Work Text:
***
The phone rang at half past eleven at night.
Harvey was already in bed with a book — a rare luxury for a man who usually only read documents. He glanced at the screen and frowned.
Mike.
"If you're calling me at eleven o'clock at night to tell me you lost a file, I'll kill you," Harvey answered instead of a greeting.
"I didn't lose a file," Mike's voice sounded tired, but with that familiar note of I solved the problem, you can be proud of m. "I found the Forster contract."
Harvey sat up in bed.
"What?"
"That one from like two-thousand-something. Remember you said if we find it, we win the case? I found it."
"Where?!"
"In the archives. In a box labeled 'old tax stuff.' Someone back in ninety-nine shoved it in the wrong place and it's just... been sitting there. All these years."
Harvey was silent for a few seconds. Then he laughed — short, almost disbelieving.
"You're a goddamn genius."
"I know," Mike's smile slipped into his voice. "I'll bring it to the office tomorrow. Good night, Harvey."
"Good night, Mike."
A pause.
And then — very quietly, almost automatically, the way you say "see you later" or "thanks," because it just slips out when you're tired and relaxed and talking to someone you don't have to filter yourself around:
"Yeah. Love you. Bye."
Click.
Mike hung up, not even noticing.
Harvey stayed sitting in bed, phone in his hand, staring at the dark screen.
Love you. Bye.
Like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like this was how they'd ended every conversation for the past six months. Like Harvey was supposed to know.
But he didn't know.
He missed it.
Harvey put the phone down. Picked up his book. Put the book down. Stared at the ceiling.
Are they dating? Already? For a while? Did he just not notice? What if Mike thinks this is normal and Harvey's just an asshole who does nothing? What if Mike's already waiting and Harvey just... just didn't get it?
Cold panic rose in his chest.
***
Harvey walked into Donna's office and closed the door.
"Donna. Question."
She raised an eyebrow.
"Mike and I. Are we... together?"
If Donna had been drinking coffee, she would have choked. Instead, she just blinked. Once. Twice.
"Harvey. Are you serious?"
Donna looked at him.
"Tell me one thing," she said finally. "Do you want to be with him?"
Harvey opened his mouth.
And closed it.
Because the answer was somewhere deep inside, but he'd never let himself put it into words.
"I..." he started, and stopped.
Donna nodded, like she'd heard exactly what she expected.
"Then catch up," she said simply.
Of course Donna always knew what to do.
***
Harvey started.
Coffee in the mornings. Once, then twice, then — daily.
Dinners. Three times a week. Not work meetings — real dinners, where no one talks about cases. Where Mike laughs and rolls his eyes, and Harvey catches himself smiling.
Flowers.
That was the problem.
Harvey had no idea what flowers Mike liked. He tried to find out through Donna.
"Donna," he started one morning, pretending he was just passing by. "You wouldn't happen to know... what flowers Mike likes?"
Donna turned slowly.
"Harvey. Are you serious right now?"
Harvey blinked.
She turned back to her monitor.
Harvey stood in the middle of the office with an expression Donna saved in her memory forever.
Something very strange was happening.
Donna didn't like not knowing.
***
Harvey had been ordering flowers regularly, but he struggled with the choice every time. He'd tried everything: roses (too obvious), lilies (too pretentious), tulips (Mike didn't even look at them). It was starting to piss him off. At one point he actually got brave enough to ask Mike directly, but when the answer came back as 'cacti', he decided he would never take Mike's responses to his romantic gestures seriously again.
And then Louis burst into his office.
"Harvey!" Louis was beaming like he'd just won a case. "I was looking at the corporate card statements. You're spending a fortune on flowers. From different florists every time. Is this some new way of closing deals or do you just not know how to use discounts?"
Harvey said nothing.
Louis, of course, couldn't stop:
"I have a contact at a delivery service. They do subscriptions. Fresh bouquet every week. Thirty percent savings." He paused for dramatic effect. "Also, they do personalized bouquets."
Harvey raised an eyebrow.
"They have this special service," Louis lowered his voice like he was sharing state secrets. "You send them a photo of the person, and based on coloring, personality, even, quote, 'energy,' they put together a personalized bouquet. There's this wonderful woman who works there, Marie — never misses. They guarantee the person will love it. I figured, if you're spending firm money on flowers anyway, at least let it be efficient."
Harvey looked at him for a long moment.
"I need that contact," he said finally.
***
"So, here's what I can offer you for Mike," Marie began explaining. "I'll be honest — my first assumption was based purely on looks, but when you started describing him, it all clicked. Sunflowers — they represent devotion and the light a person carries inside them. Irises — strength, wisdom, hidden depth. As attractive as Mike might be, there's a lot stored inside him. Fern — protection, home, comfort. I think sometimes Mike lacks these things, and you, Harvey, could give them to him. Starting with a bouquet, for example."
Marie was magnificent. Harvey bought a year-long subscription. The thirty percent he saved probably went to Marie as a tip.
***
On his day off, a delivery man brought Mike a bouquet. Five huge sunflowers, dark blue irises, and ferns.
Inside was a note with no signature, but Mike would recognize that handwriting anywhere.
"I reject 'cacti' as an answer to the flower question."
Mike snorted and put the sunflowers in the biggest jar he could find.
***
Every time Harvey Specter walked into the office, there were only two possible outcomes: either someone was about to die, or whatever he'd been looking for had finally been found.
Usually, he was looking for Mike.
And usually, the looks thrown Mike's way screamed louder than words: "What the hell did you do?"
Harsh.
But the last few weeks, something was different.
Harvey no longer dropped assignments on Mike's desk. He put coffee on Mike's desk.
And for the first time in Pearson Hardman's history, no one breathed a sigh of relief when Harvey Specter finally left their cramped fortress known as the bullpen.
Mike included.
The first-years hadn't breathed in three weeks.
"Harvey, did I do something wrong?" Mike asked one day, when the tension became unbearable.
"No, of course not," Harvey answered too quickly. Too softly.
The first-years, watching from behind their monitors, held their breath in unison.
What the hell did Mike do?
***
It happened in the elevator.
Mike was telling him something — about a case, probably — and Harvey caught himself just looking at him. At the way he smiled. At the way the light hit him.
And suddenly, like a punch to the gut:
We're not together.
Because if they were together, Mike would have said something. Or kissed him. Or at least looked at him differently. This was Mike.
Harvey got out on his floor and realized: he hadn't just missed a moment. He'd invented one.
Which meant now he had to do this for real.
***
"Donna. Question."
She raised an eyebrow. The tone was serious.
"Mike and I. Are we... together?" Harvey asked the question again, a month later. Because he still didn't know.
Donna looked at him.
"Harvey," she said slowly. "If you don't know whether you're dating someone or not, the problem isn't Mike."
"I know," he snapped. "That's not what I'm asking. I'm asking: should I know? Did it already happen? Did I fall behind?"
Donna sighed.
"I don't know anything," she said out loud. "And that pisses me off."
Everything was complicated. Even Donna didn't know. Harvey had fallen behind.
***
It didn't happen over dinner.
Not in the office.
It happened in Harvey's car, at one in the morning, after Mike accidentally mentioned he had nowhere to stay because his neighbor flooded his apartment.
Harvey just nodded, drove them to his place, threw Mike a t-shirt, and went to take a shower.
When he came out — Mike was standing in the middle of the living room with his phone in his hand and a strange expression on his face.
"You okay?" Harvey asked, towel drying his hair.
"I was going through old recordings," Mike said quietly.
"Of what?"
"That call. A month ago. At night. About the Forster contract."
Harvey froze.
"I accidentally hit it while looking for something else," Mike continued, not looking at him. "And I heard it."
A pause.
"Heard what?" Harvey's voice was steady, but inside everything was collapsing.
"Myself," Mike raised his eyes. "I said 'love you' at the end of the call. And I didn't even notice."
Harvey was silent.
"Harvey." Mike stepped toward him. "Did you hear it?"
"Yes."
"And you said nothing?"
"What was I supposed to say?" Harvey suddenly got angry. At himself. At the situation. At being cornered. "'Oh thanks, love you too'? 'Did you mean that'? I didn't know what it meant! I thought... I thought we..."
He stopped.
"Thought we what?" Mike asked quietly.
"I thought we were already... that you said it because it's normal between us. Because we're... together."
The silence was thick enough to cut.
"Harvey," Mike breathed. "We're not together."
"I know!" Harvey ran a hand over his face. "I know now. But then... then I thought I just missed something important. That you already considered me... yours. And I was just a dumb asshole who didn't get it. So I tried to catch up. All that stupid shit with the flowers, the dinners, the coffee..."
"It wasn't stupid shit," Mike interrupted.
Harvey froze.
"What?"
"It was..." Mike swallowed. "It was the best thing that ever happened to me. I just thought you were making fun of me. Or pitying me. Or going crazy."
"I wasn't..."
"I know," Mike stepped closer. "I know now."
They stood across from each other in the dim living room, separated by half a meter and a wall of everything unsaid from the past months.
"Harvey," Mike said. "You're an idiot."
"I know."
"I'm an idiot too."
"That I've known for a while."
Mike snorted, but his eyes were shining.
"You tried to catch up to something that never happened," he said. "And I was too scared to believe it could."
Harvey looked at him.
"And now?"
Mike smiled — that smile Harvey, it turned out, would do anything for.
"Now," Mike said, "maybe we just start? Fresh?"
Harvey exhaled.
And for the first time in a long time — smiled back.
"Fresh," he repeated. "But I bought a flower subscription, so..."
"Flowers stay," Mike nodded. "I'm used to them."
Mike blinked.
"Harvey. You got a flower subscription. For me."
***
Donna stood at the bar with a glass of champagne, feeling like she'd won the lottery.
Not because she was best man — though that alone was an honor. But because everything happening today was her personal triumph.
"I saw it all," she said to no one in particular.
"Saw what?" Louis asked, approaching with a glass three-quarters full.
"This." Donna gestured with her glass around the room. "Them."
On the dance floor, Harvey and Mike moved in that slow rhythm that had nothing to do with the music. Harvey whispered something in Mike's ear, and Mike smiled the way people smile when they know they're loved.
"Did you know they'd get married?" Louis asked with a hint of admiration.
"I knew they'd get together before they knew it themselves," Donna smirked.
"Don't lie," Louis shook his head. "Without me, they'd still be struggling over flower choices. And if Harvey couldn't get that out of you, it means you didn't know. Which means I knew before you did."
Donna turned to him very slowly.
"Louis. What did you say?"
"I asked about flowers," Louis shrugged. "And recommended that service with the personalized bouquets. And the subscription. So he'd stop wasting firm money on random florists."
Donna looked at him with horror and respect simultaneously.
"You're telling me you chose the flowers surrounding this wedding right now."
"Well, not me personally," Louis clarified modestly. "But I created the conditions."
"Louis Litt," Donna said slowly. "You sponsored their love."
"I just helped a colleague with expense optimization," Louis said, offended. "The fact that it led to... this," he waved toward the grooms, "is pure coincidence."
"Pure coincidence," Donna repeated.
"Pure," Louis said firmly. And added more quietly: "But satisfying as hell."
Donna downed her champagne in one gulp.
"But now you know," Louis smiled.
Donna sighed.
"Yes. Now I know."
She set down her glass, straightened her dress, and headed for the dance floor. Because if she didn't tell them right now that she'd been right, she'd burst from self-satisfaction.
"Harvey," she said, approaching. "Mike."
They turned, still holding hands.
"I want you to know," Donna began with a smile that made Harvey's eye twitch. "I knew. From the very beginning."
"You did not," Mike protested, but his eyes sparkled.
Donna shook her head and clinked an imaginary glass against the air.
"To idiots," she said.
"To idiots," they answered in unison.
And somewhere in the corner, Louis Litt finished his champagne with a feeling of deep satisfaction.
Because without him, this conversation might never have happened.
And the flowers — them either. And those 30% that were never saved for the firm. They went to Marie.
Louis will never know.