[Suits Fic]: The Haunting of Harvey Specter - NC-17 - 1/2
A/N: Thank you to the awesome suits_exchange mods, silverfoxflower for the brilliant prompt and my pinguflakes for always picking me back up when I was tired and just wanted to quit. A special thanks to cashay and bballgirl3022, my lovely betas, for the last minute edits. I hope this is okay. Love you all. ♥
Title: The Haunting of Harvey Specter
Disclaimer: I,
ladyknightanka, do not own Suits. If I did, we would have more fangirl moments, less awkward romances. Please don't replicate my silly work without permission. Pop-culture references aren't mine.
Warnings: NC-17 for graphic sex that includes wet dreams, light bondage, rimming, blow-jobs, fingering and so on, coarse language, alcohol use, mentions of Harvey and Mike with others, mild angst, jealousy and meanness from relationship denial, romantic comedy type cliches, descriptions of delicious foods that will make you hungry, some spoilers, etc. So fluffy, you'll want to die.
Other Notes: ~12k of Harvey/Mike and our favorite matchmaking women. Originally posted here.
Summary: The awkward morning after a drunken one night stand, Harvey and Mike agree never to discuss their relationship again, but memories of that otherwise foggy affair begin to assail Harvey. How can he continue seeing his clumsy associate in a platonic light when he dreams of making him scream with pleasure every time he falls asleep? Matchmaking women and the green-eyed monster aren't making things any easier.
-
Part One: I, Incubus
-
Harvey Specter leans against a conference room wall. He's spectating again. He has to admit, Mike can put on quite the show when he wants to.
Mike sits at the long table in the heart of the room, across from two men, one a rival lawyer. Pearson Hardman's newest client stands beside the young associate, pacing too much to settle down. All eyes are on Mike as he slides a thick packet of papers over to opposing counsel.
“What is this?” the lawyer asks, after a cursory glance through it. His finger, its nail finely manicured and almost feminine, taps against the first sheet. All the others had been provided to both parties beforehand. The first, though, is plain and lined, out of any old notebook, and Mike's childish scrawl is stark on it. It's new.
Harvey refrains from rolling his eyes. He wishes the kid had taken some of the expensive stationary down in the storage room, or that Mike had at least mitigated his use of colorful pens and markers, because he knows no one will take him seriously like this. If he didn't see for himself how clever Mike could be, he certainly wouldn't think much of the unruly mop of blond hair, the cheap suit on a stick figure or the big blue eyes. Opposing counsel had laughed when Harvey first introduced Mike as the handler for this case - in fact, smug, patronizing lines still bracket the man's upturned lips.
“My calculations.” Mike smiles - no, smirks, an expression taken straight from Harvey's arsenal, and suddenly Harvey doesn't have to worry anymore. The cake has been baked, cut and is ready to serve. Mike sucks in a deep breath and Harvey allows himself to cant forward a step, profoundly interested in the spectacle. “You see, Mr. Sovereign, it's through use of my client's product that yours gained leverage on the market. If you split your business now and go against the initially drawn contract, both of you will suffer immense loss, you more than my client. About seventy percent of all sales will be negated, so if your gross annual income is a hundred million even, you'll make less than twenty four.”
Mike directs his entire pitch to the opposing client, not counsel, and the effect is evident. Mr. Sovereign blanches whiter than the diamonds on his ring, while his lawyer's jaw and many jowls quiver. “W-what?”
“I'm good with numbers,” Mike says. He folds his hands together and beams like an angelic kindergartener. Harvey distantly wonders whether that makes him the proud teacher or the parent, but he's distracted by their own client flitting around in an attempt to express gratitude to them both simultaneously.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Mr. Garland says, as if he's praying and Pearson Hardman is a church.
Mike stands up and accepts a handshake that becomes an awkward, exuberant half-hug, but doesn't reply. Although Harvey shoots his associate a look, he's all smiles when he tells their client, “It was our pleasure, Steven, a good experience for my little protege.”
“Um, yeah,” Mike says, still short of the victory high Harvey had expected of him. It doesn't matter, anyway. Everything is soon finalized and they're released from the business that had whiled away their hours for the last two weeks, at least a couple million dollars richer.
Jessica will be pleased, Louis will envy the way Louis does best, and honestly, Harvey is quite chuffed by his puppy's success himself. As they walk out of the conference room, he drapes an arm over Mike's narrow shoulders. “C'mon, kid, let me take you out for a drink.”
“Er,” Mike begins, reluctant for a reason Harvey doesn't know.
Harvey gives him a quick squeeze and interrupts, “One time offer: dinner is included.”
Mike's blue eyes flash up to his face and stare, though his gait is the same. Finally, he nods. “Sure, old man. Just don't order anything that gives you heartburn.”
Harvey extricates himself with a push to Mike's arm and a laugh. Slowly but surely, beneath Harvey's expert hands, the kid is learning. Now, if only he'd work on his gloating.
-
An hour later, Harvey is capitalizing on their resounding triumph near a pretty redhead dressed for success. “The way my heart swelled, Sera, when my young associate reeled in the catch... Ah, well, it's indescribable,” he says, a bit huskier than normal. She shivers like she feels his breath fan across her face. “Reminds me of my youth.”
“Aw, Mr. Specter, you aren't old at all,” she exclaims, her hand poised on his bicep. She leans forward and the bust-line of her dress wriggles down that much farther. His eyes flick to it briefly, but his mother taught him to be a gentleman, so they return to her thickly glossed lips. “I can tell you're a winner.”
She's writhing on the line, same as Mike had opposing counsel earlier, but the moment Harvey's hand starts for his metaphorical fishing rod's handle, someone else touches his free arm. Mike is there. The lights above are dim, mood lights, but his eyes are still vivid and blue beneath them. Harvey has never seen them anything but, even when Mike is clearly discomfited.
“I, uh, know you said we should have dinner later, Harvey,” Mike says, while fidgeting from foot-to-cheap-loafer-wearing-foot, “but I'm feeling kind of sick. I think I'll head home.”
“Is this your associate?” Sera asks shrilly.
Harvey can tell it's a way to regain his attention. He gives a curt nod and Mike winces. Before she can speak again, Harvey says, “I should see the kid home, Sera. I wouldn't feel right about letting him face New York streets alone, without a ride and sick as a dog.”
“I'm not-” Mike begins.
Sera ignores him to stare up into Harvey's eyes, her powdered face puffed like a poisonous fish. “You're such a good boss,” she eventually replies. “You'll call me later, won't you? I should probably be getting back to my friend, anyway.”
“Scout's honor.” Harvey smiles and crosses his heart. He thinks he sees Mike roll his eyes, but Sera, thankfully, does not. She quickly flags down a girl at an adjacent table and the two of them soon vanish into the crowd. Once they're out of sight, Harvey pivots to face Mike fully. “What's wrong?” he asks. Although it's a question, Mike can't worm out of this with a one word response. Harvey won't take any bullshit.
“I'm really not feeling well,” Mike says. He looks down at the marble floor. Harvey doesn't respond; he doesn't have to. Of his own accord, after a few seconds, Mike continues, “I-it's my grandmother. Grammy's sick, Harvey. I m-mean, I knew it would happen, logically, but I didn't think the doctors would tell me so soon that I might have to say goodbye. I can't.”
The word becomes a mantra. Mike is mumbling it to himself as his eyes get brighter and brighter beneath the wan lights above. That, added to how his voice is a mess of tremors...
Harvey swallows. His mouth tastes too dry, tastes like sawdust, and the fingers of one hand twitch at his side, the other's balled into a fist. “Let's get a drink,” he murmurs, grateful that he sounds calm. Mike startles at the abrupt suggestion, but allows Harvey to grasp him by the elbow and lead him to the bar. They take a seat, Harvey helping Mike up more than anything, and the older man gestures to one of the displayed bottles, as well as a line of shot-glasses. “Keep them coming,” he tells the bartender, who fills two and slides them to him. Harvey offers one to Mike and says gently, “Drink up, rookie.”
His associate nods, his usually ebullient face a mask of misery, eyes too shiny, but the burn of his own drink distracts Harvey. Perfect.
-
Skin. Soft skin, pulled tight over tapered hips.
His palms cradle the jut of them as he aligns his face with one pale cheek.
“Do it,” a voice moans, begs. He thinks he can come from the wretched, pleasured sound alone, but he can't place it.
He presses a wide smirk, a kiss, into the ivory canvas offered to him. He nips it repeatedly, light little bites, then snakes his tongue out to soothe the pain. He inches closer and closer to his lover's quivering, eager pucker. When he does lave his tongue in, a groan thrums through his body, vibrates into the body held against his, and they both ring out a requiem.
“Oh, oh, Harvey,” the voice keeps crying. Its owner pushes back into him, all soap and musk and human, a potent taste, a sensory stimulus, all around him. And yet he can't pinpoint any of it. It dulls as he thinks, nowhere near powerful enough, like water cradled in his palms, an inevitability.
All too soon, the fantasy fades and fizzles away.
-
The sun wakes Harvey up. It rises high in the sky and punches him in the eyelids. He screws his eyes shut all the more securely, in response, but his head continues to pound, a marching band's drum-line. It's when he tries to shield his face with an arm that he realizes there's a problem. The appendage refuses to budge, no matter how hard he tugs, and he has to look now. He doesn't expect what he finds.
Mike Ross is burrowed into his side, all but his naked legs hidden by Harvey's sheets, his head pillowed on Harvey's arm and his fair hair close enough to tickle Harvey's cheek. It smells faintly of Head&Shoulders, which is below Harvey's use, but it wouldn't be a bad smell if Harvey's heart wasn't beating so damn fast. He can't remember anything - nothing farther than their coup d'état of the bar last night.
“Mike,” Harvey calls, low and calm at first. He grows steadily more agitated when his associate merely makes a soft snuffling sound and nuzzles against him. Harvey jerks his arm out roughly, withholding a flinch at the numb, leaden weight of it.
Mike gasps awake. His hair is more of a mess than usual, tousled by enamored fingers that Harvey will not think about, and a fringe falls over his rounded eyes. They rove to case Harvey's bedroom, then ultimately stop on the man himself. “W-what is...?”
“We obviously had too much to drink,” Harvey says by way of answer, tone terse and cold enough that Mike shivers, though Harvey chooses to attribute that to their nudity. The blankets have fallen even lower down Mike's bare back. He can almost see the kid's ass and wonders if it's as pale as the rest of him, if it blushes the same way.
“Um, yeah,” Mike agrees, somewhat hesitant, before Harvey can dwell on that blasphemous thought for too long. He's a good employee like that.
Harvey hurries out of bed and drags the sheets with him, deaf to Mike's squeak. He's kind enough to throw them back, dead on Mike's head, once he finds his briefs, which have somehow made it up all the way to the ceiling fan. He'll have to think about that later, too.
“I'd lend you a suit,” he tells Mike instead, “but our coworkers might get suspicious. I know Donna would. Better you hurry and dress yourself in whatever you had, so we aren't any later. You looking like a slob is nothing new, anyway.”
Mike gets up with the blanket hugging him like a cape. “Okay,” he mumbles quietly. He starts searching for and picks up all of his discarded articles of clothing, but Harvey stops him when he reaches the door, presumably to change in the bathroom.
“Mike?” He ignores the way the kid turns back toward him hopefully. “You know that no one can know about this, right?”
“Yeah,” Mike says again, another defeated stab of a word. His shoulders, hidden by the blanket, are slumped so low, they're in danger of touching his chest. He's limping, too.
Harvey nods, satisfied, and lopes past the bedraggled young associate. He's going to put this behind him the way he does every other mistake.
-
Harvey and Mike are dressed and out the door, into Ray's waiting town-car, within the next fifteen minutes. They even have two of the leftover muffins a baker client of Harvey's had gifted him earlier in the week. Despite that, there's an accident, Ray gets caught in traffic and they are egregiously late to work.
Donna's text reaches Harvey when he's already on the sidewalk. She can probably see him through the glass windows of his office, though he can't crane his neck high enough to check. You're in trouble, it reads, accompanied by a facetiously winking emoticon. Harvey's hand tightens around his cellphone, but he really wants nothing more than to throw it.
“Hurry up,” he tells Mike, who has stumbled out of the town-car after him, clumsy as ever. At the snapped command, his associate straightens up to oblige, all round eyes and messy hair. Harvey whirls around on his heel and stalks into the building. The security personnel see the quiet fury he wears, tailored like his suit, and allow him to pass. Mike isn't half as lucky. By the time they let him go, the elevator doors have closed and formed another barrier between him and Harvey.
Upstairs, Harvey doesn't run to his office. He doesn't even power walk. His steps are merely a mite faster than usual. Yet Louis, who has apparently been waiting for him, smirks. It's not very pretty. Harvey takes the high road and ignores him, at least for the moment. Later, he'll make more fake wife jokes. Those never fail to have their desired affect on Louis.
“Jessica's in her office,” Donna informs him, the minute he reaches his destination. “She came by with what must have been an important case, then noticed you weren't here yet. I tried to stall her.”
Harvey sucks in a deep breath through flared nostrils and forces a smile. “I'll go talk to her. I'm sure it's fine.” And it is, but isn't.
When he finds Jessica, she's reclining in the chair behind her desk like a mafia don, a cup of tea cradled in both hands. Her frown is harsh over the brim, even as she takes a sip. “You know, Harvey, while there are certain privileges afforded to senior partners, a level of maturity that I fear may be beyond you is the cost,” she says.
“Jessica,” Harvey begins. He wants to protest the unfairness of this, of what amounted to a pop quiz to test his work ethic. However, he knows that would be immature, thus playing into Jessica's hands, so he only says, “I apologize. Something...personal, unfortunately, held me up this morning.”
Jessica arches an eyebrow at him, but her expression has thawed. She can read the authenticity of his words as easily as she can a contract drawn up by a first year associate. Instead of answering, she pulls a thick file out of a drawer at her desk and lets it drop atop the mahogany structure. Harvey's eyes dart between it and hers. He slowly accepts it and retreats.
“She spank you?” Donna asks upon his return.
Harvey tosses the file onto her desk. It lands with a loud thunk. “Give this to Mike,” he commands, before holing himself into his office.
Donna stares at his closed door for a moment, then mutters, “What crawled up his ass and died?” No one has an answer for her.
“H-hey, Donna,” Mike breathes, a few minutes later. He has run all the way to meet her, she can tell, because his hair is plastered with sweat to his forehead and his suit clings to his bowed form, bent at the waist as he pants. He fidgets under her stare and shakily points at the manilla folder her nails drum on. “Is that for me?”
“Yes,” she says, “and don't piddle on this one, puppy, because your master's in a foul mood.”
He smiles at her and accepts it, but she doesn't miss the way the expression crumples the instant he's turned. The glass around them is reflective, after all. Donna scrutinizes her own frown within it.
-
Hours later, Mike is still working, still pouring through the bulky records Harvey gave him, when all he really wants to do is throw up all over the pristine white pages. He grabs for his Red Bull to gulp back the acrid taste of bile, but his fingers jerk without his permission and he almost drops the can.
“Mike!” a voice says, suddenly behind him.
Mike jumps and his chair swivels. Rachel stands in front of it, her arms crossed, a stiletto-heeled foot tapping. “When did you get here? I didn't hear you,” he asks her, an accusing edge to the inquiry.
“I've been standing here for the last five minutes,” Rachel informs him, her full lips twisted into a frown. “If you haven't noticed that, Mr. ten discrepancies in five minutes, I'm reluctantly worried. You okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, fine,” Mike says. His arms span out to emphasize, but only end up knocking the first two sheets of paper on his towering stack to the ground. He groans and crouches to pick them up.
Rachel eyes him for a bit longer, then grabs his shoulder with one hand. He shakes it halfheartedly, but doesn't manage to extricate her. “You're coming to lunch with me and that's final,” she says.
“No,” Mike whines. He makes to snap up his folder and squishes it to his chest. “I'm almost done proofing the fifteenth page. I can't go now.”
“You look like the Grimm Reaper's sick, ugly cousin. Final means final, Mike.” Rachel's frown has morphed into a no-nonsense scowl. Her nails dig into his flesh through the flimsy material of his shirt.
Mike flinches and stammers, “O-okay, fine. Fine, I'll go. If this is how you get dates, Jesus...”
“Wouldn't you like to know?” Rachel asks with a grin. “Now come on, there's this amazing new, authentic bistro I want you to try.” Mike lets her help him pack his things up - and actually lets himself believe he can let her do anything she doesn't want to - before trudging through the firm exit after her, into the cool air of the city.
-
“Here, try some of my cassoulet,” Rachel says, a spoonful of some mushy brown thing aimed at Mike's mouth.
He looks from it to her eager face, then replies, “It, um, it looks like a chunk of something's kidney. I'll pass and wait for my coffee, if that's okay with you?”
Rachel's spoon dunks back into its bowl and splashes broth over the edge. She glares at Mike, ignoring the mess. “You know what your problem is, Ross? No manners. A girl takes you out to lunch, on her-” Here, she dutifully turns a deaf ear to his willingness to pay for the meal, “-and you don't even bother to at least sample a few things! Wimp!”
“Here is your coffee, monsieur,” a waitress interrupts. Mike glances up at her and mouths a thank you, just as she trips over an upraised edge of the plush carpet below and the tray flies out of her hands. The paper coffee cup hits Mike in the face, its contents rain over him and drench mostly the torso of his shirt, before it lands on the ground near the tray. “My goodness!” the waitress exclaims.
“Damn, Mike,” a less eloquent Rachel adds, as Mike hisses and rubs at his hot cheeks. The waitress slowly moves forward and unfolds one of the cloth napkins on the table, but Rachel takes it from her and says, “It's okay, I'll handle this. Can you get him a bowl of cold water?”
“Oui,” the waitress agrees. She bustles off. Rachel stands and runs to Mike's side of the booth.
“I'm okay,” he tells her, though his face and eyes continue to sting. Rachel just huffs and leans down in front of him, using the towel to first pat his face dry, then dab at his shirt. The brown will probably never come out, Mike thinks sadly, but when it's no longer sopping wet, he gently pushes Rachel's hands aside and starts unbuttoning his top. “Guess the food's on me now, huh?” he jokes, which manages to crack a smile out of Rachel's stoic mask.
She inhales when she sees his flushed skin, however. “Damn, Mike,” she says again, but before she can finish her snarky remark, her jaw falls open.
“What is it, Rach?” Mike asks her, unable to get a good look himself. “It's not a third degree burn, is it? I want to say it doesn't feel like a third degree burn, but it kinda sorta does.”
“No, you wimp,” Rachel tries to whisper. Instead, it sounds like a whip snap in the silence, so loud that Mike is glad there's no one else in the restaurant to hear her new favorite pet-name for him. She jabs a nail into the side column of his neck. “What attacked you last night, eh, Mr. Ross? A bear? Or is a rhino the only thing horny enough to make a mess like that?”
“What are you...?” Mike finds his reflection in a silver napkin dispenser and trails off. There's a discoloration on his throat - several, actually - that's too dark, at a heady bluish purple, to attribute to a coffee burn. He touches it gingerly with the tip of one finger and winces at the ache, feeling a slightly raised contusion. “T-that's a hickey,” he gasps.
“Yes, Sherlock, I know,” Rachel replies. “What I'm wondering is, whose hickey is that? Spare me no details. I told you how I lost my virginity, remember?”
“That's not the same thing,” Mike says. He's blushing so intensely now that the headache that has been assaulting him since morning feels like a fever, strumming beneath his temples. The stubborn set of Rachel's mouth tells him she won't help matters. “I really can't talk about it,” he persists.
“Was it Donna?” Rachel inquires, with a waggle of her eyebrows. Mike viscerally sinks back into his chair and heaves another deep breath. Rachel laughs at the reaction, but doesn't give up. “A client? Are you back together with Jenny? You and Trevor have a different kind of fight?”
“No, no, and no,” Mike says. He drops his head into his hands to keep from grimacing at her.
Rachel curls a dark strand of hair around one finger and chews on her lower lip. “Is it...Harvey?” she eventually asks. “I have seen him stare at your ass a few times, but no...it can't be, can it?”
Mike's chair scrapes back and almost topples. He stares at his friend with huge, horrified eyes, his skin pale again. “Rachel, please, please let this go,” he begs her.
“It was Harvey,” she exhales in reply. Mike's head falls back into the cradle of his palms and his whole body droops in defeat. “I-I'm sorry, Mike,” Rachel says, after regarding him for a moment. The words are lodged in her throat, thick with embarrassment and regret, but she forces them out into the open. “I shouldn't have pushed. We don't have to talk about it.”
Mike audibly swallows a couple of times and, when he looks back up at her, his eyes are red-rimmed from something other than misplaced coffee. “He doesn't want to. Talk about it, that is. Ever. He's...disgusted.”
“Harvey?” Rachel asks, quieter now. Mike nods miserably. “Oh, sweetie, what happened? You can tell me if you want?”
So Mike does. He talks and she nods along, going so far as to reach out and hold his hand. Finally, she declares, “Well, it's official, Harvey Specter is a dick,” and Mike bursts out laughing.
“I don't think the rest of New York's female population would agree,” he says, once the balloon of mirth in his chest has withered away to nothingness again. Rachel shrugs, but her answer is cut off by the waitress' hasty return. They both eye her heavily laden tray with barely concealed worry. “Um, hi.”
“I am so sorry, monsieur,” she says again, inclining her head. She sets down the bowl of water Rachel had requested, more towels, new cups of coffee and sandwiches. “Paninis and drinks on ze house.”
“Oh, uh, thank you,” Mike says. The waitress bows again and runs off.
Rachel picks one of the panini platters up, takes a bite and promptly moans. “Well played, Ross, well played.” When Mike chuckles again, she grins and tacks on, “See, this wasn't so bad, was it? Batgirl and Robin do just fine without Batman's supervision.”
Mike grins, too. “Aside from a couple of bumps, actually, no. Thanks, Rach. Although, I prefer Nightwing.”
Rachel throws a bread-roll at him.
-
Back at the office, Donna stares at Harvey's shut door. It stares back, before the shade at the small window flares out, incited by a sudden gust of wind.
“Ha,” Donna says, under her breath, “you blinked. I win.”
With that, she stands and starts for the door. Without knocking, she opens it. Harvey, who is combing through something on his desk, looks up. “Is there an emergency with a client?”
“No, there's an emergency with me,” Donna answers, her expression straight and serious.
“What? Donna, I'm not in the mood for-” Harvey starts to say, but Donna stops at his desk and slams her palms down on it, jarringly loud.
“No, I am not in the mood for your games, Harvey Specter. Whatever you're upset about, I don't care,” Donna snaps. “You are going to get your ass out of the office, feed it and come back with a cheerier disposition if it's the last thing you do, or I will end you myself.”
Harvey opens his mouth, then closes it again, a tic in his jaw. He knows she'll stay true to her threat. If he doesn't leave now, she'll reschedule all off his meetings to either the ass-crack of dawn or post-midnight, whatever is most troubling for him, till he's nothing more than a shell of the closer he currently is. “I...am feeling somewhat peckish,” he reluctantly acquiesces.
Donna smiles at him, all triumph and hundred dollar lipgloss. “And, while you're out, bring me back a cappuccino? One shot of chocolate, not too much foam, because I'm watching my figure.”
Harvey doesn't agree. He also doesn't disagree. What he does do, however, is prowl out of the room to the heart of the firm, where all the associates are. He's not glad that Donna didn't follow, but he's decidedly not sad, either. He's complex like that.
“Mike,” he calls, when his associate's cubicle is within viewing range.
Kyle Durant ambles out from the box beside it and informs him, “Ross is gone, Harvey. Zane came by to see him and, of course, he ran out at the first sign of a pretty face. Maybe I could be of service?”
“You?” Harvey analyzes Kyle till he squirms, then snarls, “It's Mr. Specter to you, Durant. And I'm in no need of help.” He lashes around and stalks back the way he came, leaving the stunned associate behind him.
Donna blinks at the clang of the door that impacts behind Harvey upon his entrance. “You're back already? I know the line at my favorite café winds around the block, at the very least.”
“Just order something for us both,” Harvey barks. “And please, give me some of your Advil. I don't want to go out right now.”
“O-kay,” Donna answers bemusedly. She retrieves her painkiller bottle, allows a few to pop into Harvey's waiting grasp, and watches him escape back into his office. “Well, Master Dracula won't be ditching the coffin anytime soon,” she mutters to herself, shaking her fiery head.
-
It isn't much later that Rachel and Mike return to Pearson Harman, doggie bags of more free food in tow.
“Thanks again, Rachel,” Mike says once they're inside the elevators, a huge smile directed to his friend, who laughs.
“Thank you for that kicked puppy face of yours. That poor waitress was eating out of your hand and don't even get me started on the manager,” Rachel replies, but when Mike's lips twitch and tuck down, she stops giggling. “What's up?”
Mike kicks lightly at the bolted metal doors. “Nothing. Just, really, thanks. I've been feeling pretty crappy all morning.”
“Hey, it's okay,” Rachel says. She butts her shoulders with him comfortingly. “What are girlfriends for, anyway? And by girlfriend I mean the Pretty Little Liars sleepovers and pillow-fights kind, not the Meredith and Derek Gray's Anatomy love affair, fyi.”
“Yes, Rachel, I know.” Mike rolls his eyes and bumps back against her. “Why would I want a girlfriend who makes such shameful TV references, anyway? It appalls my deep geek heart.”
Rachel slaps his arm, then uses the leverage to push Mike back into the stall once the elevator opens, so she's out first. She sticks her tongue out at him. “You deserved that, Ross. That was a low blow.”
By the time Mike follows her out, she has already flitted into her office. Mike sulks at no one in particular for a while, before remembering his waiting and sadly unfinished paperwork. He ducks into his cubicle and remains there till the sky begins to dim outside. His efforts are rewarded by a signed, sealed and dated final packet to deliver to his boss.
Harvey, he finds, has been similarly locked up for the day. Mike can see him scowling at a baseball through the glass walls partitioning his office, obviously in no better a mood than he'd been in the morning. Donna, too, makes a face at him.
“Can you please give this to him?” Mike asks her, proffering the file. Donna shakes her head without bothering to speak and he pouts, widening his eyes a bit. “Please, Donna? Please? He'll literally eat me alive if I walk through that door right now!”
Donna meets his gaze, an eyebrow arched. “Do I look like a slave to you, rookie? Am I here to run at your beck and call?” Mike shakes his head furiously. “Good, because I'm not, so scurry along and give Daddy his toys.”
“O-okay,” Mike says, his bottom lip still jutting out. With the folder pressed to his chest, separated by Tom Ford from his rapidly beating heart, he stops at the threshold of Harvey's office and raises a fist to knock.
“Would you quit stalling?” Harvey demands from within. “You've never been anything but rude when it came to knocking before, kid.” Mike staggers to comply and shuts the door behind him. He hands the file to Harvey and his boss starts leafing through it, but the instant Mike thinks it's safe to escape, Harvey breaks the quiet again. “You did good work here.”
“Thanks, Harvey,” Mike whispers. The words, so few, wisp out on an elated breath. Harvey isn't one to dole out praise very often and it's meaningful when he does.
His boss raises a finger. “I wasn't done yet, Mike. I was going to say, next time, perhaps if you don't waste hours you're getting paid for fraternizing, you'll do even better. It's a good thing the weekend is here. Maybe you can clean up your act sometime in between oversleeping and loafing around?”
“I, uh, I...” Mike works his jaw, but can't seem to decide on a response. He soon settles on a curt nod and runs out of the room.
Donna's eyes trail him till he disappears, then turn disapprovingly toward Harvey. “Did you have to break the puppy's widdle heart?”
“Go home, Donna,” is the man's only recourse. She shrugs and stands up. For now, she'll let him throw his tantrum. Tomorrow waits for no man, best damn closer in the city or not, and neither does Donna's curiosity.
-
Hot water from his sun-shaped cloudburst shower-head beats against Harvey's back, once he's safely enclosed in his condo. He cards his hands through his wet hair with a content sigh. No one is happier about the work day's end than him.
It's barely nine o'clock when Harvey falls into bed, but sleep accepts him with open arms the second he does.
-
Warm breaths puff across Harvey's belly. He's standing, but a fair head of hair is bowed at the knees before him. “Mi-?” he tries to say.
A sweet smile is promptly wrapped around his cock, pink lips stretched by merriment. Harvey moans at the combined effect of the warm hand that follows, massaging his balls, while a talented tongue paints him root to tip in saliva, prodding at his slit. Soft hair tickles his abs as his lover's head bobs.
Harvey burrows his fingers into the spiky locks and throws his head back. The hot mouth around him constricts in a swallow. “Ugh, I'm gonna-”
His thousand dollar, thousand thread count Egyptian cotton sheets are a ruined, sticky mess when he wakes. Harvey slaps them aside angrily.
-
The next night, there's a beautiful woman on his arm, Ray has dropped him off in front of the most chic restaurant in the city, and Harvey is well on his way to being cured.
“You know, I never thought you'd call me,” a newly divorced Lauren, formerly Judge Pearl's wife, says. She's wearing a sleek black dress that hugs her number eight figure and contrasts beautifully with her date's navy pinstripe suit.
Harvey shoots a charming smirk at her. “Is it so strange for me to want to spend time with a gorgeous woman?” he asks.
“I suppose not,” Lauren laughs. She and Harvey both nod at a waiter, who leads them into the foray of the restaurant, to a booth of their own. “Thank you,” she adds, when Harvey holds her chair out for her.
He smiles, the waiter returns with a complimentary sample of Armand de Brignac champagne to thank Harvey for his derailment of a suit against the establishment, and the night starts off great. They laugh over bread-sticks and pasta, discuss work and leisure. It's only half an hour in, when they start to debate their differing opinions of Norman Rockwell's The Law Student, that things go straight to hell.
“The brush strokes denote the angst beneath his wry smile,” Lauren argues. She traces a long, opalescent nail over the burgundy tablecloth, from the heart of a silk napkin swan to the artful vase at the center of a table. “You aren't an art connoisseur so you don't notice the subtle toning.”
“Ah, but I was a law student,” Harvey counters, smirking, “and while we studied hard, the Argonaut boys and I can tell you how much fun we had. Once, while the dean was visiting, we dressed the statue...”
Lauren nods, even laughs at the right points, but Harvey prides his ability to read people. Mike nods along to things Harvey says, yet his is an excited nod, like that of a puppy who is waiting to be asked a trick and knows he'll eventually receive a treat for it. When Mike nods, Harvey can almost see the instant that everything clicks for him. Lauren hums a yes and it's nothing more than manners.
He's hardly surprised when she cuts him off to ask, “So...you haven't seen the judge again, have you? D-Donald?”
Harvey allows his mouth to quirk. “No. The once was enough for him, I suppose. He was never the judge on any of my court appearances again.” He doesn't mention that he wanted to push for Donald Pearl never to oversee a court again. That won't make for polite dinner conversation.
“Ah, of course, that's good,” Lauren replies, unable to look away from the swirling pattern on the vase. She trails off into an inattentive silence. Harvey can't, for the life of him, seem to hold her gaze again. He can't win the way he always effortlessly does.
Then a flash of gold catches his eyes. Before he knows what he's doing, Harvey's legs have swung out of his booth, his chair has screeched back, and he has a death grip on the narrow shoulder of a waiter. “U-um, can I help you, sir?” a kid younger than Mike inquires. He has hair of a slightly lighter blond shade and eyes dark like Harvey's, rather than as radiant as the associate's.
“A glass of water,” Harvey answers lamely. “My throat is dry.”
The waiter nods and hurries off. Lauren is standing when Harvey turns back toward the table. “It's getting late,” she murmurs, smiling apologetically. “I really should be getting home. My roommate will wait up.”
“...Fine.” Harvey steps around her to claim his seat again. “At least let my driver accompany you?” he prompts, but otherwise does nothing to halt his date.
“No, I'll take a cab,” Lauren says. She starts the path to leave the restaurant, but pauses and returns to stand over Harvey, who frowns up at her. “I am sorry. I'm a little stuck on someone, I guess.”
“That's okay,” Harvey replies, more genuinely than before.
“Thank you, but...Harvey, if you are, too, it's okay. Legendary lawyer or not, you're still human.” With a final smile, she flounces off. He doesn't even have time for a witty response.
That's what's most upsetting, Harvey tells himself. It's fine if a date falls apart. That happens to everyone, even the best, at some point. For Lauren to think he is like her, on the other hand, that he's pining the way she is, is the farthest thing from fine. Harvey drowns himself in the remaining champagne.
Once he's done with it and orders more, stronger alcohol, a new opportunity presents itself. The blond waiter from earlier offers his purchase to him. “Here, sir.” When Harvey stands to his full height and smirks, the waiter continues, “Or, uh, would you rather take this to go?”
“I'd rather take you to go,” Harvey says.
Although the young man flushes an acute tint of pink that Harvey rather enjoys, he doesn't decline. “My name is Frankie,” he introduces, instead.
Harvey grins all the wider, puts an arm around Frankie's back, and leads him into the town-car. Later that night, Frankie will limp out of his bed and gush about the great time he had. Harvey, however, will nod courteously, leer gone, as he sees the kid out of his condo. Then, dissatisfied, he'll fall asleep.
-
To Be Continued!
-
Title: The Haunting of Harvey Specter
Disclaimer: I,
ladyknightanka, do not own Suits. If I did, we would have more fangirl moments, less awkward romances. Please don't replicate my silly work without permission. Pop-culture references aren't mine.
Warnings: NC-17 for graphic sex that includes wet dreams, light bondage, rimming, blow-jobs, fingering and so on, coarse language, alcohol use, mentions of Harvey and Mike with others, mild angst, jealousy and meanness from relationship denial, romantic comedy type cliches, descriptions of delicious foods that will make you hungry, some spoilers, etc. So fluffy, you'll want to die.
Other Notes: ~12k of Harvey/Mike and our favorite matchmaking women. Originally posted here.
Summary: The awkward morning after a drunken one night stand, Harvey and Mike agree never to discuss their relationship again, but memories of that otherwise foggy affair begin to assail Harvey. How can he continue seeing his clumsy associate in a platonic light when he dreams of making him scream with pleasure every time he falls asleep? Matchmaking women and the green-eyed monster aren't making things any easier.
-
Part One: I, Incubus
-
Harvey Specter leans against a conference room wall. He's spectating again. He has to admit, Mike can put on quite the show when he wants to.
Mike sits at the long table in the heart of the room, across from two men, one a rival lawyer. Pearson Hardman's newest client stands beside the young associate, pacing too much to settle down. All eyes are on Mike as he slides a thick packet of papers over to opposing counsel.
“What is this?” the lawyer asks, after a cursory glance through it. His finger, its nail finely manicured and almost feminine, taps against the first sheet. All the others had been provided to both parties beforehand. The first, though, is plain and lined, out of any old notebook, and Mike's childish scrawl is stark on it. It's new.
Harvey refrains from rolling his eyes. He wishes the kid had taken some of the expensive stationary down in the storage room, or that Mike had at least mitigated his use of colorful pens and markers, because he knows no one will take him seriously like this. If he didn't see for himself how clever Mike could be, he certainly wouldn't think much of the unruly mop of blond hair, the cheap suit on a stick figure or the big blue eyes. Opposing counsel had laughed when Harvey first introduced Mike as the handler for this case - in fact, smug, patronizing lines still bracket the man's upturned lips.
“My calculations.” Mike smiles - no, smirks, an expression taken straight from Harvey's arsenal, and suddenly Harvey doesn't have to worry anymore. The cake has been baked, cut and is ready to serve. Mike sucks in a deep breath and Harvey allows himself to cant forward a step, profoundly interested in the spectacle. “You see, Mr. Sovereign, it's through use of my client's product that yours gained leverage on the market. If you split your business now and go against the initially drawn contract, both of you will suffer immense loss, you more than my client. About seventy percent of all sales will be negated, so if your gross annual income is a hundred million even, you'll make less than twenty four.”
Mike directs his entire pitch to the opposing client, not counsel, and the effect is evident. Mr. Sovereign blanches whiter than the diamonds on his ring, while his lawyer's jaw and many jowls quiver. “W-what?”
“I'm good with numbers,” Mike says. He folds his hands together and beams like an angelic kindergartener. Harvey distantly wonders whether that makes him the proud teacher or the parent, but he's distracted by their own client flitting around in an attempt to express gratitude to them both simultaneously.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Mr. Garland says, as if he's praying and Pearson Hardman is a church.
Mike stands up and accepts a handshake that becomes an awkward, exuberant half-hug, but doesn't reply. Although Harvey shoots his associate a look, he's all smiles when he tells their client, “It was our pleasure, Steven, a good experience for my little protege.”
“Um, yeah,” Mike says, still short of the victory high Harvey had expected of him. It doesn't matter, anyway. Everything is soon finalized and they're released from the business that had whiled away their hours for the last two weeks, at least a couple million dollars richer.
Jessica will be pleased, Louis will envy the way Louis does best, and honestly, Harvey is quite chuffed by his puppy's success himself. As they walk out of the conference room, he drapes an arm over Mike's narrow shoulders. “C'mon, kid, let me take you out for a drink.”
“Er,” Mike begins, reluctant for a reason Harvey doesn't know.
Harvey gives him a quick squeeze and interrupts, “One time offer: dinner is included.”
Mike's blue eyes flash up to his face and stare, though his gait is the same. Finally, he nods. “Sure, old man. Just don't order anything that gives you heartburn.”
Harvey extricates himself with a push to Mike's arm and a laugh. Slowly but surely, beneath Harvey's expert hands, the kid is learning. Now, if only he'd work on his gloating.
-
An hour later, Harvey is capitalizing on their resounding triumph near a pretty redhead dressed for success. “The way my heart swelled, Sera, when my young associate reeled in the catch... Ah, well, it's indescribable,” he says, a bit huskier than normal. She shivers like she feels his breath fan across her face. “Reminds me of my youth.”
“Aw, Mr. Specter, you aren't old at all,” she exclaims, her hand poised on his bicep. She leans forward and the bust-line of her dress wriggles down that much farther. His eyes flick to it briefly, but his mother taught him to be a gentleman, so they return to her thickly glossed lips. “I can tell you're a winner.”
She's writhing on the line, same as Mike had opposing counsel earlier, but the moment Harvey's hand starts for his metaphorical fishing rod's handle, someone else touches his free arm. Mike is there. The lights above are dim, mood lights, but his eyes are still vivid and blue beneath them. Harvey has never seen them anything but, even when Mike is clearly discomfited.
“I, uh, know you said we should have dinner later, Harvey,” Mike says, while fidgeting from foot-to-cheap-loafer-wearing-foot, “but I'm feeling kind of sick. I think I'll head home.”
“Is this your associate?” Sera asks shrilly.
Harvey can tell it's a way to regain his attention. He gives a curt nod and Mike winces. Before she can speak again, Harvey says, “I should see the kid home, Sera. I wouldn't feel right about letting him face New York streets alone, without a ride and sick as a dog.”
“I'm not-” Mike begins.
Sera ignores him to stare up into Harvey's eyes, her powdered face puffed like a poisonous fish. “You're such a good boss,” she eventually replies. “You'll call me later, won't you? I should probably be getting back to my friend, anyway.”
“Scout's honor.” Harvey smiles and crosses his heart. He thinks he sees Mike roll his eyes, but Sera, thankfully, does not. She quickly flags down a girl at an adjacent table and the two of them soon vanish into the crowd. Once they're out of sight, Harvey pivots to face Mike fully. “What's wrong?” he asks. Although it's a question, Mike can't worm out of this with a one word response. Harvey won't take any bullshit.
“I'm really not feeling well,” Mike says. He looks down at the marble floor. Harvey doesn't respond; he doesn't have to. Of his own accord, after a few seconds, Mike continues, “I-it's my grandmother. Grammy's sick, Harvey. I m-mean, I knew it would happen, logically, but I didn't think the doctors would tell me so soon that I might have to say goodbye. I can't.”
The word becomes a mantra. Mike is mumbling it to himself as his eyes get brighter and brighter beneath the wan lights above. That, added to how his voice is a mess of tremors...
Harvey swallows. His mouth tastes too dry, tastes like sawdust, and the fingers of one hand twitch at his side, the other's balled into a fist. “Let's get a drink,” he murmurs, grateful that he sounds calm. Mike startles at the abrupt suggestion, but allows Harvey to grasp him by the elbow and lead him to the bar. They take a seat, Harvey helping Mike up more than anything, and the older man gestures to one of the displayed bottles, as well as a line of shot-glasses. “Keep them coming,” he tells the bartender, who fills two and slides them to him. Harvey offers one to Mike and says gently, “Drink up, rookie.”
His associate nods, his usually ebullient face a mask of misery, eyes too shiny, but the burn of his own drink distracts Harvey. Perfect.
-
Skin. Soft skin, pulled tight over tapered hips.
His palms cradle the jut of them as he aligns his face with one pale cheek.
“Do it,” a voice moans, begs. He thinks he can come from the wretched, pleasured sound alone, but he can't place it.
He presses a wide smirk, a kiss, into the ivory canvas offered to him. He nips it repeatedly, light little bites, then snakes his tongue out to soothe the pain. He inches closer and closer to his lover's quivering, eager pucker. When he does lave his tongue in, a groan thrums through his body, vibrates into the body held against his, and they both ring out a requiem.
“Oh, oh, Harvey,” the voice keeps crying. Its owner pushes back into him, all soap and musk and human, a potent taste, a sensory stimulus, all around him. And yet he can't pinpoint any of it. It dulls as he thinks, nowhere near powerful enough, like water cradled in his palms, an inevitability.
All too soon, the fantasy fades and fizzles away.
-
The sun wakes Harvey up. It rises high in the sky and punches him in the eyelids. He screws his eyes shut all the more securely, in response, but his head continues to pound, a marching band's drum-line. It's when he tries to shield his face with an arm that he realizes there's a problem. The appendage refuses to budge, no matter how hard he tugs, and he has to look now. He doesn't expect what he finds.
Mike Ross is burrowed into his side, all but his naked legs hidden by Harvey's sheets, his head pillowed on Harvey's arm and his fair hair close enough to tickle Harvey's cheek. It smells faintly of Head&Shoulders, which is below Harvey's use, but it wouldn't be a bad smell if Harvey's heart wasn't beating so damn fast. He can't remember anything - nothing farther than their coup d'état of the bar last night.
“Mike,” Harvey calls, low and calm at first. He grows steadily more agitated when his associate merely makes a soft snuffling sound and nuzzles against him. Harvey jerks his arm out roughly, withholding a flinch at the numb, leaden weight of it.
Mike gasps awake. His hair is more of a mess than usual, tousled by enamored fingers that Harvey will not think about, and a fringe falls over his rounded eyes. They rove to case Harvey's bedroom, then ultimately stop on the man himself. “W-what is...?”
“We obviously had too much to drink,” Harvey says by way of answer, tone terse and cold enough that Mike shivers, though Harvey chooses to attribute that to their nudity. The blankets have fallen even lower down Mike's bare back. He can almost see the kid's ass and wonders if it's as pale as the rest of him, if it blushes the same way.
“Um, yeah,” Mike agrees, somewhat hesitant, before Harvey can dwell on that blasphemous thought for too long. He's a good employee like that.
Harvey hurries out of bed and drags the sheets with him, deaf to Mike's squeak. He's kind enough to throw them back, dead on Mike's head, once he finds his briefs, which have somehow made it up all the way to the ceiling fan. He'll have to think about that later, too.
“I'd lend you a suit,” he tells Mike instead, “but our coworkers might get suspicious. I know Donna would. Better you hurry and dress yourself in whatever you had, so we aren't any later. You looking like a slob is nothing new, anyway.”
Mike gets up with the blanket hugging him like a cape. “Okay,” he mumbles quietly. He starts searching for and picks up all of his discarded articles of clothing, but Harvey stops him when he reaches the door, presumably to change in the bathroom.
“Mike?” He ignores the way the kid turns back toward him hopefully. “You know that no one can know about this, right?”
“Yeah,” Mike says again, another defeated stab of a word. His shoulders, hidden by the blanket, are slumped so low, they're in danger of touching his chest. He's limping, too.
Harvey nods, satisfied, and lopes past the bedraggled young associate. He's going to put this behind him the way he does every other mistake.
-
Harvey and Mike are dressed and out the door, into Ray's waiting town-car, within the next fifteen minutes. They even have two of the leftover muffins a baker client of Harvey's had gifted him earlier in the week. Despite that, there's an accident, Ray gets caught in traffic and they are egregiously late to work.
Donna's text reaches Harvey when he's already on the sidewalk. She can probably see him through the glass windows of his office, though he can't crane his neck high enough to check. You're in trouble, it reads, accompanied by a facetiously winking emoticon. Harvey's hand tightens around his cellphone, but he really wants nothing more than to throw it.
“Hurry up,” he tells Mike, who has stumbled out of the town-car after him, clumsy as ever. At the snapped command, his associate straightens up to oblige, all round eyes and messy hair. Harvey whirls around on his heel and stalks into the building. The security personnel see the quiet fury he wears, tailored like his suit, and allow him to pass. Mike isn't half as lucky. By the time they let him go, the elevator doors have closed and formed another barrier between him and Harvey.
Upstairs, Harvey doesn't run to his office. He doesn't even power walk. His steps are merely a mite faster than usual. Yet Louis, who has apparently been waiting for him, smirks. It's not very pretty. Harvey takes the high road and ignores him, at least for the moment. Later, he'll make more fake wife jokes. Those never fail to have their desired affect on Louis.
“Jessica's in her office,” Donna informs him, the minute he reaches his destination. “She came by with what must have been an important case, then noticed you weren't here yet. I tried to stall her.”
Harvey sucks in a deep breath through flared nostrils and forces a smile. “I'll go talk to her. I'm sure it's fine.” And it is, but isn't.
When he finds Jessica, she's reclining in the chair behind her desk like a mafia don, a cup of tea cradled in both hands. Her frown is harsh over the brim, even as she takes a sip. “You know, Harvey, while there are certain privileges afforded to senior partners, a level of maturity that I fear may be beyond you is the cost,” she says.
“Jessica,” Harvey begins. He wants to protest the unfairness of this, of what amounted to a pop quiz to test his work ethic. However, he knows that would be immature, thus playing into Jessica's hands, so he only says, “I apologize. Something...personal, unfortunately, held me up this morning.”
Jessica arches an eyebrow at him, but her expression has thawed. She can read the authenticity of his words as easily as she can a contract drawn up by a first year associate. Instead of answering, she pulls a thick file out of a drawer at her desk and lets it drop atop the mahogany structure. Harvey's eyes dart between it and hers. He slowly accepts it and retreats.
“She spank you?” Donna asks upon his return.
Harvey tosses the file onto her desk. It lands with a loud thunk. “Give this to Mike,” he commands, before holing himself into his office.
Donna stares at his closed door for a moment, then mutters, “What crawled up his ass and died?” No one has an answer for her.
“H-hey, Donna,” Mike breathes, a few minutes later. He has run all the way to meet her, she can tell, because his hair is plastered with sweat to his forehead and his suit clings to his bowed form, bent at the waist as he pants. He fidgets under her stare and shakily points at the manilla folder her nails drum on. “Is that for me?”
“Yes,” she says, “and don't piddle on this one, puppy, because your master's in a foul mood.”
He smiles at her and accepts it, but she doesn't miss the way the expression crumples the instant he's turned. The glass around them is reflective, after all. Donna scrutinizes her own frown within it.
-
Hours later, Mike is still working, still pouring through the bulky records Harvey gave him, when all he really wants to do is throw up all over the pristine white pages. He grabs for his Red Bull to gulp back the acrid taste of bile, but his fingers jerk without his permission and he almost drops the can.
“Mike!” a voice says, suddenly behind him.
Mike jumps and his chair swivels. Rachel stands in front of it, her arms crossed, a stiletto-heeled foot tapping. “When did you get here? I didn't hear you,” he asks her, an accusing edge to the inquiry.
“I've been standing here for the last five minutes,” Rachel informs him, her full lips twisted into a frown. “If you haven't noticed that, Mr. ten discrepancies in five minutes, I'm reluctantly worried. You okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, fine,” Mike says. His arms span out to emphasize, but only end up knocking the first two sheets of paper on his towering stack to the ground. He groans and crouches to pick them up.
Rachel eyes him for a bit longer, then grabs his shoulder with one hand. He shakes it halfheartedly, but doesn't manage to extricate her. “You're coming to lunch with me and that's final,” she says.
“No,” Mike whines. He makes to snap up his folder and squishes it to his chest. “I'm almost done proofing the fifteenth page. I can't go now.”
“You look like the Grimm Reaper's sick, ugly cousin. Final means final, Mike.” Rachel's frown has morphed into a no-nonsense scowl. Her nails dig into his flesh through the flimsy material of his shirt.
Mike flinches and stammers, “O-okay, fine. Fine, I'll go. If this is how you get dates, Jesus...”
“Wouldn't you like to know?” Rachel asks with a grin. “Now come on, there's this amazing new, authentic bistro I want you to try.” Mike lets her help him pack his things up - and actually lets himself believe he can let her do anything she doesn't want to - before trudging through the firm exit after her, into the cool air of the city.
-
“Here, try some of my cassoulet,” Rachel says, a spoonful of some mushy brown thing aimed at Mike's mouth.
He looks from it to her eager face, then replies, “It, um, it looks like a chunk of something's kidney. I'll pass and wait for my coffee, if that's okay with you?”
Rachel's spoon dunks back into its bowl and splashes broth over the edge. She glares at Mike, ignoring the mess. “You know what your problem is, Ross? No manners. A girl takes you out to lunch, on her-” Here, she dutifully turns a deaf ear to his willingness to pay for the meal, “-and you don't even bother to at least sample a few things! Wimp!”
“Here is your coffee, monsieur,” a waitress interrupts. Mike glances up at her and mouths a thank you, just as she trips over an upraised edge of the plush carpet below and the tray flies out of her hands. The paper coffee cup hits Mike in the face, its contents rain over him and drench mostly the torso of his shirt, before it lands on the ground near the tray. “My goodness!” the waitress exclaims.
“Damn, Mike,” a less eloquent Rachel adds, as Mike hisses and rubs at his hot cheeks. The waitress slowly moves forward and unfolds one of the cloth napkins on the table, but Rachel takes it from her and says, “It's okay, I'll handle this. Can you get him a bowl of cold water?”
“Oui,” the waitress agrees. She bustles off. Rachel stands and runs to Mike's side of the booth.
“I'm okay,” he tells her, though his face and eyes continue to sting. Rachel just huffs and leans down in front of him, using the towel to first pat his face dry, then dab at his shirt. The brown will probably never come out, Mike thinks sadly, but when it's no longer sopping wet, he gently pushes Rachel's hands aside and starts unbuttoning his top. “Guess the food's on me now, huh?” he jokes, which manages to crack a smile out of Rachel's stoic mask.
She inhales when she sees his flushed skin, however. “Damn, Mike,” she says again, but before she can finish her snarky remark, her jaw falls open.
“What is it, Rach?” Mike asks her, unable to get a good look himself. “It's not a third degree burn, is it? I want to say it doesn't feel like a third degree burn, but it kinda sorta does.”
“No, you wimp,” Rachel tries to whisper. Instead, it sounds like a whip snap in the silence, so loud that Mike is glad there's no one else in the restaurant to hear her new favorite pet-name for him. She jabs a nail into the side column of his neck. “What attacked you last night, eh, Mr. Ross? A bear? Or is a rhino the only thing horny enough to make a mess like that?”
“What are you...?” Mike finds his reflection in a silver napkin dispenser and trails off. There's a discoloration on his throat - several, actually - that's too dark, at a heady bluish purple, to attribute to a coffee burn. He touches it gingerly with the tip of one finger and winces at the ache, feeling a slightly raised contusion. “T-that's a hickey,” he gasps.
“Yes, Sherlock, I know,” Rachel replies. “What I'm wondering is, whose hickey is that? Spare me no details. I told you how I lost my virginity, remember?”
“That's not the same thing,” Mike says. He's blushing so intensely now that the headache that has been assaulting him since morning feels like a fever, strumming beneath his temples. The stubborn set of Rachel's mouth tells him she won't help matters. “I really can't talk about it,” he persists.
“Was it Donna?” Rachel inquires, with a waggle of her eyebrows. Mike viscerally sinks back into his chair and heaves another deep breath. Rachel laughs at the reaction, but doesn't give up. “A client? Are you back together with Jenny? You and Trevor have a different kind of fight?”
“No, no, and no,” Mike says. He drops his head into his hands to keep from grimacing at her.
Rachel curls a dark strand of hair around one finger and chews on her lower lip. “Is it...Harvey?” she eventually asks. “I have seen him stare at your ass a few times, but no...it can't be, can it?”
Mike's chair scrapes back and almost topples. He stares at his friend with huge, horrified eyes, his skin pale again. “Rachel, please, please let this go,” he begs her.
“It was Harvey,” she exhales in reply. Mike's head falls back into the cradle of his palms and his whole body droops in defeat. “I-I'm sorry, Mike,” Rachel says, after regarding him for a moment. The words are lodged in her throat, thick with embarrassment and regret, but she forces them out into the open. “I shouldn't have pushed. We don't have to talk about it.”
Mike audibly swallows a couple of times and, when he looks back up at her, his eyes are red-rimmed from something other than misplaced coffee. “He doesn't want to. Talk about it, that is. Ever. He's...disgusted.”
“Harvey?” Rachel asks, quieter now. Mike nods miserably. “Oh, sweetie, what happened? You can tell me if you want?”
So Mike does. He talks and she nods along, going so far as to reach out and hold his hand. Finally, she declares, “Well, it's official, Harvey Specter is a dick,” and Mike bursts out laughing.
“I don't think the rest of New York's female population would agree,” he says, once the balloon of mirth in his chest has withered away to nothingness again. Rachel shrugs, but her answer is cut off by the waitress' hasty return. They both eye her heavily laden tray with barely concealed worry. “Um, hi.”
“I am so sorry, monsieur,” she says again, inclining her head. She sets down the bowl of water Rachel had requested, more towels, new cups of coffee and sandwiches. “Paninis and drinks on ze house.”
“Oh, uh, thank you,” Mike says. The waitress bows again and runs off.
Rachel picks one of the panini platters up, takes a bite and promptly moans. “Well played, Ross, well played.” When Mike chuckles again, she grins and tacks on, “See, this wasn't so bad, was it? Batgirl and Robin do just fine without Batman's supervision.”
Mike grins, too. “Aside from a couple of bumps, actually, no. Thanks, Rach. Although, I prefer Nightwing.”
Rachel throws a bread-roll at him.
-
Back at the office, Donna stares at Harvey's shut door. It stares back, before the shade at the small window flares out, incited by a sudden gust of wind.
“Ha,” Donna says, under her breath, “you blinked. I win.”
With that, she stands and starts for the door. Without knocking, she opens it. Harvey, who is combing through something on his desk, looks up. “Is there an emergency with a client?”
“No, there's an emergency with me,” Donna answers, her expression straight and serious.
“What? Donna, I'm not in the mood for-” Harvey starts to say, but Donna stops at his desk and slams her palms down on it, jarringly loud.
“No, I am not in the mood for your games, Harvey Specter. Whatever you're upset about, I don't care,” Donna snaps. “You are going to get your ass out of the office, feed it and come back with a cheerier disposition if it's the last thing you do, or I will end you myself.”
Harvey opens his mouth, then closes it again, a tic in his jaw. He knows she'll stay true to her threat. If he doesn't leave now, she'll reschedule all off his meetings to either the ass-crack of dawn or post-midnight, whatever is most troubling for him, till he's nothing more than a shell of the closer he currently is. “I...am feeling somewhat peckish,” he reluctantly acquiesces.
Donna smiles at him, all triumph and hundred dollar lipgloss. “And, while you're out, bring me back a cappuccino? One shot of chocolate, not too much foam, because I'm watching my figure.”
Harvey doesn't agree. He also doesn't disagree. What he does do, however, is prowl out of the room to the heart of the firm, where all the associates are. He's not glad that Donna didn't follow, but he's decidedly not sad, either. He's complex like that.
“Mike,” he calls, when his associate's cubicle is within viewing range.
Kyle Durant ambles out from the box beside it and informs him, “Ross is gone, Harvey. Zane came by to see him and, of course, he ran out at the first sign of a pretty face. Maybe I could be of service?”
“You?” Harvey analyzes Kyle till he squirms, then snarls, “It's Mr. Specter to you, Durant. And I'm in no need of help.” He lashes around and stalks back the way he came, leaving the stunned associate behind him.
Donna blinks at the clang of the door that impacts behind Harvey upon his entrance. “You're back already? I know the line at my favorite café winds around the block, at the very least.”
“Just order something for us both,” Harvey barks. “And please, give me some of your Advil. I don't want to go out right now.”
“O-kay,” Donna answers bemusedly. She retrieves her painkiller bottle, allows a few to pop into Harvey's waiting grasp, and watches him escape back into his office. “Well, Master Dracula won't be ditching the coffin anytime soon,” she mutters to herself, shaking her fiery head.
-
It isn't much later that Rachel and Mike return to Pearson Harman, doggie bags of more free food in tow.
“Thanks again, Rachel,” Mike says once they're inside the elevators, a huge smile directed to his friend, who laughs.
“Thank you for that kicked puppy face of yours. That poor waitress was eating out of your hand and don't even get me started on the manager,” Rachel replies, but when Mike's lips twitch and tuck down, she stops giggling. “What's up?”
Mike kicks lightly at the bolted metal doors. “Nothing. Just, really, thanks. I've been feeling pretty crappy all morning.”
“Hey, it's okay,” Rachel says. She butts her shoulders with him comfortingly. “What are girlfriends for, anyway? And by girlfriend I mean the Pretty Little Liars sleepovers and pillow-fights kind, not the Meredith and Derek Gray's Anatomy love affair, fyi.”
“Yes, Rachel, I know.” Mike rolls his eyes and bumps back against her. “Why would I want a girlfriend who makes such shameful TV references, anyway? It appalls my deep geek heart.”
Rachel slaps his arm, then uses the leverage to push Mike back into the stall once the elevator opens, so she's out first. She sticks her tongue out at him. “You deserved that, Ross. That was a low blow.”
By the time Mike follows her out, she has already flitted into her office. Mike sulks at no one in particular for a while, before remembering his waiting and sadly unfinished paperwork. He ducks into his cubicle and remains there till the sky begins to dim outside. His efforts are rewarded by a signed, sealed and dated final packet to deliver to his boss.
Harvey, he finds, has been similarly locked up for the day. Mike can see him scowling at a baseball through the glass walls partitioning his office, obviously in no better a mood than he'd been in the morning. Donna, too, makes a face at him.
“Can you please give this to him?” Mike asks her, proffering the file. Donna shakes her head without bothering to speak and he pouts, widening his eyes a bit. “Please, Donna? Please? He'll literally eat me alive if I walk through that door right now!”
Donna meets his gaze, an eyebrow arched. “Do I look like a slave to you, rookie? Am I here to run at your beck and call?” Mike shakes his head furiously. “Good, because I'm not, so scurry along and give Daddy his toys.”
“O-okay,” Mike says, his bottom lip still jutting out. With the folder pressed to his chest, separated by Tom Ford from his rapidly beating heart, he stops at the threshold of Harvey's office and raises a fist to knock.
“Would you quit stalling?” Harvey demands from within. “You've never been anything but rude when it came to knocking before, kid.” Mike staggers to comply and shuts the door behind him. He hands the file to Harvey and his boss starts leafing through it, but the instant Mike thinks it's safe to escape, Harvey breaks the quiet again. “You did good work here.”
“Thanks, Harvey,” Mike whispers. The words, so few, wisp out on an elated breath. Harvey isn't one to dole out praise very often and it's meaningful when he does.
His boss raises a finger. “I wasn't done yet, Mike. I was going to say, next time, perhaps if you don't waste hours you're getting paid for fraternizing, you'll do even better. It's a good thing the weekend is here. Maybe you can clean up your act sometime in between oversleeping and loafing around?”
“I, uh, I...” Mike works his jaw, but can't seem to decide on a response. He soon settles on a curt nod and runs out of the room.
Donna's eyes trail him till he disappears, then turn disapprovingly toward Harvey. “Did you have to break the puppy's widdle heart?”
“Go home, Donna,” is the man's only recourse. She shrugs and stands up. For now, she'll let him throw his tantrum. Tomorrow waits for no man, best damn closer in the city or not, and neither does Donna's curiosity.
-
Hot water from his sun-shaped cloudburst shower-head beats against Harvey's back, once he's safely enclosed in his condo. He cards his hands through his wet hair with a content sigh. No one is happier about the work day's end than him.
It's barely nine o'clock when Harvey falls into bed, but sleep accepts him with open arms the second he does.
-
Warm breaths puff across Harvey's belly. He's standing, but a fair head of hair is bowed at the knees before him. “Mi-?” he tries to say.
A sweet smile is promptly wrapped around his cock, pink lips stretched by merriment. Harvey moans at the combined effect of the warm hand that follows, massaging his balls, while a talented tongue paints him root to tip in saliva, prodding at his slit. Soft hair tickles his abs as his lover's head bobs.
Harvey burrows his fingers into the spiky locks and throws his head back. The hot mouth around him constricts in a swallow. “Ugh, I'm gonna-”
His thousand dollar, thousand thread count Egyptian cotton sheets are a ruined, sticky mess when he wakes. Harvey slaps them aside angrily.
-
The next night, there's a beautiful woman on his arm, Ray has dropped him off in front of the most chic restaurant in the city, and Harvey is well on his way to being cured.
“You know, I never thought you'd call me,” a newly divorced Lauren, formerly Judge Pearl's wife, says. She's wearing a sleek black dress that hugs her number eight figure and contrasts beautifully with her date's navy pinstripe suit.
Harvey shoots a charming smirk at her. “Is it so strange for me to want to spend time with a gorgeous woman?” he asks.
“I suppose not,” Lauren laughs. She and Harvey both nod at a waiter, who leads them into the foray of the restaurant, to a booth of their own. “Thank you,” she adds, when Harvey holds her chair out for her.
He smiles, the waiter returns with a complimentary sample of Armand de Brignac champagne to thank Harvey for his derailment of a suit against the establishment, and the night starts off great. They laugh over bread-sticks and pasta, discuss work and leisure. It's only half an hour in, when they start to debate their differing opinions of Norman Rockwell's The Law Student, that things go straight to hell.
“The brush strokes denote the angst beneath his wry smile,” Lauren argues. She traces a long, opalescent nail over the burgundy tablecloth, from the heart of a silk napkin swan to the artful vase at the center of a table. “You aren't an art connoisseur so you don't notice the subtle toning.”
“Ah, but I was a law student,” Harvey counters, smirking, “and while we studied hard, the Argonaut boys and I can tell you how much fun we had. Once, while the dean was visiting, we dressed the statue...”
Lauren nods, even laughs at the right points, but Harvey prides his ability to read people. Mike nods along to things Harvey says, yet his is an excited nod, like that of a puppy who is waiting to be asked a trick and knows he'll eventually receive a treat for it. When Mike nods, Harvey can almost see the instant that everything clicks for him. Lauren hums a yes and it's nothing more than manners.
He's hardly surprised when she cuts him off to ask, “So...you haven't seen the judge again, have you? D-Donald?”
Harvey allows his mouth to quirk. “No. The once was enough for him, I suppose. He was never the judge on any of my court appearances again.” He doesn't mention that he wanted to push for Donald Pearl never to oversee a court again. That won't make for polite dinner conversation.
“Ah, of course, that's good,” Lauren replies, unable to look away from the swirling pattern on the vase. She trails off into an inattentive silence. Harvey can't, for the life of him, seem to hold her gaze again. He can't win the way he always effortlessly does.
Then a flash of gold catches his eyes. Before he knows what he's doing, Harvey's legs have swung out of his booth, his chair has screeched back, and he has a death grip on the narrow shoulder of a waiter. “U-um, can I help you, sir?” a kid younger than Mike inquires. He has hair of a slightly lighter blond shade and eyes dark like Harvey's, rather than as radiant as the associate's.
“A glass of water,” Harvey answers lamely. “My throat is dry.”
The waiter nods and hurries off. Lauren is standing when Harvey turns back toward the table. “It's getting late,” she murmurs, smiling apologetically. “I really should be getting home. My roommate will wait up.”
“...Fine.” Harvey steps around her to claim his seat again. “At least let my driver accompany you?” he prompts, but otherwise does nothing to halt his date.
“No, I'll take a cab,” Lauren says. She starts the path to leave the restaurant, but pauses and returns to stand over Harvey, who frowns up at her. “I am sorry. I'm a little stuck on someone, I guess.”
“That's okay,” Harvey replies, more genuinely than before.
“Thank you, but...Harvey, if you are, too, it's okay. Legendary lawyer or not, you're still human.” With a final smile, she flounces off. He doesn't even have time for a witty response.
That's what's most upsetting, Harvey tells himself. It's fine if a date falls apart. That happens to everyone, even the best, at some point. For Lauren to think he is like her, on the other hand, that he's pining the way she is, is the farthest thing from fine. Harvey drowns himself in the remaining champagne.
Once he's done with it and orders more, stronger alcohol, a new opportunity presents itself. The blond waiter from earlier offers his purchase to him. “Here, sir.” When Harvey stands to his full height and smirks, the waiter continues, “Or, uh, would you rather take this to go?”
“I'd rather take you to go,” Harvey says.
Although the young man flushes an acute tint of pink that Harvey rather enjoys, he doesn't decline. “My name is Frankie,” he introduces, instead.
Harvey grins all the wider, puts an arm around Frankie's back, and leads him into the town-car. Later that night, Frankie will limp out of his bed and gush about the great time he had. Harvey, however, will nod courteously, leer gone, as he sees the kid out of his condo. Then, dissatisfied, he'll fall asleep.
-
To Be Continued!
-