Suits fic, kinda.
Ahhhh, insomnia. Whatever, it feels good to be writing again! No matter how small.
So, Suits, huh? I've never written a ficlet less gay than the actual show before.
It comes to a surprise to everyone (well, Harvey) that Mike can cook.
(“Why is that such a shock to you?” Mike had said, tie loosened and top button undone. His sleeves were rolled up and there was a smear of marinade over the back of his hand.
Harvey had something along the lines of, “Well look at you,” and gestured up and down in a way that was meant to encapsulate the gaunt-chic look Mike often had going on.)
So when Harvey gets home from a client lunch one Sunday afternoon (Harvey hates the country club crowd, even more than he hates the teenage dotcom trillionaire crowd), there’s still a split-second feeling of incredulity when he sees Mike in his kitchen, barefoot with a dishcloth slung over his shoulder.
“Honey, I’m home,” Harvey calls. Mike likes music on when he cooks, but he always keeps it at a respectable volume and Harvey barely has to raise his voice. Today it’s Lou Reed; Harvey approves.
Mike’s too busy singing along with the colored girls and doesn’t reply. Instead, he shimmies over (he shimmies, this is Harvey’s life now), and presses a quick kiss to the corner of Harvey’s mouth.
Harvey shucks his jacket and heads into the bedroom to hang it up.
When comes out, the song has changed and Mike’s singing off-key to Creedence Clearwater Revival. He’s pouring a generous amount of some thin, dark sauce into a silver wok that’s simmering on the stovetop (Harvey owns a wok? Go, him), and Harvey hoists himself onto a clean section of the counter to watch him. His heels drum against the fake mahogany panel of his kitchen cabinets.
“Hungry?” Mike says when he’s finished stirring.
“Yeah,” Harvey says. (The Van Hausen’s are the type to enjoy a liquid lunch.)
“I made fried rice,” Mike says, smiling. If Harvey didn’t know that Mike had a naturally sunny disposition, Harvey would have thought him daft, or a con man. No sincere person smiled that much.
Mike bullies his way into Harvey’s personal space so he can stand between his thighs.
“How was lunch?” he asks.
Harvey rolls his eyes and shrugs. Mike hasn’t met the Van Hausen’s, but he was the one to nitpick through their updated will and look for any clauses or loopholes. He knows how absurd they are, a sad old couple from an equally old New York family. A quarter of their wealth is going to their butler, half to their dog, and the remainder to be split between their two children. The children are furious, but you could still feed a family of four for several lifetimes with what they’ll end up getting.
Mike seems to take this as the answer it is. He rocks upward, meeting Harvey’s lips for a proper hello kiss. Mike’s hands frame his face, moving around to the base of his skull and up -
“Hey!” Harvey squawks, batting Mike’s hands away and trying to rectify any damage. “You know I hate it when you do that,” he says.
Mike just laughs and turns back to his wok, and Harvey combs his fingers through his hair, trying to smooth down the nest Mike’s sure to have stirred up.
“You’re at home now, you have no need for lawyer hair,” Mike says over his shoulder.
“A lawyer isn’t just an image, it’s who I am,” Harvey says meaningfully. Even though Mike isn’t looking at him, Harvey tugs at the cuffs of his shirt, first the left, then the right, flicking his wrist in a practiced motion that would make his cufflinks sit right if he were still wearing his jacket.
“I know, you’re the best closer in the city,” Mike parrots, opening a cupboard to get out two shallow bowls. They’re white with a tasteful blue design on the rim; objectively, Harvey can say they’re quite nice.
“In the state,” Harvey corrects, hopping down to go have a sniff over the stove.
So, Suits, huh? I've never written a ficlet less gay than the actual show before.
It comes to a surprise to everyone (well, Harvey) that Mike can cook.
(“Why is that such a shock to you?” Mike had said, tie loosened and top button undone. His sleeves were rolled up and there was a smear of marinade over the back of his hand.
Harvey had something along the lines of, “Well look at you,” and gestured up and down in a way that was meant to encapsulate the gaunt-chic look Mike often had going on.)
So when Harvey gets home from a client lunch one Sunday afternoon (Harvey hates the country club crowd, even more than he hates the teenage dotcom trillionaire crowd), there’s still a split-second feeling of incredulity when he sees Mike in his kitchen, barefoot with a dishcloth slung over his shoulder.
“Honey, I’m home,” Harvey calls. Mike likes music on when he cooks, but he always keeps it at a respectable volume and Harvey barely has to raise his voice. Today it’s Lou Reed; Harvey approves.
Mike’s too busy singing along with the colored girls and doesn’t reply. Instead, he shimmies over (he shimmies, this is Harvey’s life now), and presses a quick kiss to the corner of Harvey’s mouth.
Harvey shucks his jacket and heads into the bedroom to hang it up.
When comes out, the song has changed and Mike’s singing off-key to Creedence Clearwater Revival. He’s pouring a generous amount of some thin, dark sauce into a silver wok that’s simmering on the stovetop (Harvey owns a wok? Go, him), and Harvey hoists himself onto a clean section of the counter to watch him. His heels drum against the fake mahogany panel of his kitchen cabinets.
“Hungry?” Mike says when he’s finished stirring.
“Yeah,” Harvey says. (The Van Hausen’s are the type to enjoy a liquid lunch.)
“I made fried rice,” Mike says, smiling. If Harvey didn’t know that Mike had a naturally sunny disposition, Harvey would have thought him daft, or a con man. No sincere person smiled that much.
Mike bullies his way into Harvey’s personal space so he can stand between his thighs.
“How was lunch?” he asks.
Harvey rolls his eyes and shrugs. Mike hasn’t met the Van Hausen’s, but he was the one to nitpick through their updated will and look for any clauses or loopholes. He knows how absurd they are, a sad old couple from an equally old New York family. A quarter of their wealth is going to their butler, half to their dog, and the remainder to be split between their two children. The children are furious, but you could still feed a family of four for several lifetimes with what they’ll end up getting.
Mike seems to take this as the answer it is. He rocks upward, meeting Harvey’s lips for a proper hello kiss. Mike’s hands frame his face, moving around to the base of his skull and up -
“Hey!” Harvey squawks, batting Mike’s hands away and trying to rectify any damage. “You know I hate it when you do that,” he says.
Mike just laughs and turns back to his wok, and Harvey combs his fingers through his hair, trying to smooth down the nest Mike’s sure to have stirred up.
“You’re at home now, you have no need for lawyer hair,” Mike says over his shoulder.
“A lawyer isn’t just an image, it’s who I am,” Harvey says meaningfully. Even though Mike isn’t looking at him, Harvey tugs at the cuffs of his shirt, first the left, then the right, flicking his wrist in a practiced motion that would make his cufflinks sit right if he were still wearing his jacket.
“I know, you’re the best closer in the city,” Mike parrots, opening a cupboard to get out two shallow bowls. They’re white with a tasteful blue design on the rim; objectively, Harvey can say they’re quite nice.
“In the state,” Harvey corrects, hopping down to go have a sniff over the stove.