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Harvey Specter was accustomed to waking up alone.
Years of one-night stands and commitment issues lent themselves well to ensuring that he was perfectly okay with waking up to cold sheets and an empty bed, supported it, even. It really made no difference to him whether his one-and-done flings stayed the night or not; if they did, great, he'd make them breakfast and promise to call knowing he'd never even saved their phone number. If they didn't, all the better. Harvey liked his space in bed, and really, sleeping over only implied things he'd rather not be implied. He wasn't keen on mixing emotion with passion.
That was the truth, at least it had been, until Harvey had met Mike Ross. Not only met him, but started dating him and sleeping with him, both metaphorically and literally. Anyone who thought Mike was a force to be reckoned with in the courtroom really ought to try and sleep in the same bed as the man.
The kid was a goddamn koala. Even in Harvey's California king, Mike somehow managed to attach himself to Harvey's side every night, burrowing into his warmth and pressing his icy hands and feet against Harvey's skin. He was convinced it was the fact that Mike had barely any meat on him for insulation that turned him into a heat-seeking missile. And honestly, what else had he expected from a man who lived off coffee and Red Bull? It was a miracle that the kid hadn't had a heart attack yet.
As much as he loathed to admit it, however, Harvey had grown used to being Mike's personal space heater. Mike moved surprisingly little once he got warm, so it wasn't like he took up all that much space. And he would only admit it under threat of death, but he took comfort in Mike's presence at his side, reassuring that even after everything they had been through together—the fights, the betrayals, prison, Anita Gibbs, Andrew Malik, Travis Tanner, Charles Forstman, Daniel Hardman, Faye Richardson, and every single other person who had tried to tear them apart—he was still there, wasn't abandoning him like so many had already done. Mike's icy appendages served as a reminder of all they had overcome and came out better for it, even the time when the Masterson Construction fiasco drove them into a fight so bad that they temporarily broke up. No one at the firm could stand to be around them for weeks until finally Mike had shown up at the condo, demanding to start working their shit out and ending with some of the most incredible sex of Harvey's life.
It was for these many reasons that Harvey Specter awoke at no less than 3:16 in the morning to an empty bed and cold sheets.
His first instinct was to lull his head to the side and check the en suite. Sure, the sheets were cool enough to tell him Mike had vacated them some while ago, but it didn't hurt. They had just finished up a huge case dealing with a whistleblower suing his company for wrongful termination after exposing them for their illegal disposal of hazardous waste. They had won, because of course they had, but not without many hiccups and all-nighters, and although the case was over, that wasn't always true for Mike. His boyfriend, with his absolutely incredible mind, had a propensity for getting stuck in his head even days after they closed a case, turning the details over in his mind to see what he could have done better until it drove him to physical sickness that often involved migraines or nausea. His habit had only gotten worse after he had been released from prison, hence why Mike was now also a regular with Dr. Lipschitz. The poor man really should buy stock in Specter Litt Wheeler Williams Ross.
A cursory check of the bathroom proved futile. The door was wide open and the room dark. With a tired exhale, Harvey threw back the bed sheets to seek out his wayward boyfriend.
He expected to find him at the kitchen island, deep in his laptop, or curled up in the corner of the couch with some book Harvey had no hope of ever reading. Instead, he found only a dark, chilly living room.
Harvey shivered unconsciously, his mind still half asleep and running double time trying to determine where the cold spell was coming from. The floor was icy against his feet and goosebumps prickled along his exposed biceps. He rubbed his hands over his arms and finally found the culprit to the temperature conundrum.
The sliding door to the terrace was cracked open, the chilly October breeze sucking all the heat right out into the inky black night. Silhouetted against the shimmering lights of New York City, Mike lent against the railing, his head bowed and his arms wrapped around his skinny frame.
Slowly, as to not scare the younger man, Harvey pushed the door open a bit further and slipped into the cold night. It took all of his self-control not to give a sharp inhale as he stepped out onto the damp, freezing boards of the terrace, but Mike appeared to be none the wiser. His boyfriend had his eyes closed, gently swaying with the night breeze, but Harvey could tell he wasn't asleep. If not for the fact that he was quite literally still standing but also because he'd never known the man to fall asleep cold.
"Mike," Harvey whispered. Mike didn't even open his eyes, but Harvey saw the way his shoulders relaxed ever-so-slightly from where they'd been around his neck, tense and anxious.
Harvey reached out and brushed his fingers tentatively over the thin fabric of Mike's sleep shirt. Of the two of them, Mike was the one keener on sleeping in a shirt and pants. Not only did they keep him warm, but Harvey had a sneaking suspicion that Mike felt more comfortable covering the evidence of the weight he had never quite gained back from Danbury, even over three years later. It made Harvey incredibly sad, to be completely honest; he thought Mike's body was stunning and impossibly hot, and he told the man that no less than twice a night, but he also accepted that Mike had issues just as much as he did. It wasn't fair for Harvey to dismiss Mike's problems when the latter did anything but for him.
Harvey gripped the younger man's shoulder and gently turned him around until they were face to face, Mike's head still bowed in a sad imitation of sleep. "Hey," Harvey murmured. "What're you doing up? You wanna tell me what's going on in that head of yours?"
Mike shook his head and slowly, achingly slowly, raised his head, cracking open bleary, bloodshot eyes to stare at Harvey with the most pathetic expression he'd ever seen.
"Couldn't sleep," he mumbled.
Harvey reached up and stroked Mike's cheekbone, the skin icy under Harvey's fingertips. Mike lent into his touch and allowed his eyes to flutter shut again. "Yeah, I can see that."
And really, Harvey should have seen this coming, would have seen it coming had he not been so utterly brain-dead exhausted himself. Mike was the perfect choice for pulling any number of all-nighters; he could run for days on nothing but caffeine and determination. But inevitably, those days full of too much adrenaline and too little sleep and sustenance to counteract it, caught up with him. The only downside was that Mike could not for the life of him shut his brain off. Three, four days without sleep, and his brain stubbornly persisted, preventing the rest of his body from getting the rest it so greatly needed, leading to the sickness. Mike was the worst insomniac, and it hurt Harvey to know that the very thing everyone admired about Mike—himself included—was also the very thing that hurt Mike the most. His brain was so beautiful, but it caused him grief more often than not.
"You take any of the pills Lipschitz gave you?"
Mike made a sort of noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. "Hm. Before bed. Threw them back up about an hour ago."
"An hour? Mike, why didn't you wake me?"
Mike shrugged, leaning forward to rest his head on Harvey's collarbone. Harvey could feel his breath against his bare skin. "You're tired, too. Don't need to bother with me."
Harvey sighed. This was an ongoing battle between them. Mike was so worried about being a bother, and Harvey wanted nothing more than to be bothered if it meant that for once in his life someone actually sought him out for comfort, not that he'd ever admit it out loud.
He reached up and lightly cupped the back of Mike's head, scratching the hair at the base of his boyfriend's neck and loving the way Mike melted into his chest. "You're never a bother, Mike. How many times have you helped me through a panic attack? It's the least I can do."
Mike sniffled quietly as if he were close to tears, which given the situation, could have very well been true. Harvey would feel like crying, too, if he'd been awake for over three days straight, and his own body was keeping him from the sleep he desperately craved.
"'S'different," Mike mumbled into Harvey's shoulder. He shivered, and Harvey wrapped his arm around Mike's thinner frame.
"Yeah? How so?"
"Your attacks make sense. My problems…stupid."
"Mike…" Harvey trailed off. Mike was right; he was exhausted, too exhausted to be having this conversation on his freezing-cold terrace at three in the goddamn morning. It was nothing new, that was for sure, and so Harvey didn't feel all that guilty about shepherding the issue off for the morning when he'd had at least six more hours of sleep and a few cups of coffee.
"I'm so tired, Harv," Mike whispered. The admission was so quiet Harvey almost missed it, even mere inches from Mike. It was spoken like an admission of guilt, like Mike felt himself culpable for some impossible crime. He shivered again, and Harvey mindlessly rubbed his hands over Mike's bare arms. He really needed to get them both back inside.
Harvey squeezed his eyes shut. He turned and pressed a kiss to Mike's temple, resting his forehead against Mike's hair when he pulled away. "I know, sweetheart. I know."
That should have been a testament to how exhausted Mike was. Any other time, he would have pounced on Harvey for the nickname. As a general rule, they didn't do conventional pet names; they both thought they were cliché and overused. That wasn't to say they didn't have names for each other, but surely no normal person would see Harvey's "Puppy" or "Rookie" for the affection it truly was beneath the ribbing compared to Mike's occasional "Babe" or "Harv." Only when one of them was having a particularly hard time or feeling overly vulnerable did they bust out the so-called sappy names.
They stood like that for a long moment, Harvey wrapped around Mike with the sounds of the City that Never Sleeps far below, until Mike shivered once more and tried to burrow even further into Harvey's warmth.
He sighed and gently tugged Mike's elbow towards the half-open door. "Let's get you inside, yeah?"
Mike said nothing, too out-of-it to protest. Harvey led him back into their silent apartment, back into the warmth, shutting and latching the glass door behind them. Mike allowed himself to be led all the way up to the bedroom and into the en suite before he said a word.
"What're you doing?" He asked, squinting against the lights Harvey had flicked on.
Harvey opened the shower door and busied himself with turning the knobs and trying to adjust the water to the perfect temperature. "What's it look like I'm doing? I'm turning on the shower."
Mike drew his eyebrows together, clearly confused. It would have been kind of adorable if it didn't just remind Harvey how burnt-out Mike was. "But why?" Mike asked. "I had a shower before I went to bed."
"Yeah, I know," Harvey said, placing his hands under Mike's t-shirt and pulling it over the younger man's head. Mike obliged without any resistance, although he did sway rather precariously from the force of the action. "But it'll get you warmed up and hopefully get you feeling the good kind of tired. And besides, I know you sleep better when your hair's wet. Every little thing helps."
Mike stared at him like he couldn't quite believe Harvey was real, or at the very least, standing right in front of him. He made no move to help Harvey in undressing himself, either, which was honestly just as well. It was one of the many things Harvey considered himself to be rather adept at.
If it weren't half past too early in the morning, Harvey definitely would have made some sort of lewd joke. As it was, he was more focused on getting Mike to sleep, one way or another.
Once he had finished stripping Mike, he quickly pulled off his own pants. There was no way he was letting Mike stand in a slippery shower by himself as tired as he was. The last thing he needed was to try and explain to the others at the firm how Mike had managed to brain himself in the shower and that it had absolutely nothing to do with any extracurricular activities. Because God knew they would draw their own conclusions. People loved to tell them they used too much PDA at the office but clearly, they had never walked in on one of Louis and Sheila's "conversations."
Harvey got in the shower and pulled Mike in after him, letting the younger man lean against his chest, his eyes closed. As much as Harvey did not want to have to hull Mike's gangly frame back to the bed, he half hoped the kid had fallen asleep against him. It would take a small miracle to get him resting before the sun came up, and now that he was awake, Harvey refused to go back to sleep until Mike followed him there too, so by extension, it would take a small miracle for Harvey to be asleep again before the sun started to rise.
Mike was boneless against Harvey. He washed the younger man's hair with unscented shampoo, the kind that wouldn't make the inevitable migraine worse. He moved his hands over Mike's exposed back in slow, looping patterns, pressing carefully into the tight muscles around his neck and shoulders where he tended to carry the most tension. Mike made a noise of discomfort when Harvey pressed on what must have been a particularly tender spot right around the juncture of his shoulder and neck, and Harvey shushed him with a quiet apology.
When all the soap was gone and Mike had begun to shiver again, Harvey turned off the water, opened the door, and pulled a towel from the heater to wrap around Mike who was still clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping him standing. Harvey pressed a kiss to Mike's forehead as he toweled off the younger man's hair.
Harvey chuckled. "You look like you stuck your finger in a light socket."
Usually, there would have been some sort of snappy comeback, a comment about the size of Harvey's forehead or the like. But instead, he got only a feeble grunt in response as Mike swayed where he stood, gripping the edge of the warm towel with white knuckles.
Harvey reached across both of them to snag the clothes he'd set out, from the sink counter. He threw on a pair of boxers as quickly as he could and turned back to Mike. "Alright, Rookie, you're gonna have to let go to get these on."
Mike just shuddered and gripped the towel tighter. Harvey sighed. It was entirely too early for this, even if none of it was Mike's fault. Harvey forcefully pried Mike's fingers from the towel despite his boyfriend's weak attempts at protesting and made quick work of getting Mike into a clean pair of boxers, sweats, and a faded gray Harvard baseball t-shirt that hung loosely off his frame and proudly declared SPECTER across the back in big, bold letters.
As much as Harvey grumbled and complained about Mike stealing his clothes, he had to admit, there was something about Mike wearing his clothes that he found supremely hot, even at three in the morning.
He guided Mike towards their bedroom. Mike wrapped his arms around himself in some sad pantomime of a hug the moment Harvey released him long enough to turn on the bed warmer to take the chill off the sheets and pull back the covers. The gesture was almost enough for Harvey to abandon his tasks completely and wrap his boyfriend back into a warm hug, but he persisted. Mike could cuddle up all he wanted once Harvey got him back into bed.
Harvey patted Mike's pillow. "Alright, Pup, bed."
"Thought dogs weren't allowed on the bed?" Mike mumbled, a ghost of a smile gracing his face.
Harvey grinned. "I can make an exception just this once. This one's kind of cute."
Mike wrinkled his nose, not helping his case whatsoever, and shuffled towards the bed. "I'm not cute," he mumbled.
"Sure, you're not," Harvey said, pressing a kiss to Mike's temple. He maneuvered Mike on to the mattress and pulled the covers over his shoulders. "How's your head?"
"Hm, s'okay."
"You want any meds yet?"
Mike buried his head in the pillow and grumbled. Harvey reached down and ran his fingers slowly through Mike's damp, spiky hair. Mike sighed and relaxed further into the mattress. "I'll take that as a 'no' then. You wake me if you feel sick again, okay? That's an order."
Harvey crawled back into bed himself, and immediately, Mike shifted over to bury his face against Harvey's side just like every other night. Harvey took the TV remote from the bedside table and flicked the flatscreen on to a rerun of some shitty sitcom that was only on at God's hour, turned the volume down low, and settled back into his pillow.
Mike turned his head curiously to peer at Harvey through the minimal light from the TV. "You hate sleepin' with the TV on."
Harvey wrapped his arm around Mike and ran his hand through the younger man's hair again, tracing his fingers down the expanse of his bare neck and scratching lightly at the skin just beneath the collar of Mike's tee. "I do not. In fact, it's arguably one of Billy Joel's best songs," he quipped with a smirk he was sure Mike could still see even in the dim light.
Mike huffed. His breath tickled Harvey's collarbone. "Not what I meant, H."
Harvey kissed Mike's hair. "I know, Rookie. Just teasing. You're right, I don't like sleeping with it on. But you do, and right now, I couldn't give a shit what I like as long as it puts you to sleep."
"Thanks. For everything," Mike whispered. He inclined his head just enough to brush his lips over Harvey's ribs before snuggling back in and finally, finally, allowing his eyelids to flutter shut.
"Anytime, sweetheart," Harvey whispered, watching as Mike's breaths at last evened out with sleep. Once he was sure Mike was out for good, he allowed his own eyes to fall shut, soaking up the warmth of the sheets and Mike's presence at his side. "Anytime."