Chapter Text
The thing about Harvey Specter was that he didn’t do anything halfway. He didn’t half-win, he didn’t half-argue, and apparently—Mike learned on a Wednesday night after a particularly brutal week of litigation—he didn’t half-sing either.
The bar was packed, buzzing with the kind of reckless energy that only came after lawyers celebrated making an opposing counsel cry in open court. Harvey wasn’t exactly the karaoke type—he was more the sip scotch in a corner while smirking type—but Mike, two and a half beers past reasonable judgment, had decided this was the night.
"Come on," Mike said, elbow propped against the bar, eyes glinting. "I dare you. One song. That’s all. I’ll even let you pick."
Harvey didn’t even blink. "No."
"You didn’t even think about it!"
"I did. My answer’s no." He raised his glass, the picture of finality.
Mike leaned closer. "What’s wrong, Harvey? Afraid your reputation as the big bad closer can’t survive a rendition of ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’?"
Harvey finally looked at him, and Mike felt a flicker in his chest he didn’t want to name. "Mike, the day I’m afraid of karaoke is the day Louis Litt runs this firm."
"So that’s a yes."
"That’s a hallucination brought on by cheap beer."
And that should’ve been the end of it, except some devilish spark lit in Harvey’s eyes when Mike muttered, just loud enough, "Figures. All talk, no mic."
That did it. Harvey set his glass down like he was laying a closing argument on the table and stood. "One song. Don’t blink, Rookie."
Mike hadn’t blinked. He had, however, nearly dropped his beer when Harvey—his boss, his mentor, the man who weaponized charm for sport—took the stage, loosened his tie with one graceful tug, and then, casually, as if he wasn’t about to wreck Mike’s entire worldview, sang.
And Jesus Christ, the man could sing.
Not just karaoke sing. Not just "better than average" sing. Harvey sang like he’d been keeping this little secret talent locked in a vault and decided tonight was the night to casually blow it open. His voice was smooth, deep, a little rough at the edges, sliding over the melody like it had been built for him. And the worst part? He didn’t even try. He just stood there, one hand in his pocket, the other lazily holding the mic, eyes half-lidded like this was no big deal, like he hadn’t just turned half the bar into instant groupies.
Mike stared, slack-jawed, somewhere between awe and fury. This wasn’t fair. Harvey was already Harvey. He already had the looks, the confidence, the everything. And now—apparently—he could croon like Sinatra’s cooler, hotter nephew.
When the song ended, the bar erupted into applause. Harvey gave a faint nod, like he’d just finished a client meeting instead of casually rewriting the definition of karaoke. Then he walked back to the bar, collected his drink, and sat like nothing had happened.
Mike blinked at him. "What the hell was that?"
Harvey sipped his scotch. "That was me winning. Again."
"No, that was—you—you can’t just—" Mike flailed, words breaking apart like cars in a pile-up. "You can sing?"
"Apparently."
"Apparently?" Mike’s voice cracked on the word. "Harvey, you don’t ‘apparently’ sound like that. You either can or you can’t, and you definitely—definitely—can. What the hell?"
Harvey shrugged, infuriatingly serene. "Don’t make a big deal out of it."
"Don’t—" Mike choked on his beer. "Don’t make a big deal out of it? You just—where the hell did that even come from? Do you have, like, a secret past as a lounge singer? Were you discovered in a smoky jazz club before you sold your soul to corporate law?"
"Mike." Harvey’s voice cut sharp, low. "It was one song."
"Yeah, one song that just—" Mike waved his arms. "—defied the basic laws of fairness!"
Harvey smirked, leaned back, and gave him a slow once-over. "You’re upset because I’m better at karaoke than you. Admit it."
"I’m upset because you’re better at everything than me, and now you’re adding karaoke to the list!" Mike shot back, only realizing too late how bitter that sounded. But Harvey just laughed—low, smooth, effortless—as if he hadn’t just ruined Mike’s night and possibly his entire conception of reality.
The worst part? Harvey refused to ever do it again.
Not that night, not the next week, not ever. Mike tried every trick—casual nudges, bribes, outright begging—but Harvey stonewalled him with the same icy precision he used on opposing counsel. Every "no" was absolute, delivered with that smug curl of his lips that made Mike want to throttle him and kiss him at the same time, which was becoming a bigger problem than he wanted to admit.
The more Harvey refused, the more it gnawed at him. It felt personal, like Harvey was deliberately messing with him. And maybe he was. Harvey enjoyed control. He enjoyed leverage. And right now, Mike was dangling on the hook, unable to stop replaying that one perfect, ridiculous performance in his head.
By week three, Mike was starting to question his sanity.
He cornered Harvey in the office once, half-whispered, "Come on, just once more."
Harvey didn’t even look up from his files. "This is Pearson Hardman, Mike, not American Idol."
"You started it!"
"Correction: you dared me. I finished it."
Mike was about to explode when Donna appeared, like she always did, unannounced and far too perceptive for anyone’s good. She gave Mike a look—half amused, half exasperated—that made him shut his mouth mid-argument. But later, when Harvey was gone, she pulled him aside.
"You look like you’re about to combust," she said flatly.
Mike groaned. "You have no idea. He won’t—he just—he did it once, Donna. Just once. And now he’s pretending it never happened."
Her eyes narrowed, a flicker of recognition flashing across her face. "Wait. He sang?"
Mike blinked. "You knew?"
She looked vaguely haunted. "I heard him once. Years ago. Charity event, open bar, some idiot put his name down as a joke. He got up there and—well—you heard. And then he swore me to silence, like it was the damn nuclear codes."
Mike stared. "So you get it! You get why this is insane-making!"
Donna leaned in, eyes sharp, almost manic. "Mike, if you can get proof—real proof—I’ll pay you."
Mike frowned. "Pay me?"
She named a number. A ridiculous, obscene number. The kind of number that could pay off Mike’s fake student loans twice over.
His jaw dropped. "That much? For... karaoke?"
Her smile was sharp, desperate. "You don’t understand. He did the same thing to me that he’s doing to you. One song. One perfect song. And then nothing. Do you know what it’s like living with that? Years, Mike. Years of knowing Harvey Specter can sing like that and never getting to hear it again."
Mike gaped. Donna’s eyes were wild, just a fraction unhinged, like this had been festering inside her for years and Mike had just cracked it open.
And that’s when he knew: he had to get it.
Not for the money. Not even for Donna. For himself. For his sanity. For the gnawing, impossible truth that Harvey Specter had a voice like that and chose—deliberately, sadistically—not to use it.
He would get the proof. Even if it killed him.