Archive of Our Own

Mike has seen some pretty heavy denial before--he's been in that state several times, himself, god knows, and about all sorts of things--but this? This is ridiculous.

"I'm fine," Harvey says, for what might be the dozenth time. "Stop being so dramatic. We'll be sitting with Wilson, unruffling his feathers, in ten minutes. Hour-long meeting, and then back to the office, where you'll have enough files to go through to keep you from nagging me."

"You're not fine," Mike says, also for the dozenth time. "You look...well, to be honest, you look awful."

He does, too. He's dressed impeccably, of course--shirt tucked perfectly into his waistcoat, jacket fitted and flattering, pants pressed and shoes shined. But a careful look shows that the picture-perfect and powerful exterior doesn't go much past his outfit. Actually, it's almost impressive how hard he's trying to keep up the appearance, anyway. But that might be a result of sheer stubbornness, because it's not like Harvey's short on that particular quality.

"Yeah, well, you still haven't managed to buy a decent tie," Harvey says, raising his eyebrows. He's trying to look casual and a bit condescending, but Mike can see the flush on his face. "I could say the same, if I were in the mood."

Mike looks down, fingering the material with his index finger. He'd thought this one might be wide enough to garner Harvey's approval, but apparently not. Sometimes he feels as if Harvey's more accepting of him lately, like he doesn't feel the need to pick at every little imperfect thing Mike does and just figures it's part of Mike's charm, but then he reverts so suddenly to this. "You're kind of harsh when you're sick. Harsher than usual, I mean."

"I am not sick, damn it. And just because I don't coddle you doesn't make me 'harsh'. Would you do me the courtesy of being quiet for the remainder of the ride?"

"Fine," Mike mutters, slinking down in his seat, though that's really just inviting Harvey to lecture him on posture or snap that he can't be meeting clients--especially not ones worth as much money as Aidan Wilson--with wrinkled clothing.

Mike does have to give Harvey credit: even sick, he's able to put irate and worried clients at ease, telling them all the things they want to hear in a way that leaves him leeway when it comes time to deliver results. But as Wilson leaves the conference room to get his secretary and the files he gave her for safe-keeping, Mike sees Harvey pull out his handkerchief and mop at his forehead, which has gone suddenly sweaty. "Hey," he says, tentatively, because Harvey's already told him not to speak around Wilson unless one of them asks him something directly, and he's not sure how long he has until the guy returns with files in hand.

"Not now, Mike," Harvey mutters, tucking his handkerchief away neatly. "Or was I not clear when I told you I didn't want to hear anything other than a succinct response to a direct question?"

Mike tries not to feel like some woman or child from the early 1900s, someone told that they're only there to be seen and not heard. He doesn't even acknowledge the barb. Instead, in the thirty seconds before Wilson returns, over-stuffed manila folder in one hand and CD of files in the other, he scrutinizes Harvey's appearance.

He doesn't like what he sees.

The only real clue Wilson gets that his attorney isn't in tip-top form is when Harvey stands after the meeting to shake his hand and stumbles slightly. Wilson mutters something about the carpet bunching again and having a client of his own trip on it just the other week, and Mike is grateful he attributes Harvey's balance problem to some external factor and doesn't seem to notice how he's gone sort of grey. Harvey's probably grateful, too, not that he'd admit it.

By the time they're standing at the curb, waiting for Ray to bring the car around, Harvey's sweating profusely. The collar of his shirt is noticeably damp, and his jacket and waistcoat don't exactly look crisp and fresh anymore. Mike watches a drop of sweat run down the side of Harvey's face before it can be brushed away. "Harvey."

"What? What do you want now?"

But Mike doesn't get to say anything else, because his phone picks this moment to ring, just as he can see Ray start to pull up in front of the building. "Hold on. It's the office." If it's Rachel, asking when he's free for lunch even though he's told her he has a meeting with Harvey, he might actually hang up on her. She would pick this moment to be friendly, after all the cool looks and avoidance she's given since she found out about the test-taking thing. "Mike Ross."

"How'd the meeting with Aidan Wilson go?" is the greeting he gets, and Mike's eyes widen in shock. "Harvey did tell you not to say a damned thing beforehand, didn't he?"

"Uh, yeah, he did." Jessica can't see him cringe, and for that, he's glad. He still feels like she's thisclose to seeing through his act. "It went fine. He's coming down to Pearson Hardman on Monday, with his financial guy." He looks down at the open door to the car, where Harvey's arm is gesturing to him impatiently, telling him to get his ass inside. He holds up one finger in the "wait just a minute" signal and moves away from the car. "Um, actually, since you called, I was wondering if you needed us back at the office today?" he says, trying for casual and coming up with twitchy instead.

"Why? Does Harvey want to take you out to celebrate or something? He's likely just landed us enough money to warrant that, if that's what he wants to do, though I'd like to know just how you contributed enough to be rewarded."

Mike cringes again. He has the feeling Jessica could crush him like a bug--professionally and physically--if she wanted, even if she never does find out the truth about him. "No. It's just. Um." He wishes he could sound more confident around her, but damn it, something about her scares him just a little bit, different from the way that Donna scares him. "Harvey's sick, and I'm pretty sure he should be at home."

There's silence on the other end of the line for so long Mike actually checks the display to see if she's hung up on him or his signal's gone out. Finally, she says something, and he nearly drops the phone in surprise. "Did he say that?"

"No. That's sort of the problem. He insists he's fine. But he's definitely not."

"Look, Ross. I've known Harvey for a long time. If he thinks he's fine, he's not going to appreciate you telling him he isn't. Unless he admits it, you're going to have a hell of a time convincing him to leave work. I've fought this battle. You're on your own." She pauses. "I'll see you back at the office. The Maxine Crawford files came in for you." And then the line's dead, for real this time.

Mike just stares down at his phone for a moment, irritated, before slipping it into his pocket and sliding into the car. Harvey glares at him. "About time. Who was that, anyway? Louis, trying to sweet-talk you into helping him with something?"

"No. It was Jessica." That, at least, stops any further badgering. "The Crawford files came in."

"Sounds like you have a date with a highlighter," Harvey says, and there is something rough in his voice that makes Mike think that maybe he's having a little harder time convincing himself he's fine, now that the afternoon's meeting is out of the way. He tugs at his collar, loosening his tie. "Jesus, is the air conditioning broken back here or something? Ray!"

"Yes, sir?"

"Is the air conditioner working?"

Ray gives them a brief glance in the rearview mirror. "Yes, sir. I could have it checked and serviced, though, if you like."

"No, it's fine," Harvey mutters, reaching for the little dial that controls the vents this far back. He cranks it as high as it'll go, blasting them both with frigid air. It's fucking November, grey and overcast across the city, and the temperature can't be over fifty-five. Really, Mike'd rather have the heat on. But he doesn't say anything, because it's not improbable that Harvey'd bite his head off right now, and he's still trying to figure out how to get Harvey to head home instead of staying at work and making himself worse.

By the time they get to Pearson Hardman, Mike's shivering and his face has gone numb. But he trails Harvey into the elevator and to just outside his office, which Harvey shuts him out of. That's it. Mike's had enough.

"Hey, Donna?" he asks, trying to figure out if acting wide-eyed and innocent is his best bet, or if he'd be better off just leveling with her. One second under her unamused, I-see-everything glance gives him the answer. "Okay, look. Harvey's sick, but he won't admit it. How do I get him to go home?"

Donna cocks her head and gives him a look that feels more invasive than those full-body-imaging scanners the airports are using these days. "And why do you think he needs to go home?"

He can tell by the look on her face that she suspects him of something--maybe something as simple as trying to duck out early on a Friday and get a head start on the weekend, or sneak into Harvey's office to fiddle with Harvey's autographed basketballs--but something just the same. And while it would be nice to get home before ten and have time to actually unwind before passing out face-first onto his bed, that's not what this is about. This is about more than wanting a few extra hours to himself. He's actually concerned, because sometimes, it's almost like they have a friendship or something, even though Mike's starting to see Harvey in another light he can't act on. Harvey's sick, and ignoring it only means it'll hit him harder later. It's one thing to push through some sniffles or sinus pressure. It's another when you're obviously running a fever.

A fever. That's it.

"I'm just worried he's going to infect everyone else," Mike says, dropping his voice and leaning in. "He's sweating and everything. It's only a matter of time before he's coughing on someone and then everyone's calling in sick and all of the secretaries have to reschedule an entire week's worth of appointments." He looks back over his shoulder, into Harvey's office, and feels Donna shift her gaze to do the same. "Look at him."

After a moment, Donna sighs. "I don't think he's looked that bad since Giordano."

"Bad loss on a case?"

"No. Giordano was a little Italian bistro that used to be on the lower east side. We went, and he had the mussels instead of sticking to the lasagna like I suggested. Three days of food poisoning. Word of advice, kid: make sure that when you order mussels, someone in the kitchen knows how to tell if they're dead before they're cooked."

"I'll keep that in mind. Now what do I do about Harvey?"

"...You could always order him linguine with mussels. He still can't be around the stuff without turning green."

"Yeah, I don't know if that'll work. I want him to go home, not sit in his office, nauseated. I just need to get him out of the building somehow. You know how Louis has been lately--he'll never let it go if he thinks Harvey's showing some sign of weakness."

"Oh, please. All Harvey'd have to do is sneeze in Louis's direction, and he'd run away, squealing."

"Come on, there has to be something. He won't listen to me. He just keeps telling me that he's fine." Mike again looks back at Harvey, who is sitting at his desk with his head in his hands, an open reference book on his desk. To anyone walking by, he looks like he might be deep in thought. Mike's actually pretty sure he's trying to keep his head from falling off. "I just need to get him into a car and to his apartment. But Ray's not exactly at my beck-and-call, and I don't think I can convince him to get into a cab."

Donna sighs. "All right. If I do this for you, you're taking the fall if he's angry. I'll tell him you gave me false information, and I was too busy to double-check you, or you pulled some random fact out of that stenography pad of a brain you have, that checked out on the surface. And if this works, your ass, Mike Ross, is mine."

This could be the biggest mistake he's made in weeks and, given everything else, that's saying something. Donna still scares the hell out of him and he's pretty sure she's a lot more devious than he's had reason to see yet, but he knows she cares for Harvey. "All right."

Donna makes a quick phone call, shielding the number pad with her body so that Mike can't see it and remember it for later. After a few murmured sentences, she says 'thank you' and hangs up. "Remember," she says, hand hovering over the button that will ring Harvey on the intercom. "This is on you." She pushes the speaker button on her phone, gesturing for him to get out of sight. He scurries away before Harvey sits up in his office and hits his own intercom button.

Mike can't hear a word they're saying, but he can see Harvey's less-than-pleased expression from his hiding spot, which slowly changes to resigned. After a few moments, Harvey grabs his jacket, shrugs into it, and emerges from his office. "Well?" he asks, looking at Mike like he's done something stupid.

Mike glances over at Donna, who mouths Ray. Downstairs. Just get in the car from behind Harvey's back. "Oh, right," Mike says hastily, wondering exactly what she's done. Oh God, this might come back to screw him over so hard. "Sorry." He follows Harvey towards the elevators, just catching the sight of Donna grabbing a can of Lysol from her desk and heading for Harvey's office.

Ray gives Mike a discreet nod as he climbs into the car after Harvey, but Mike feels uneasy, having people who are loyal to Harvey apparently willing to go behind his back. He can only hope they're doing what he is--looking out for Harvey's best interests. Otherwise, he's fucked once Harvey figures out where it seems like they're going.

The dials for the air conditioner are still set on arctic tundra, just as they were under half an hour ago, but they don't even get two blocks away from Pearson Hardman before Harvey's reaching for the dials, cranking the heat up as far as it'll go. Mike tries to figure out if it's worth asking Harvey how he is again. On the one hand, he looks drastically worse than he did on the way to Wilson's office. On the other...well, he might be the most hard-headed person Mike knows. And he hates to be wrong. Actually, it's more like he refuses to be.

The closer they get to Harvey's place, the more uneasy Mike feels. He still doesn't know what Donna told him to get him out of the office and into the car. "Why do you keep looking out the window?" Harvey asks about a dozen blocks from his place. "You look guilty about something." Then he sits up and looks out the driver's side window, and suddenly a bit of color returns to his face to balance the paleness. "We're almost at my apartment."

It's not a question, but the look on his face makes it pretty clear he demands an answer from Mike anyway. Unfortunately, he can't seem to come up with one. "Yeah. I guess we are."

It's very likely that the expression on Harvey's face is meant to be barely-controlled fury, but it's diminished by how awful he looks. "Why?"

Mike feels how close he is to losing it, and it takes so much effort to keep from screaming. It should be obvious to anyone not shrouded in denial, and he can't figure out why Harvey's being so stubborn, or why he seems to consider it some great failing to show any sort of weakness, or, or fucking vulnerability, like it's a character flaw to succumb to the flu or whatever he has. "Because you're sick! And you should be home resting, okay?"

Harvey just glares at him, which normally makes Mike feel like he's scum for disappointing him, or maybe not as smart as people and test scores have told him he is. "Of all the things I want to shout at you," he says, oddly quiet for someone who's talking about shouting, "at the top of the list is this: what in the hell did you involve Donna for? What gives you the right to go behind my back and risk me tossing aside any trust you've earned since I hired you? Why would you do something so stupid?"

And suddenly Mike's not concerned with keeping his voice calm, for Harvey or for Ray, or for any damn social construct that says he has to defer to Harvey, because Harvey's his boss. "Because I was concerned about you, okay?"

"I don't need your concern!" Harvey snaps, with more energy put into that sentence than into anything else he's done today. "I'm fine! If you need something to take care of, get a house plant! Just leave me the fuck alone and go home as soon as Ray stops the car. I don't even want to look at you right now." And with that, he turns towards the window, angling his body away from Mike, who can only sit there, stunned.

* * *There's a framed photograph of a young-ish William Shatner in Harvey's living room, and Mike can't help feeling like it's judging him, as if it knows just as well as Mike does that he has no business being here. The fact that it's signed To another man who doesn't believe in no-win scenarios. --Capt. James T. Kirk in silver in the lower corner only adds to the surreal feeling Mike's experiencing at the moment. As fried as his brain feels right now, he might as well be the one with the fever.

"You're still here?" Harvey asks, pausing to look over at Mike. Now that he's here, at home, he seems to have given up most of the pretense that he's perfectly fine. "What in the hell makes you think I want you to see me like this?" he mutters half to himself while running a hand through his hair, before turning to glare at Mike again. "Do I have to fire you to get you out of here?"

"Firing me isn't going to get me to leave," Mike says, rolling his eyes. Harvey's threatened his job before, but Mike doesn't believe this particular threat for a moment. There are moments--many of them, in fact--when Harvey's incredibly intimidating, and he seems like a legitimate threat Mike would have to be an idiot not to recognize.

This is not one of those moments.

"Fine, then I'll take out a restraining order against you. Do you have any idea how quickly I could get that done?"

"Do you really want to do that?" Mike asks, turning to face Harvey with the sort of unwavering expression he's usually on the other end of. "Or do you just want to suck it up, admit you're sick, and get into bed already? Because I'm not leaving until I see you do it."

"I'm pretty sure that when I hired you, 'nursemaid' was not part of the job description," Harvey mutters, but he heads back towards what Mike assumes is the bedroom and shuts the door behind him. Mike can hear muffled swearing from behind the door and, several minutes later, Harvey opens the door and gestures to his new ensemble. "There. Flannel pajama pants and everything. Now will you go home?"

Mike knows he agreed to leave if Harvey got his ass to bed, but really, he doesn't want to. For as damned proactive as he is in so many things, he's ridiculously stubborn about this. Mike sort of wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake him until he understands that admitting he's sick is a perfectly acceptable thing to do, just like having emotions. "As soon as you take some NyQuil or whatever you have and get into bed." Oh God, Harvey's right, he is a fucking nursemaid. He can hear a bit of Gram's attitude in his voice, which is a little unsettling, because he doesn't want to be a seventy-year-old woman.

"I don't have any," Harvey says petulantly. "Because I don't get sick."

It takes a lot of effort for Mike to keep from hitting his head against the wall.

"Fine," he sighs. "I'm going to go out and get you some NyQuil or whatever I can find."

"What makes you think I'll let you back in?"

Mike looks at Harvey, torn between hurt, irritated, and slightly amused, in spite of himself. Harvey's definitely cranky when he's sick, but it's...well, Mike hates himself for thinking it, but it's almost kind of adorable. Still, there's definitely the chance, especially given the subterfuge used to get him here, that Harvey's not kidding. "You had Donna give me a key," he says simply as he heads for the front door. He doesn't think his voice betrays him, letting Harvey know he might actually have some emotional stake in this, because it's stupid anyway, and Harvey would never suspect it. "If you really want me to stay out, there's a chain on your front door."

Mike comes back to Harvey's apartment armed with a plastic bag full of things Harvey might need--Gatorade, organic orange juice, in case he has something against artificially flavored and colored sports drinks, a small bottle of aspirin, and a box each of NyQuil and Theraflu, because he's not actually sure what Harvey has, other than a fever. He knocks on the door and waits a full minute. Nothing. Again. Another, longer wait, and still nothing. The lack of answer makes him feel incredibly stupid for thinking Harvey would respond in a positive manner, but he pulls out his keys and selects the one for this apartment anyway, just in case.

The door opens fully, no chain latched to keep him out.

Mike supposes he should feel triumphant about that but, honestly, the predominant emotion here is relief. Harvey didn't lock him out. While that's not quite as promising as coming to the door to let him in, it's a clear sign Harvey doesn't hate him, especially given that since Mike mentioned it on his way out, it's not like Harvey forgot he had the option of keeping him out that way.

There's a sudden bit of muffled-sounding coughing coming from the direction of Harvey's bedroom, where the door's not even fully closed, and Mike heads that way. He sticks his head in through the doorway, feeling more nervous now than he did his first time alone in court, for that stupid bedbug thing. "Harvey?"

A head emerges from the mound of blankets and pillows on the ludicrously comfortable-looking bed. "There might," Harvey says weakly, giving him a baleful look, "be sufficient evidence to support your theory that I'm sick."

"Fuck, Harvey, you look like shit."

Harvey glares at him again before pulling the covers up higher and muttering something that sounds like "and you're still wearing that skinny tie."

Mike sighs. "Look, I brought you some stuff. Just take it." He enters the room and starts putting the items on Harvey's nightstand. There's a book sitting in the middle of it--From Goodfellas to The Departed: The Mafia and the Law in Martin Scorsese's Films--and Mike gives a little laugh as he moves it aside to put the things he's bought within Harvey's reach. He's never given thought to whether or not Harvey reads anything but the paper, documents for work, or wine lists at expensive restaurants, but seeing a bookmark tucked three-quarters of the way through the book amuses him in some way. "Theraflu or NyQuil?"

"Whatever will let me sleep until I feel human again."

Mike shrugs and holds out the box of NyQuil. After a few moments, he snatches the little sheet of blister-packed caplets out of Harvey's hands when he fails to do anything other than mangle the plastic, muttering about false advertising and 'easy-open' notches.

"Why do they make these so hard to get into?" Mike grunts, finally resorting to his teeth when he has no more luck than Harvey. "How is someone who's in a weakened state supposed to open this?"

"You used your mouth," is Harvey's only reply, and some of that smirk he affects so easily passes over his face, just for a moment. "On something I'm supposed to put in my mouth. Frankly, Mike, that's a level of intimacy I'm not sure I'm ready for."

Mike snorts and hands him the pair of caplets and the Gatorade. "Just shut up and take these."

"What makes you think you can give me orders?" Harvey asks, grimacing as he swallows.

"Because while you're apparently not too sick to argue, you are too sick to do anything about it."

"Sound analysis, Mr. Spock," Harvey says with a little laugh that turns into a cough. He definitely sounds worse, and it's probably a damned good thing he has the next two days off, so he can spend them in a cold medicine-induced haze. He looks up at Mike. "You know, you don't have to keep hovering. It's not like I'm going to drop dead if you're not watching me."

"You don't ever get sick," Mike says, raising his eyebrows and crossing his arms. "How would you know if you're at Death's door or not?"

Harvey takes a deep breath like he's going to sigh, but all that comes out is a weak-sounding cough. "How is it," he asks after a moment, face still kind of grey, "that you've almost given up on your job more than once, and yet you've decided to pick today to be stubborn about something?"

Mike shrugs. "Maybe I'm just enjoying the fact that I'm in the position of power for once?"

Harvey flops backwards onto his pillows. "Are you sure I can't get you to leave by firing you?"

"Positive."

"Fine." He doesn't say anything for a while, and Mike can't figure out exactly what to do with himself, because leaving, even now that Harvey seems to be listening about needing to rest, feels like letting Harvey win. "Okay, look. I know that sometimes, the more book smarts a person has, the less they shine in social skills, but seriously, Mike... You standing there is weird. I can't sleep with you looming over me."

"I'm not looming," Mike says a bit defensively, because he might have just been thinking the same sort of thing.

"Fine. You're hovering awkwardly. If I can't get you to leave, would you at least head out to the living room? Keep yourself entertained until you're satisfied I'm asleep or whatever it is you feel you need to do. It's not like I'm going to climb down my fire escape." His mouth quirks upwards on one side in that expression that says he's about to amuse himself, and for as pissed as Harvey was earlier, he seems to have accepted Mike's presence easily enough. Mike wonders how much of that is fever and how much of that might be the drugs starting to kick in. "I promise, if I decide to die, I'll let you know first."

"You're such a sarcastic bastard," Mike mutters, but he turns and heads out of the bedroom anyway, relieved to have been given permission to stay and hang out for a bit.

As much as Mike's curious about what else Harvey has in his apartment that lends it some character and gives insight as to who he is, he still feels awkward here, like any moment, Harvey will catch him at something he's not supposed to be doing. There's a good chance that has to do with the fact that he does feel a little guilty for tricking Harvey into leaving the office, and the niggling feeling that the reason he was so concerned about Harvey's health had more to do with the fact that he feels something for his boss than fearing for the general health of the Pearson Hardman staff, or even Harvey's reputation with his clients, or whatever stupid thing his brain tries to offer as a rationalization.

After an aimless sort of spin in the middle of Harvey's living room, trying to figure out what to do with himself, Mike gives up and sits on the couch, resigned to flipping through however many channels Harvey thinks it's worth paying for. The couch is huge and plush, and Mike could sink into it and sleep for days. He feels entirely comfortable on it. Well, except for the fact that William Shatner's still giving him that look. Mike reaches over and carefully lays the frame on its front. There. Now he can't judge Mike, who has every (well, okay, some) right to be here, watching TV.

"I'm surprised," a rough voice says from behind him, and Mike's eyes fly open. He must have dozed off, though the TV's still playing the same episode of The Simpsons he remembers putting on. "All alone in your boss's apartment, with him unconscious in the other room, and you don't even take the opportunity to snoop through his things."

Mike's not entirely sure which of those points he should address first, so he goes for the one easiest to refute: "Except you're not unconscious." Harvey just gives him a look, and it occurs to Mike that that sounds kind of like an admission of guilt on some level. Sick or not, Harvey's a damned good lawyer, and Mike's seen him practically disembowel opponents with less open turns of phrase. "Actually, why the hell aren't you unconscious? NyQuil's supposed to knock you out, I think."

"Can't get comfortable," Harvey says with a shrug, hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck, and now he's the one seeming to hover awkwardly before the television catches his attention. "Cartoons. Why am I not surprised?" Mike opens his mouth to object, but Harvey stops him. "Don't even say that this is one written for adults and not children. I don't want to hear it. Move your ass over and relinquish the remote. You've lost television privileges. Let a grown-up choose something."

Sighing, Mike hands over the controller and moves to the far side of the couch as Harvey sits, curling up with a blanket he's pulled from somewhere. The second Mike sees the Starship Enterprise float across the screen, he knows it's all over; there will be no further channel-surfing. Harvey moves to put the remote between them, then changes his mind and puts it on the side table.

"Mike," Harvey says after a moment. "Why is my autographed photo of James T. Kirk on its face?"

Whoops. He can't very well say he felt like it was judging him, because...well, because. "I can't believe you got him to sign that photo in character," Mike says instead of answering. "It almost sounds like he knows you."

Harvey snorts and puts the picture right. "You should see what he wrote on the back." Mike reaches for it, and Harvey just raises his eyebrows and puts a hot hand on Mike's chest, keeping him from being able to lean over any farther. "Yeah. Nice try. Don't touch it."

"Oh, fine," Mike says, giving up and settling in to watch Star Trek. He's seen this one before, probably three or four times, and it's sort of nice to relax here after a week of hell going through documents related to Aidan Wilson and just let something other than work numb his brain. When Harvey rearranges his position inside the blanket, Mike scarcely even pays attention. Until, that is, he feels Harvey's leg pressed against his, the heat of his fever penetrating through Mike's slacks and reminding him that he's still wearing his full suit. "Sorry," Mike mutters, standing and removing his jacket and tie and loosening his collar. Much better. He was suddenly warm, and he had the sinking feeling it didn't just have to do with being overdressed.

"Getting comfortable?"

"Unless you're going to try kicking me out again."

Harvey seems to consider this. "You haven't said anything disparaging against the show, or asked any stupid questions. Go ahead and sit. Watch a couple more, unless you'd rather go pick up those Crawford files and spend the evening with them."

Mike snorts. "Yeah, no thanks. Jessica just wants them done by Thursday. I could start that Wednesday morning and meet that deadline. Besides, they're playing the episodes in the order they originally aired. I'm not missing The Corbomite Maneuver."

Harvey shifts again once Mike's more or less comfortable on the couch. They're touching again, slid together towards the center of the couch just enough that their knees are pressed together. "You probably feel something for Balok, as a fellow child super-genius."

"What, you don't like the episode?"

Harvey gives him a little kick, and a glare to go with it. "It's one of my favorites."

Mike thinks about it for a second, then bursts out laughing. "Of course it is. Captain James T. Kirk, master bluffer. Oh my God, Harvey, every now and then, you let the fact that you're an actual human show through the intimidating act."

"It's not an act!" Harvey says, but his mouth is turned up at one corner, as if he's fighting not to let Mike see his amusement. "Now shut up and watch."

Two more episodes into the marathon, and Harvey finally seems to have fallen asleep, curled up on himself and letting out an occasional quiet snore that makes Mike want to laugh. Now that Harvey's asleep, Mike knows he should go, but he really doesn't want to. It's dark out, he doesn't have his bike, and he's tired. If Harvey's mad at him in the morning for staying, Mike's pretty sure that that list of reasons will diminish any ranting to grudging acceptance. He looks over past Harvey, at the little side table where Shatner's still sort of smirking at him. He should probably turn the television off and try to get a little sleep himself; the remote's not really that far away. He'll just have to be careful about getting it and not waking Harvey, who isn't coughing, now that he's sleeping.

Except he's not nearly as stealthy as he hopes. Mike pauses, halfway leaning over Harvey as Harvey stirs. Slowly--very slowly--Mike lowers himself back down to the couch. Damn it. Well, it wouldn't be the first time he's fallen asleep with the TV on, and Harvey's probably done the same. He sighs and settles back onto the sofa, one arm draped across the back, careful it's far enough back that he's not actually touching Harvey. At least Harvey has comfortable furniture. He kicks off his shoes and shifts slightly, putting his legs up. Oh God, this feels good after the week he's had. He moves just a little more, managing to bump into Harvey, who stirs again and makes a sound of annoyance. Mike goes still, holding his breath and waiting for him to wake, even more irritable than he was earlier.

"Five more minutes," Harvey slurs, and then he rolls over and rests his head on Mike's shoulder, curling up against him and letting out a small sigh as his hand rests on Mike's chest. After a moment, he makes a little content sound and burrows his face deeper into Mike's shirt, sliding his hand from Mike's chest to settle on his side, pulling him closer as if he were a body pillow or something.

And that's all it takes for Mike to realize that, yeah, he's definitely having feelings for his boss. He's totally fucked. Also, Harvey's going to be seriously pissed off if he wakes up and finds them this intimate, if he had a problem with Mike using his mouth to get to the NyQuil.

But then Harvey sighs once more, the feverish heat of him making Mike go slightly tingly, and Mike decides that the hell with it: he can claim he fell asleep first and Harvey was probably delirious. As long as he can have this moment to play back later. It'll be worth it, Mike's pretty sure.

***Mike realizes a number of things in rapid succession the moment he starts to come to, daylight streaming through the open blinds. First, his neck is killing him, because he seems to have spent hours in an awkward position that was nonetheless comfortable enough to let him sleep. Second, his face is pressed into someone's ribs--someone who smells disturbingly like Harvey, the slightest bit of his cologne or aftershave lingering and mixing with fabric softener, deodorant, and a hint of sweat. Third, the person he's curled up against is no longer running a fever, his skin warm, but definitely not abnormally so. Fourth, not only does he have one leg between Harvey's to allow them to fit this way on the couch without either of them falling off, but Harvey's arm is slung around him, keeping him in place with a hand resting on Mike's hip, as Mike is practically lying in his lap. His boss's lap.

Oh, shit.

All it takes is those facts, accompanied by the scope of what they mean, to hit his consciousness, and Mike's suddenly wide awake and panicked. He jerks, meaning to sit up and scramble to the far corner of the couch before Harvey wakes, but the arm draped over him gives a slight twitch, and Harvey groans softly. His fingers give a squeeze so light Mike's sure he's imagining it, until Harvey shifts just a little. "Don't ruin it, rookie," he murmurs, and this time, Mike's fucking positive he feels Harvey's thumb stroke his hip.

Heart hammering in his chest, Mike tries to tell himself to remember to breathe. After a moment, he forces himself to take a deep breath, wondering exactly when he and Harvey ended up tangled up together like this on the couch. Slowly, still feeling that sense of panic, he stops moving away from Harvey, who coughs when he sighs deeply, and Mike's not sure whether to praise or curse the gods of fever delirium and cold-medicine-lowered inhibition for getting him into this situation.

After another moment, Mike manages to override the panicky part of his brain – the part that's using words like "boss" and "unrequited" – and he relaxes against Harvey, letting out a long, shaky breath. He can feel Harvey chuckle underneath him, just the hint of a wheeze in his breathing; then the arm around him gives another little squeeze and Mike can't help his own sigh. What the fuck is going on, he's not sure, but it doesn't warrant deep exploration just this second. For this moment at least, Mike can just lie here, ignore the stiffness in his neck, and feel Harvey's arm around him, a warm, firm, and now-reassuring weight on his side. He burrows his face into the cotton of Harvey's T-shirt, and Harvey lies back a little more, turning onto his back so that he can look directly down at Mike as he whispers, "Good boy," and pulls the covers up a little higher, hiding them both from the rest of the world.