stop him from insisting, “Prove it.”
Hotch sighs like he's dealing with a petulant child. Harvey's seen Jessica do the same thing, just before she relents. “Fine. You're arrogant,” Hotch says, which doesn't completely succeed in wiping the leer off Harvey's face, but does an acceptable job. “You have a certain honor code, but you've molded it yourself. You decide which rules are okay to break and get upset when one you haven't permitted is twisted in some way. I've heard of you, too, Mr. Specter.”
“Well...that's that, I suppose,” Harvey says. He doesn't sulk because Harvey Specter never sulks, but it's a close thing and continues to get closer when Hotch barrels onward.
“However, part of that is because you have more morals, more of a heart, than you want people to see in you. You care about your boss and Louis Litt. You're especially protective of that associate of yours.” Mike chooses that precise moment to bound out of the conference room. From its door, too far to hear what they're talking about, he smiles at Harvey. “It seems very telling that Mr. Ross idolizes you. You're obviously where you are for a reason.”
Harvey stares from the now exuberantly waving Mike to Hotch, then says, “So it's just as I thought: I'm awesome.”
That startles a laugh out of the older man. “You're also considerably easier to profile than your boss and-” Hotch glances at Mike again, “-you lie even to yourself sometimes.”
“I should have known it was just a card trick,” Harvey mutters, after a moment of working his jaw.
Hotch chuckles again and says, “Take care of your people, Mr. Specter.”
“And you yours,” Harvey returns, before finally reverting to Mike's side. They're soon joined by Jessica and Donna. All that's missing, Harvey admits begrudgingly, is Louis, but even that will work itself out. It's criminal how perfect the moment has shaped itself to be.
-
The End
-
A/N: Now I really should do the rest of my random meme prompts. Cross your fingers that the rest aren't so long? I hope you all enjoy this, but especially the lovely maja_li. ♥
Title: Amicus Curiae
Disclaimer: I,
ladyknightanka, do not own Suits or Criminal Minds. Please don't replicate my silly work without permission. Pop-culture references aren't mine.
Warnings: Bad language, vague mentions of serial killing (all original character deaths), kidnapping and violence, inadequate research done on topics, and more silliness than should be accrued to a fic like this.
Other Notes: ~5k. There's a fine line between gen and pre-slash in this fandom, so either could apply.
Summary: When the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit visits, Pearson Hardman falls into a frenzy. Donna and Garcia are goddesses, Reid and Mike form an awkward friendship, and Hotch's profile of Harvey confirms his already evident awesomeness. Oh, there's also a serial killer on the loose, but we'll get to that eventually.
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Amicus Curiae
-
“W-wait, Harvey! Wait!” Mike yells after his boss, who doesn't so much as pause. The younger lawyer huffs in frustration, hitches the many files weighing his arms down higher, and sprints to catch up, while Ray drives off behind them.
When he falls into step with Harvey, the man finally deigns to look at him. “Something you needed, rookie?”
“Really?” Mike grumbles. He glances pointedly at the black SUVs parked in front of Pearson Hardman, but Harvey only quirks an eyebrow. “FBI, Harvey! The FBI is here!”
“That's generally what happens, yes, when the victim of a serial killer was employed by Pearson Hardman, particularly if there's also speculation that the killer works here,” Harvey says, nonchalant like he's discussing the merits of relish on a hotdog. “You should be happy Jessica assembled the troops to put a quick end to this.”
“Well,” Mike exclaims, resisting the urge to throw his arms up in exasperation, since he doesn't want all the paperwork he's slaved over for the last week to end up dashed against the pavement, “if the FBI is here, I can't be! No way Fate'll resist another chance to kick me in the pants!”
Now, Harvey does stop and Mike nearly bumps into him. The security personnel inside the building are staring at them both. Mike thinks he probably shouldn't have shouted something so incriminating so loudly.
“Rookie,” Harvey begins patiently, his eyebrow still cocked in that insufferable way, “if you think I'm giving you an unwarranted day off in the middle of a case, you obviously don't know me well enough, which is tragic because I'm an amazing person.”
“B-but, Harvey, the FBI,” Mike says. This time it's a furious whisper. “They're going to find out. They're the freaking FBI.”
Harvey regards him for a moment, then smiles. It isn't the smile of a sadist, though Mike thinks it should be - wishes, really, because Harvey's handsomeness misrepresents the dark depths of his soul to the point of illegality. “No one will find out, kid. The only crime the FBI might pin you for is an atrocious fashion sense. Just play it cool.”
“Play it cool?” Mike repeats, the buzz in his brain preventing him from seriously considering anything else.
“Yeah,” Harvey says, starting for the firm's entrance again. Its glass doors part like the Red Sea before him. “The first step, of course, is to stop muttering about the FBI. That's fishy. Follow my lead.”
With that, he saunters inside Pearson Hardman. Mike stares after him for a moment, then does as he's bid: he follows. Hank, one of the two security guards, smirks when Mike shrugs off his bag and sets it on the metal detector.
“Not gonna find a gun, am I, kid?” he asks. His partner laughs, while Mike glowers. His bag is - unsurprisingly - deemed safe and he shuffles the files in his arms to rearrange it upon its return, before running to the elevators. Harvey doesn't hold one for him, but he manages to slip through the rapidly closing crack, anyway.
“Play it cool,” Harvey says one last time, ignorant to Mike's glare. It takes barely a minute for the elevator to ascend to their floor. It shudders to a stop, the doors drag open, and Mike's stomach does a weird flip.
Then the office is exposed, the same dull carpeting, cubicles and expensive stationary smell as ever, but Mike immediately feels off. All of his peers are sitting ramrod straight in their seats like they never do, except when Louis does his routine checkups. Harvey sweeps his gaze from end to end of the floor, but doesn't seem perturbed.
“I should keep proofing the Monroe docs?” Mike asks.
Harvey nods once. “And lay low. Be a good puppy,” he says with a smirk. Mike scarcely refrains from sticking his tongue out at his boss' back when Harvey lopes off. He does cuss him out, though. Mentally.
Twenty minutes later, he's half-listening as the other associates talk conspiracy theories. “Kyle, you're a fucking douche. Totally serial killer material,” Gregory says. Mike is inclined to agree.
Kyle, however, puffs up like a poisonous fish. “Dude, please. Your little wholesome Jewish momma's boy act just has to be a cover for something insidious! And Seth? I see you playing with the butter knife in the employee lounge, you creeper!” The last bit incites Seth to stand up, his chair screeching unpleasantly.
“G-guys, can we please not fight?” Harold begs.
He levels large, hopeful doe eyes at his coworkers, who pause, then simultaneously exclaim, “It's Harold!” which only makes the blond sputter.
The acute click of heels interrupts them. “Why is no one accusing Mike?” a familiar voice asks. All of the associates look up to find Rachel, her arms crossed, one hip cocked in her usual sassy way. Kyle and his crew start to guffaw, Harold releases a breath of relief, and Mike scowls at his friend, who ignores him to continue, “Never mind. Miss Pearson has requested our presence in conference room CMS. The FBI is ready to talk to us.”
Mike sucks in a sharp breath. Thankfully, the other men look nervous, too. Rachel pivots around and stalks away, not anxious so much as tense, Mike notices. The lines of her shoulders through her white blouse are rigid. He wonders if she knew Nora well.
“What's the matter, boys, afraid to run the gauntlet?” Kyle taunts, distracting Mike from his thoughts. It's obvious he just doesn't want to go first, though, so Mike rolls his eyes and stands up. Play it cool. He has to believe that Harvey wouldn't let him do this if it wasn't possible. Play it cool.
Mike ends up passing Rachel, who has stopped to talk to a pretty but unknown brunet woman, likely an employee of the FBI. Mike nods at them, then enters into the conference room, only to freeze at the doorstep.
“-ever this is, I assure you, Agent Hotchner, they are not an employee of my firm,” Jessica is telling a tall, dark-haired man. They are nearly at eye level. With their navy blue suits and somber expressions, Mike thinks they almost resemble one another - if not in physique, then in something deeper. They stop conversing the moment they see him.
“U-um, sorry to interrupt,” he stammers.
Jessica has new lines around her full lips that he's never seen before, a heady gleam in her dark eyes. Although she must be utterly exhausted, she says, “It's fine, Mr. Ross. About time the rest began filing in, too. Go take a seat.”
Mike does and her prediction soon proves correct. First, Rachel and the brunet woman from earlier enter, a blond with them, followed by other paralegals and Mike's fellow associates, then the partners, Harvey, Donna and Louis among them. Members of the NYPD are there, too. Finally, an older bearded man in a suit, a tall young man in a sweater vest and an attractive black man with sunglasses come in. The latter shuts the door behind them and the first man - Agent Hotchner, Mike remembers, head of the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit, about which he's read quite a few articles - takes the floor. He introduces his peers, then commences with business.
“As you know, there have been two murders in the last week. Alarm technician Burt Grayson was the first victim.” Agent Hotcher points to a picture on a board Rachel must have set up for the FBI. On it, there's the image of a grinning man. It isn't even a picture of Grayson from the crime scene, which civilians would never get shown, but something roils in Mike's gut, slick in his mouth like vomit, at the sight of the dead man's face. “Employee records from three days prior affirm that he outfitted Nora Shepherd, the second victim's, new apartment for her. There's speculation he was killed for access.”
Mike sees visceral reactions from several people. Louis' awful tan pales, Jessica's mouth purses and Donna gasps loudly in the otherwise silent room, to name a few. He doesn't blame them. He may not have worked with Nora himself, but she was one of them, and he respected her from afar for putting up with Louis' shit.
Agent Morgan steps up. “Security footage I've personally screened depicts a suspicious, hooded figure infiltrating Pearson Hardman the day after. The proximity of these events will be investigated further, but it suggests-”
“Wait! Are you saying you think one of us had something to do with it?” Seth cries, though all senior faculty shoot disapproving glances his way.
Harold frowns at the other associate, then mumbles, “We try to uphold the law, too. We're like you.”
Hotch grimaces and says, “It's unconfirmed of yet.”
“Actually,” Dr. Reid breaks in, his spindly arms gesticulating already, “approximately fifteen percent of serial killers are law enforcement officials. Policemen, lawyers, firemen. Charles Becker-”
Mike doesn't know what happens. One second, he's listening, enraptured, while the young agent speaks. The next, “-Becker was an alpha male killer with command over police officers and mobsters alike, punished with the death penalty for the murder of Herman Rosenthal.” The whole room freezes. Everyone turns toward Mike. Harvey is frowning at him and must be thinking, what happened to playing it cool, idiot? Mike swallows dryly, then says, “U-um, but he wasn't a serial killer. He only had one victim, whom he didn't kill with his own hands.”
“That's...interesting,” Harvey finally mutters.
“And right,” says Agent Rossi. He should know. His was the book Mike had read and recited word for word. The older man has an amused quirk to his mouth that makes Mike flush.
Dr. Reid just gapes at the young lawyer, his mouth opening and closing a couple of times. Agent Morgan reaches over to help snap his jaw shut, smirking slightly, but his obscured eyes are trained on Mike, as well. Mike sinks deep into his seat and wishes he could die.
“Well...” Agent Hotcher resumes the briefing, now telling them what traits they may see in the UnSub: Unknown Subject. The conference ends without disruption.
Mike tries to escape the instant it's over, but Louis catches him by his arm, his grip surprisingly strong, and hisses, “Good going, Ross.” Harvey shoulders past the two of them with one of his infamous looks. Everyone else follows and Mike is unwillingly impelled by the motion - shoved, really - back into the room, alone with the FBI agents.
“Morgan, we should start confiscating files from the partners. If the UnSub is not an employee here, he's a client, and we still have to figure out what was taken,” Agent Hotchner says, unaware of Mike's discomfort. “Rossi and Prentiss, do the same. JJ, you and I should talk further with Miss Pearson, before heading over to the NYPD field office with Captain Lowell's men. Can you handle the geographic profile, Reid?”
Dr. Reid nods. “Go easy on him, pretty boy,” Agent Morgan laughs, as he makes to follow his orders, his comrades trailing him. The younger man nods again, a mechanical jerk of his neck. Soon, it's just him and Mike.
“I'm sorry for interrupting you,” Mike says, shuffling his feet ashamedly, like the ten year old boy Harvey must think he is. “I totally didn't mean to be rude, man, but sometimes my mouth just runs, you know?”
“I know,” Dr. Reid replies, so quiet it seems like he's talking to himself. He faces the pinboard, not Mike, and Mike doesn't have to be a profiler to know what that probably means. “So...” the agent goes on at length, “are you a fan of Rossi? A serial killer enthusiast, perhaps?”
“No!” Mike exclaims. the doctor looks at him and he worries his response may have been a bit too fast. “I-I mean, I'm a fan of reading. That's all. You have an eidetic memory, right?”
Dr. Reid stares at him for a second, his mouth a bemused slash on his narrow face. “Yes. People with eidetic memories, also known as photographic memories-”
“-Can recall products of certain senses, generally sight, with near perfect precision, I know,” Mike cuts in, with a sheepish smile for interrupting the agent for the second time. “I have one, too. I read all that stuff in Agent Rossi's book once and just...remembered. Verbatim.”
Dr. Reid's already huge brown eyes go even rounder. “I've never met anyone else with it,” he breathes.
Mike dredges up a smile, more authentic now. “Me neither.”
Dr. Reid scrutinizes him for an even longer period of time, then murmurs, “You will excuse me, Captain-”
“-I have an appointment with eternity and I don't want to be late,” Mike finishes for him, his smile becoming a bright grin. “I've read a bunch of your theses online, but I never would have guessed you were a Star Trek fan, Dr. Reid.”
The doctor shrugs, but he's smiling now, too. “You can, uh, call me Spencer, if you'd like?” he says hopefully.
“Mike Ross.” The two men fall into a companionable silence, till Mike recalls he still has documents to comb through and returns to his cubicle, only to get a thorough chewing out from a waiting Harvey.
-
Donna glances up when someone stops in front of her desk. “You remember me?” the man asks, smiling slightly. He's taken off his sunglasses now and she notes that his eyes are a charming, but serious brown. They remind her of Harvey's.
“Agent Morgan, right?” she says. It's not really a question. She taps a crimson red nail atop the stack of files on her desk. “I've been waiting for you.”
The agent looks between her the curl of her glossed lips to the files, then inquires, “What, no hassle? All them other secretaries were giving me hell over attorney-client privilege and anything else they could come up with.”
“First of all,” Donna says, “I'm a personal assistant, not a secretary. Second, you're a profiler, aren't you, Agent Morgan? You read people? Well, personal assistants do a bit of that, too, and I know Harvey better than anyone. None of his recent cases have had anything to do with felonies, so attorney-client privilege doesn't necessarily apply, and Harvey would not stand in the way of the capture of a killer, no matter how stuck up you think he is when you look into his office and judge.”
She slides the files toward Agent Morgan. He blinks at her, before he laughs, every tooth is his mouth twinkling like stars. “Mm, baby girl, you are the fire goddess of this place, aren't you?” he asks, propping large hands on her desk. “You remind me of someone I know.”
“Goddess, huh? I suppose that's a mite better than insulting me with mere mortal gorgeousness. Your friend must be amazing,” Donna replies. Agent Morgan just grins and accepts the files from her. When he's already at the door, Donna adds, “Nora was amazing, too. She was my friend. Find whoever did this, Agent Morgan, or I'll do it myself, and you won't ever find his body.”
The agent hesitates in his step, but not his response. “We will, fire goddess. I swear.” Donna takes his word for it, because she doesn't think Agent Morgan is the kind of man to lie to a goddess, but also because she has to believe in something, so as to swallow the tears back till she's back home again.
-
Mike rolls his eyes when, the second Harvey starts for his own office, Seth declares, “It has to be Louis! Think about it, guys...”
“He always acts like a hotshot, but gets all self-conscious around Harvey,” Gregory continues.
Kyle furrows his eyebrows. “And he never considers anything he says or does wrong...”
“He's really mean,” Harold adds reluctantly.
Mike sighs and says, “You do know that sounds like most of the people here, right? You all included? And that Louis might literally kill you if he hears you mull over this crap?”
“Shut up, Ross,” Kyle snaps with a glare. “Besides, Louis is taking an early lunch. He won't be back for a while.”
“Whatever,” Mike mutters, going back with his work. If Louis does come back, he doesn't want to get dragged down with these morons, especially after Harvey had already reamed him.
But Louis doesn't. An hour passes, then three, then enough that it's almost time for the firm to close. “Where is he?” Jessica asks. No one has an answer.
“Morgan, Rossi and I will visit his condo. Prentiss and Reid can take his usual break areas,” Agent Hotchner says, an authoritative edge to his tone that even Jessica can't refute, but Mike doesn't have to be Harvey to know she wouldn't have, anyway. She personally texts the head agent Louis' address and the phone numbers that the junior partner won't answer, even when she calls. Agent Jareau - JJ, everyone calls her - stays to keep converging with assistants to try and gauge what was taken. The whole firm is on high alert.
Harvey stands over Mike's cubicle like some dark sentinel, his usually smug expression twisted by worry. “Mike, I'm taking you home,” he says, once Mike, with shaky appendages, has tucked everything back into his bag. “I'd have liked to take Donna and Jessica, too, but they and Jessica's aide are catching a ride together. Girl power or some such.”
“Okay,” Mike agrees, shouldering his bag, “but only because it's silly you're worrying about me. Whoever this guy is, he's probably after partners. Who will look after you, Harvey?”
It's not his intention, but his comment draws a smile from his boss. “Whatever convinces you, guard puppy, but remember that I'm only doing this so finding another associate isn't yet another consequence of this mess.”
“Sure,” Mike says, gulping down a chuckle. They get outside and Harvey doesn't object when Mike stands a bit too close to him or when he sits too close inside the town-car. That, more than anything else, speaks volumes.
-
The next morning, Harvey picks Mike up at his ramshackle apartment. Although he doesn't have a single hair out of place, as always, Mike can tell by the tight grip he has on his cup of coffee that Harvey didn't sleep last night, either. For the first time ever, Mike longs to see Louis when he gets to work. He'd agree to be the man's pony in a heartbeat if he was.
Instead, the office is in a frenzy, everyone but the junior partner present. “They found a witness who claims to have seen him get jumped,” Rachel informs Mike in a whisper. “There was some blood when they searched the spot the bum directed them to.”
“Oh God,” Mike says. Rachel nods and is soon flagged down by a gaggle of paralegals, who apparently want to stick together for the rest of the day, Agent Prentiss with them. Mike glances at his fellow associates, huddled close together, and wishes Harvey would have stayed. He picks up all his things and migrates to his boss' office.
Harvey looks up, smiling, at his entrance. Donna seems relieved as well, if the way she releases a contented sigh is anything to go by. Mike pulls up a chair next to Harvey's and says, “So, about Monroe's alleged affair with Cansada...”
Harvey contests his theory, Donna joins in with the occasional snarky remark, and it's enough to take their minds off of the Louis situation till Jessica knocks on the glass wall hugging the opening to Harvey's office.
“The FBI requires our presence again,” she says. She wears exhausted the same way Harvey does, as a subtle accessory Mike would prefer not to see, to preserve the infallible illusion he has of the two. He stands with Harvey and Donna to follow Jessica out.
Agent Hotchner is at the forefront of the conference room again, his people on either side of him, accompanied by uniformed officers once more. Spencer nods when he and Mike make eye contact, but is otherwise sober, his lips quirked down at the corners.
“Because Louis Litt was abducted yesterday, rather than immediately eliminated like the others, we have reason to believe he was our UnSub's intended target all along,” the head agent explains. Mike scrunches his hands into the material of his pants. Louis has never been his favorite person, but he never thought someone would go this far to hurt the man. Harvey sets a hand on the back of his neck and Mike leans into the solid warmth for comfort. “Because of this, it's likely the stolen file, if there is one, was Mr. Litt's. We have a problem, however. I'll have our technical analyst explain it.”
“Hola, suave ladies and gents,” comes a perky female voice from the cellphone Agent Hotchner has set on the table. “This is Penelope Garcia, goddess of all things supposedly non-sentient, and while I think that it's adorable your servers don't log the names of individual lawyers who complete cases to boost team morale, it makes finding anything a-”
“Garcia,” Agent Hotchner scolds.
“-miracle,” she finishes lamely.
“The hard-copies aren't much help, either,” Spencer says, holding a manilla folder up. “While they are, uh, filed and dated, the problem is that new information doesn't appear daily for each employee, so there are large, but viable gaps we unfortunately can't work with.” His eyes flit from skittish face to skittish face in the room, then stop on Mike's. “I've told Hotch one of you may be able to help.”
“M-me?” Mike asks after a moment. Harvey's grip tightens on his neck, yet not enough to hurt. “I can't, man. I'm not even Louis' primary associate, I'm Harvey's!”
“What's going on?” the technical analyst, Garcia, whispers loudly.
Mike can hear Agent Morgan as he leans down to the phone and murmurs, “Kid named Mike Ross has the same memory trick as Reid, baby girl. He's a genius, too.”
“Ooh, you have to take a picture of them together, Derek,” she squeals, but Mike pays no mind to the resultant answer.
“You've helped him enough that you may at least be able to identify the date of the missing file. Please, Mike.” Spencer roves hopeful eyes on him. He isn't the only one anymore.
Mike looks up at Harvey, who nods. “Okay,” he says, upon taking a deep, defeated breath that makes his lungs burn. “Let me see the files.”
Agent Prentiss, who'd been talking to Rachel earlier and now seems to be an honorary paralegal, steps forward with a box of Louis' data in her arms, which she sets before Mike. “You can do it, kid,” she says with a small smile. “Our resident genius never fails to surprise us and I'm sure you're no different.”
Mike swallows back the words, “But I'm not Spencer, I don't even have my bachelors, I'm definitely not FBI or BAU material. I'm just a screw up, that's all.” What comes out instead is, “I'll try. For, um, for Louis.”
“It would be better for Mr. Ross if everyone else went back to their duties,” Agent Hotchner - Hotch, Spencer had called him - suggests, to which Mike wants to protest, because Harvey can't leave, he just can't. Jessica is already getting up, though, and looks first to Harvey, so with one last comforting compression of his hand, the older lawyer is forced to withdraw with every other civilian.
Mike flips through files mostly to avoid meeting any agents' eyes. Slowly, the details for those he'd helped on - most, really, because Louis loved, loves, to harangue him - seeps back into his consciousness: names, dates, specific circumstances and outcomes.
He's moved from the fifth to the sixth file when he goes rigid in his seat and shoots a glance up. “Case number six of this month is missing. This one is seven.” He waves the contents of his left hand.
“Good, that's something to go off of,” Hotch says. “What other information can you give us? A name?”
“Um, Louis was settling the divorce proceedings of a rich couple. The wife, Mary Whittaker, now Mary Baker, was our client and was allotted ninety percent of the estate,” Mike replies. “Her husband was Percy Whittaker.”
“I'll take it from here, sweet thang,” Garcia singsongs. “Percy Whittaker, forty, was Mary's live-in-husband - AKA, cabana boy - until she moved on to smoother, twenty year old waters. He sued for assets, but received very little, thanks to the services of one Louis Litt. If anyone has a motive...”
“Address?” Hotch asks. Garcia prattles one off. Everyone, save JJ, Spencer and Mike, rushes off to Louis' rescue. Mike hears an inquiry into acquiring a SWAT team, directed to a policewoman, then lets the rest of the conversation fade away. He only hopes Louis is still okay when they get there.
“Coffee?” JJ inquires gently. He agrees for lack of anything better to do.
-
Mr. Whittaker can't be talked down. “This bastard's the reason I lost my life,” he shouts, holding a gun to a battered Louis' temple. Even if Hotch and the others weren't profilers, they'd know his loss has nothing to do with his ex-wife. It's the money he mourns.
“We have to infiltrate,” Hotch tells Morgan, who nods. They gesture to the SWAT team, then circle over to the side of Whittaker's dilapidated new house. He pushes Louis aside and starts to fire the second he catches sight of them.
The formerly unknown subject is the only one to lose his life in the violence that ensues. An injured but still conscious Louis is aided by Prentiss into a medical bus, en route to the local hospital. Morgan sends Garcia, who is still connected to JJ and the others, a final message.
“They've got him!” she exclaims. “Mr. Litt is okay!”
Mike allows himself to melt into his chair, his hands in his unruly hair, a manic bubble of laughter blooming in his chest. “You did it,” Spencer tells him, quiet and kind.
JJ and Garcia congratulate him, too, but it doesn't quite sink in till everyone else is informed of the good news and Harvey pulls him aside to say, “You did good, rookie. You probably shouldn't have been working on Louis' shit in the first place, but you did good.” He smiles the biggest smile Mike has ever seen on him.
“Harvey's right,” Jessica intervenes, and though it prevents Mike from staring at Harvey's megawatt beam for the rest of the day, he supposes it's meaningful enough for Jessica to praise him that it doesn't matter. Besides, even without an eidetic memory, he doubts he'll ever forget a millisecond this day.
“Thank you,” Mike tells both of his bosses.
“Harvey and I are going to Louis' hospital,” Jessica continues, her own smile vivid in itself. “If you'd like to join us, Mr. Ross, there's room aplenty.”
“I'd love that,” Mike says honestly.
Harvey claps him on the shoulder, then grins at Jessica. “Wait a minute? Since Louis is in no imminent danger of death, there's something I want to do. I'll be as quick as his wife is to leave his company.”
Both Jessica and Mike share a look. He thinks this is a real bonding moment for them. “Go ahead,” Jessica finally says, making a shooing motion with her hands. Harvey flounces off and Jessica leaves Mike alone.
A few minutes later, Spencer enters, his careworn cellphone, taped at the back, in his hand. “Garcia wants to talk to you. Alone. I'll, er, go.”
Mike accepts the phone from him, watches him retreat, before he holds the device against his ear. “...Hello?”
“Michael Ross,” Garcia declares, low though no one can hear her through the mouthpiece, anyway, now that the speaker is off, “I know your secret.”
Mike feels himself blanch. “W-what?” he manages.
There's a pause, then, “You're a nice guy. You're smart, you spend almost every penny of your ginormous paycheck on your sick grandmother or work, you don't take enough care of yourself.”
“Um, what?” Mike says again. The world is reeling. He's not sure what to think.
“Your secret is safe with me,” Garcia continues, as if he hasn't interrupted her. “When my junior g-man asks, tell him I just wanted to request that picture again. Two adorable geniuses, can you imagine? Although one cutie-pie doctor, my dark chocolate deity and other badass goodies will have to be enough, since you seem serious about that office job of yours.”
“I am,” Mike murmurs.
“I know, sweetie. Make sure to keep in touch,” Garcia says. With that, she hangs up.
Mike eventually hands the phone back to Spencer, offers up the excuse Garcia gave him and gets his picture taken by an overly enthusiastic Morgan, throughout which Spencer mimics Mike's embarrassed expression. Even after all that, however, Mike's still not sure what happened.
He only knows he should probably say a prayer to a certain tech goddess tonight.
-
“So...” Harvey finds Hotch and the rest of his team cleaning up. The dark-haired man looks up upon his arrival. “I wanted to thank you for keeping Louis alive. Things just wouldn't be as fun without him.”
“Something else you needed, Mr. Specter?” Hotch inquires dryly, once a moment passes and Harvey doesn't leave.
Harvey can't quite contain his interest. His fingertips drum against the desk the agents have adopted. “You're a profiler. I know you're a good profiler. I even saw you in action once before, during Brian Matloff's trial. I want you to profile me.”
“That's not exactly our policy, Mr. Specter,” Hotch says, frowning at him. “As you know from that trial, what we do isn't a simple card trick.”
Harvey does know. That doesn't stop him from insisting, “Prove it.”
Hotch sighs like he's dealing with a petulant child. Harvey's seen Jessica do the same thing, just before she relents. “Fine. You're arrogant,” Hotch says, which doesn't completely succeed in wiping the leer off Harvey's face, but does an acceptable job. “You have a certain honor code, but you've molded it yourself. You decide which rules are okay to break and get upset when one you haven't permitted is twisted in some way. I've heard of you, too, Mr. Specter.”
“Well...that's that, I suppose,” Harvey says. He doesn't sulk because Harvey Specter never sulks, but it's a close thing and continues to get closer when Hotch barrels onward.
“However, part of that is because you have more morals, more of a heart, than you want people to see in you. You care about your boss and Louis Litt. You're especially protective of that associate of yours.” Mike chooses that precise moment to bound out of the conference room. From its door, too far to hear what they're talking about, he smiles at Harvey. “It seems very telling that Mr. Ross idolizes you. You're obviously where you are for a reason.”
Harvey stares from the now exuberantly waving Mike to Hotch, then says, “So it's just as I thought: I'm awesome.”
That startles a laugh out of the older man. “You're also considerably easier to profile than your boss and-” Hotch glances at Mike again, “-you lie even to yourself sometimes.”
“I should have known it was just a card trick,” Harvey mutters, after a moment of working his jaw.
Hotch chuckles again and says, “Take care of your people, Mr. Specter.”
“And you yours,” Harvey returns, before finally reverting to Mike's side. They're soon joined by Jessica and Donna. All that's missing, Harvey admits begrudgingly, is Louis, but even that will work itself out. It's criminal how perfect the moment has shaped itself to be.
-
The End
-
A/N: Now I really should do the rest of my random meme prompts. Cross your fingers that the rest aren't so long? I hope you all enjoy this, but especially the lovely maja_li. ♥