Work Text:
Mike starts regretting his decision to stay late the second he hears the thunder roll.
It rattles low and mean somewhere beyond the glass walls of the office, loud enough that he pauses with one hand shoved inside his messenger bag and the other halfway through stacking a mess of papers into something that might pass for organized if no one looks too closely.
“Great,” he says.
Because, of course.
He’d told Harvey to go ahead. Go home. Get settled in. Order something for dinner. He wouldn’t be far behind.
Harvey had stood leaning against Mike’s cubicle, one shoulder against the frame, looking entirely too skeptical for a man who had already been given permission to leave.
“You sure?” Harvey had asked. “I heard it might rain.”
Mike had looked up at him over the top of a file. “What is with you old people and always knowing the weather?”
“What’s with soon-to-be unemployed associates not being prepared for anything?”
“I am prepared,” Mike had said, deeply offended. “I have an umbrella.”
Harvey’s eyebrows had lifted. “Oh yeah? And you’re going to hold that while riding your bike through the streets of New York?”
It had sounded half incredulous, half impressed, which Mike had absolutely taken as a challenge.
“I could do it on a unicycle if I really wanted to.”
“Are you trying to put me off sex with you forever?”
“Off sex?” Mike had asked, grinning. “I thought that would be a turn on.”
Harvey had just rolled his eyes, though Mike hadn’t missed the corner of his mouth twitching.
“I’m going home,” Harvey had said.
“Coward.”
“Employed coward.”
Then he’d left.
Now, an hour and a half later, Mike is standing in the bullpen, staring out at the dark sky and realizing he forgot his umbrella.
Which is fine.
It’s fine.
The storm still sounds like it’s thinking about itself more than committing to anything. There’s thunder, sure, and the sky is definitely doing that ominous gray-black thing, but it isn’t raining hard yet. If he leaves now, he can probably make it back to Harvey’s before the whole thing turns disastrous.
Probably.
Mike shoves the last of his papers into his bag, slings it over his shoulder, and heads for the elevators.
By the time he gets outside, the air has that wet-electric smell that always comes right before a storm breaks open. The sidewalk is slick beneath the streetlights. Wind pushes at the edges of his jacket, cold and damp, and Mike glances up at the sky.
“Don’t,” he tells it.
The sky, as usual, does not care what Mike has to say.
He makes it about fifteen minutes before the first real sheet of rain hits.
Then another.
Then the sky gives up pretending and absolutely unloads on him.
“Shit,” Mike says, squinting through the water running into his eyes.
Within seconds, he’s soaked through. His hair is plastered to his forehead, his pants are clinging uncomfortably to his legs, and his jacket is doing exactly nothing except becoming heavier by the second.
He keeps going for another block because he’s stubborn and because stopping feels like admitting Harvey was right.
Then the rain gets worse.
Mike curses again, louder this time, and pulls his bike toward the curb. A taxi rushes by too fast, sending a spray of filthy water up from the street. Mike jerks back, barely avoiding the worst of it, and decides that dignity is overrated.
A cab. He’s calling a cab.
Or Ray, if Ray is around and doesn’t mind rescuing him from his own bad decisions again.
Mike ducks into the mouth of an alley, just far enough in to get under the partial cover of a rusted fire escape. It doesn’t stop the rain completely, but it slows it enough that Mike can at least pull his phone from his pocket without drowning it.
He wipes rain off the screen with his sleeve, which is useless because his sleeve is also soaked, and starts scrolling for Ray’s number.
That’s when he hears it.
A small sound.
Mike stills.
For a second, he thinks it might be the pipes, or the wind knocking something loose, or just the weird way sound bounces around the city when it rains. But then it comes again.
Soft.
Thin.
Almost swallowed by the storm.
Mike lowers his phone.
“Hello?” he calls, glancing deeper into the alley.
The only answer is the rain hammering against dumpsters and metal grates.
Mike takes one careful step forward. “Anybody there?”
The sound comes again.
A whimper.
Mike’s chest tightens before he can stop it.
“Hey,” he says, softer now. “It’s okay. Do you need help?”
He moves deeper into the alley, blinking through the dim light and the rain. There’s garbage piled near one wall, a few broken-down boxes collapsed into wet pulp, a dumpster with the lid hanging crooked. For a second, he doesn’t see anything.
Then something shifts in the shadows.
Mike stops.
“Oh,” he breathes.
It’s a dog.
Medium-sized, he thinks, though it’s hard to tell under all the rain and dirt. Some kind of lab mix, maybe. Its fur is matted flat to its body, dark with water and grime. It’s tucked in on itself beside the dumpster, trembling hard enough that Mike can see it from several feet away.
And it’s thin.
Too thin.
Not just missed-a-meal thin. Not just scrappy city stray thin. Thin in a way that makes Mike's stomach sink.
“Hey, buddy,” Mike says quietly.
The dog doesn’t move.
Mike crouches down, ignoring the cold splash of water against his knees. “Hey. It’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt you.”
The dog watches him with wide, uncertain eyes.
Mike stays where he is.
He knows enough not to rush it. Knows enough about scared things to understand that reaching too fast can feel like a threat, even when all you’re trying to do is help.
So he sinks lower, until he’s sitting on the wet, filthy ground in the middle of an alley while rain blows in sideways and soaks through every layer he’s wearing.
Harvey would have a stroke if he could see him.
Actually, Harvey might have two strokes. One for the dirt and one for the dog.
Mike holds out one hand, palm up.
“Come here,” he says gently. “It’s okay. I know. Bad night, huh?”
The dog whines again but doesn’t come any closer.
Mike waits.
The rain keeps falling. Water drips from the fire escape above him and slides down the back of his neck. His bike is propped awkwardly near the entrance to the alley. His messenger bag is probably taking on water. His phone buzzes once in his hand, but he doesn’t look at it.
“Yeah,” Mike murmurs. “I know. I wouldn’t trust me either.”
The dog’s ears twitch.
Mike gives a tiny smile. “That’s fair. I kind of have a terrible track record with making responsible choices.”
Another minute passes.
Then five.
Then ten.
Mike keeps talking because silence feels unhelpful.
He tells the dog about Harvey, which is probably a mistake. He tells it that Harvey has a very nice apartment and very expensive towels and absolutely no tolerance for mud, which is going to be a problem for everyone involved. He tells it Harvey’s bark is worse than his bite, then pauses and amends that Harvey’s bark is actually pretty bad too, but only if you’re opposing counsel or Louis Litt.
The dog keeps watching him.
Then, slowly, its tail gives one small, uncertain thump against the ground.
Mike’s heart does something stupid.
“There we go,” he whispers. “Hi.”
The tail moves again.
Mike doesn’t move his hand. He doesn’t lean forward. He just waits.
It takes nearly twenty minutes before the dog finally inches toward him.
One step.
Then another.
Then another.
By the time it gets close enough to sniff Mike’s fingers, Mike’s legs are half-numb from sitting in the wet, but he doesn’t care.
“Hey,” he says, barely above the rain. “There you are.”
The dog sniffs his hand.
Then licks it.
Mike laughs, soft and helpless.
“Oh, you’re a sweetheart, aren’t you?”
Apparently, that’s all the permission the dog needs.
The second Mike gets his hand on its head, something changes. The dog presses forward all at once, like some invisible barrier has snapped. Its tail starts wagging wildly, fast enough to shake its whole body, and then it’s crawling into Mike’s lap like they’ve known each other forever.
Mike huffs out a surprised laugh as wet paws land against his thighs.
“Okay. Okay, hi. Yeah, hi.”
The dog licks his chin, then his cheek, then tries for his mouth.
“Buddy,” Mike says, laughing harder and turning his head away. “Buy me dinner first.”
The dog only wags harder.
Mike runs his hands carefully over its neck, searching through soaked fur. No collar. No tags. Nothing.
His smile fades a little.
“Yeah,” he says to himself. “Okay.”
The dog looks up at him.
Mike sighs.
Harvey is going to kill him.
Mike gets his phone out again.
This time, he calls Ray.
Ray answers on the fourth ring. “You need a ride?”
“Wow,” Mike says. “No hello?”
“You only call me in weather like this when you need a ride.”
“That’s not true.”
“Mike.”
“Okay, it’s a little true.”
Ray chuckles. “Where are you?”
Mike gives him the cross streets, then glances down at the dog sitting pressed against his side like Mike is the only stable thing in the world.
He should mention the dog.
He absolutely should mention the dog.
He does not mention the dog.
“Just me and my bike,” Mike says instead.
The dog sneezes.
There’s a pause.
Ray says, “Was that you?”
“No.”
Another pause.
Mike closes his eyes.
“Mike.”
“So...there may be a small complication.”
-
Ray shows up fifteen minutes later, because Ray is a saint.
The second Ray sees the dog, he leans over from the driver’s seat and stares through the rain-streaked window.
“Is that your complication?”
Mike gives him his most convincing smile. “He’s friendly.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’ll pay for any cleaning the car needs.”
Ray’s mouth twitches. “You always say that.”
“And I always mean it.”
“Sure you do.”
Mike opens the back door and coaxes the dog inside first. The dog jumps in easily, shakes himself hard, and sprays water everywhere.
Mike freezes.
Ray looks at him in the rearview mirror.
“I’m definitely paying for the cleaning,” Mike says.
Ray laughs and pops the trunk for the bike.
By the time they’re on the road, the dog has settled with his head in Mike’s lap, damp and warm and heavier than he looks. Mike keeps one hand on his head, fingers moving gently through the fur between his ears.
Ray keeps glancing back at them.
“What?” Mike asks.
“Nothing.”
“That’s not a nothing face.”
“I’m just wondering if Mr. Specter knows you’re bringing a stray dog to his place.”
Mike looks down at the dog.
The dog looks up at him.
Mike swallows.
“He doesn’t know yet.”
Ray makes a noise that sounds like he is deeply enjoying himself.
“You really think he’ll be mad?” Mike asks.
Ray pulls up to a red light and looks at Mike in the mirror.
“I’d just say I hope your affairs are in order.”
Mike stares at him.
The dog makes a soft sound and bumps his nose against Mike’s hand.
Mike looks down at him. “Don’t worry, buddy. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Ray laughs under his breath. “Yeah. That’s definitely what I’m worried about.”
By the time Ray pulls up outside Harvey’s building, the rain has slowed to a miserable drizzle, because apparently the universe has a sense of humor and terrible timing.
Mike gets out first, then helps the dog down. The dog lands on the sidewalk and immediately presses close to Mike’s leg, tail wagging despite everything.
Ray helps him get the bike out and shakes his head.
“Good luck,” he says.
“Thanks.”
“You’re gonna need it.”
“Also send me the invoice for the cleaning.”
Ray waves him off. “Go deal with your divorce.”
“We’re not married.”
“Sure,” Ray says, and drives away.
Mike stands on the sidewalk for a second, soaked to the bone, holding his bike with one hand while the dog sits patiently beside him like this is exactly where he was always meant to be.
He looks up at Harvey’s building.
Then down at the dog.
“Well,” Mike says. “In our defense, you’re very cute.”
The dog wags his tail.
“Right. Strong legal argument.”
Mike takes a few deep breaths before he gets his key out.
-
The elevator ride up feels longer than usual. Probably because Mike spends the entire time imagining every possible version of Harvey’s reaction and not a single one of them ends with Harvey saying, Great, Mike, I’ve always wanted a dirty stray dog in my extremely expensive apartment.
The dog, for his part, seems calm.
Possibly because he doesn’t know Harvey.
Or possibly because he knows exactly what he’s doing and is better at manipulation than half the people Mike has met at Pearson Hardman.
The elevator doors open.
Mike walks down the hall.
The dog follows at his side.
“Okay,” Mike whispers. “We’re going to be normal.”
The dog looks at him.
“Fine. I’m going to be normal. You just be adorable.”
The dog tilts its head.
"Perfect. Just like that."
Mike unlocks the door and pushes it open slowly.
The dog steps in next to him.
For a moment, there’s only quiet. Warm air. Clean floors. Expensive furniture. A place that looks like nothing bad has ever happened in it, which Mike knows isn’t true, but it still feels that way sometimes.
They pass the kitchen.
No Harvey.
Mike keeps going into the living room, wincing at the wet footprints appearing behind them.
“Harvey?” he calls.
There’s a noise from down the hall. A drawer closing. Then footsteps.
Then Harvey appears.
He’s changed out of his suit, wearing dark sweatpants and a soft gray shirt, his hair slightly mussed the way it only ever is in this space.
His eyes land on Mike first.
Then they drop to the dog.
Harvey stops dead in his tracks.
“What the hell is that?”
Mike looks down at the dog, then back at Harvey.
“It’s a dog.”
Harvey stares at him. “Yeah, Mike, I get that. What the hell is it doing in my house?”
“I found him.”
“What do you mean you found him?”
Mike gestures vaguely, like that explains anything. “It was raining, and I had to stop and get off my bike, and he was in this alley I went down to take shelter. Look at him, Harvey. He needs help.”
Harvey looks at the dog.
The dog looks back.
Then Harvey looks around his apartment. Up. Down. At the floor. At the trail of muddy paw prints. At Mike, who is also dripping all over the place.
“Does this look like a goddamn animal shelter to you?”
“Come on, Harvey,” Mike says. “Have a heart.”
“I have a heart. I also have hardwood floors.”
“He was alone.”
“So call animal control.”
“It’s late. The shelters are closed.”
“Then call someone whose home already smells like wet dog.”
Mike’s face falls just enough that Harvey’s jaw tightens.
The dog, somehow, chooses that exact moment to sit down and look up at Harvey with the kind of eyes Mike usually uses when he wants something Harvey has already said no to twice.
Harvey narrows his eyes.
The dog wags his tail once.
Mike gives him the same look.
Goddamn it.
Harvey points at Mike. “No.”
“I didn’t even say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was about to say he’s a really good boy.”
“You were about to ask if we could keep him here.”
“Just for tonight.”
“No.”
“Harvey.”
“No.”
“Okay, so what do you want me to do with him?” Mike asks. “Seriously. I’m not putting him back outside. The shelters are closed, he doesn’t have a collar, he doesn’t have tags, and he was freezing out there. Just let me keep him here until I can figure something out.”
“There’s mud tracked all over my house.”
“I’ll clean it up.”
“You’re dripping on my floor right now.”
“I’ll clean that too.”
“And then what’s your plan for the dog?”
“I’ll give him a bath.”
Harvey stares at him.
Mike stares back.
“Why,” Harvey says slowly, “so there can be soap and water tracked all over my bathroom too?”
“Harvey, please.”
Harvey hates that. He hates that tone. He really hates that Mike knows exactly what it does to him. And maybe most of all he hates that the dog is sitting next to him like he was personally trained by Mike Ross in the art of looking abandoned.
The dog blinks up at him.
Mike blinks up at him.
Harvey exhales through his nose.
“Fine.”
Mike’s face lights up.
“But,” Harvey says sharply, before Mike can get too pleased with himself, “we are not keeping the dog.”
“I know.”
“Mike.”
“I said I know, Harvey.”
“But you’re saying it in that voice.”
“What voice?”
“The voice you use when you think I’m going to change my mind if you just wait long enough.”
Mike starts to open his mouth.
Harvey points at him. “Don't you dare deny it.”
Mike's mouth snaps shut.
The dog sneezes.
Harvey looks down at him. “And you. Don’t get comfortable.”
The dog wags his tail.
Mike smiles.
Harvey already regrets everything.
-
The next hour is chaos.
Controlled chaos, maybe, but only in the sense that Harvey controls himself by not throwing Mike, the dog, or both of them back into the rain.
Mike collects towels from the linen closet and then nearly has a cardiac event when Harvey barks, “Not those,” from behind him like Mike has just reached for the nuclear codes.
“They’re towels,” Mike says.
“They’re Egyptian cotton.”
“He’s a dog, Harvey. He doesn’t know what Egyptian cotton is.”
“I know what Egyptian cotton is.”
Mike gives him a look.
Harvey gives one back.
Mike takes the towels anyway.
In the bathroom, Mike runs the bath lukewarm while the dog stands patiently beside him, tail wagging cautiously. He doesn’t try to bolt. He doesn’t growl. He just watches Mike like he’s decided Mike is in charge now and that’s that.
Harvey stands in the doorway with his arms crossed.
“I’m not participating,” he says.
“Noted.”
“I’m serious.”
“Very serious. Got it.”
Mike crouches down and scratches the dog under the chin. “Hear that? He’s not participating.”
The dog licks Mike’s wrist.
“He understands boundaries better than most people I know,” Mike adds.
Harvey’s eyes narrow. “Was that aimed at me?”
“No,” Mike says, too quickly.
Harvey steps farther into the bathroom.
The dog climbs into the tub with surprisingly little resistance, which somehow makes Mike’s heart ache more. Like he’s used to taking what happens to him, like he’s too tired to fight.
Mike’s smile softens.
“Good boy,” he murmurs. “Yeah, you’re okay.”
He reaches for shampoo.
Harvey realizes what he’s grabbed a second too late.
“Mike.”
Mike freezes. “What?”
“That is not dog shampoo.”
“We don’t have dog shampoo.”
“That is my shampoo.”
Mike looks down at the bottle. Then at the dog. Then at Harvey.
“Well,” Mike says, squeezing some into his palm, “I guess he’s going to smell just like you then.”
“I don’t smell like a dog.”
Mike turns solemnly to the dog. “You’re going to smell just like Harvey.”
The dog licks his face.
Mike laughs.
Harvey does not smile.
He absolutely does not smile.
The bath goes better than it has any right to.
The dog sits still while Mike works shampoo through his fur, water turning gray-brown as dirt runs off him in steady streams. Mike talks to him the whole time in a ridiculous soft voice that Harvey has never heard directed at a human being and is not sure he ever wants to admit does something strange to his chest.
“There we go,” Mike says. “Look at you. Fancy boy. You’re gonna be the cleanest dog in Manhattan.”
Harvey leans against the sink. “He’s going to be the only dog in Manhattan using eighty-dollar shampoo.”
“Only the best.”
“For the dog who is not staying.”
Mike glances over his shoulder. “Right. Obviously.”
Harvey does not like that answer.
Halfway through, despite repeatedly and clearly stating he is not participating, Harvey ends up on his knees beside the tub with his sleeves rolled to his elbows, holding the dog steady while Mike rinses him off.
“I want the record to show I am not helping,” Harvey says.
Mike looks pointedly at Harvey’s hand on the dog’s back.
“Noted.”
“I’m simply supervising.”
“You’re rinsing his shoulder.”
“Supervising the rinse.”
Mike grins.
The dog, traitor that he is, leans into Harvey’s hand.
Harvey glances down.
The dog looks up at him with big brown eyes and a wet nose and absolutely no respect for Harvey’s boundaries.
“No,” Harvey tells him.
The dog wags his tail, splashing water over the side of the tub.
Mike laughs so brightly that Harvey forgets, for one stupid second, to be annoyed.
Because Mike looks happy.
His eyes are warm. His smile is easy. His voice keeps going soft and pleased every time the dog does anything remotely endearing, which is all the time because apparently the dog has learned Mike’s entire playbook in under an hour.
Harvey looks at them together--Mike soaked and muddy and ridiculous, the dog clean in patches and staring at him like Mike hung the moon...and something in him gives a quiet, inconvenient tug.
No.
Absolutely not.
They are not keeping the dog.
First thing Monday, the dog is gone.
Probably.
Maybe.
No. Definitely.
-
When the bath is done, Harvey helps towel the dog dry, which is also not participating, legally speaking. The dog stands in the middle of the bathroom while Mike rubs him down with one towel and Harvey uses another to dry his back.
“Egyptian cotton,” Harvey reminds him.
“Only the best for my handsome guy,” Mike says, patting the dog’s head with a bright smile.
Harvey looks at the towel in his hands.
Then at Mike.
Then at the dog, whose tail is thumping against the cabinet.
“You realize this dog is going to have a better night than I am.”
Mike grins. “You’re welcome.”
“I didn’t thank you.”
“You were about to.”
“I was absolutely not.”
The dog shakes himself hard.
Water sprays everywhere.
Harvey closes his eyes.
Mike says, “Okay, that one’s on me.”
After the bathroom is cleaned to Harvey’s exacting and frankly unreasonable standards, the next order of business is food.
They do not have dog food.
Of course they don’t have dog food, because until tonight, Harvey had foolishly believed he lived in an apartment and not a halfway house for Mike Ross and every abandoned creature in New York City.
Mike stands in front of the open refrigerator, the dog sitting beside him like an eager assistant.
“We have steak,” Mike says.
Harvey turns slowly from where he’s wiping down the floor near the bathroom doorway.
“No.”
“He’s hungry.”
“So am I.”
“You can order sushi.”
“The dog can order sushi.”
Mike looks over his shoulder. “Harvey.”
“No.”
“Got any better suggestions?”
“Yes. Don’t bring strays home.”
Mike pauses.
It’s small. Barely anything.
But Harvey sees it the second the words land.
Mike’s expression doesn’t exactly fall. It just shifts. Softens around the edges, his mouth pressing together for half a second before he looks down at the dog.
“You brought me home,” Mike says. “I was kind of a stray.”
The room goes quiet.
Harvey’s hand stills around the towel.
Mike doesn’t look at him.
The dog leans against Mike’s shin, tail brushing the floor, trusting and uncomplicated in a way that makes the silence feel bigger than it should.
Harvey wants to say something.
Something light and easy. Something that turns it back into a joke before it can become anything else.
But he can’t.
Because Mike isn’t wrong.
Harvey found him with a briefcase full of weed and a head full of law books, scared and brilliant and one bad decision away from disappearing into a life that would’ve wasted him. Harvey brought him in. Gave him a place. A job. A nameplate. A chance.
And now Mike is standing in Harvey’s kitchen with rain-damp hair and bare feet and a stray dog pressed to his leg, looking like the comparison made sense before he even said it.
Harvey clears his throat.
“That’s different.”
Mike looks up. “Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Because I showered before you fed me?”
Harvey exhales, and despite himself, the corner of his mouth moves.
“Because you were housebroken.”
Mike’s grin comes back slowly. “Debatable.”
The dog barks once, as if in agreement.
Harvey points at him. “Don’t start.”
Mike laughs, and just like that, the room breathes again.
Harvey looks at the steak.
Then at the dog.
Then at Mike, who is trying very hard not to look hopeful and failing spectacularly.
“Half,” Harvey says.
Mike perks up. “Half?”
“The dog gets half the steak.”
Mike looks offended on the dog’s behalf. “Harvey, look at him.”
“I am looking at him. He’s going to get dog food delivered in twenty minutes and he’s already used my shampoo.”
“Forty minutes,” Mike says, checking his phone. “The delivery says forty.”
“Then he can spend twenty of those reflecting on his choices.”
“He’s had a hard day.”
“So have I."
Mike gives him that look again.
Harvey points the towel at him. “Fine. The whole steak.”
Mike smiles.
“But,” Harvey says, “the next time I see that face, I’m charging you rent for the dog.”
“Which face?”
“The one you both keep making.”
Mike crouches down and scratches behind the dog’s ear. “You hear that, buddy? We’re financially liable now.”
The dog pants happily.
Mike cooks the steak while Harvey stands nearby pretending not to watch.
The dog waits with almost absurd patience, sitting just outside the kitchen like he’s afraid to cross an invisible line. Every so often, his tail thumps once against the floor. His eyes track Mike’s every movement, but he doesn’t jump. Doesn’t bark. Doesn’t beg.
Harvey notices that too.
He notices the way Mike keeps glancing over to make sure the dog is still there. Notices the way the dog looks back every time, like he’s checking the same thing.
When the steak is finished, Mike cuts it into small pieces and lets it cool on a plate.
“You’re enjoying this too much,” Harvey says.
Mike doesn’t deny it. “Maybe.”
“We are not becoming dog people.”
“I never said we were.”
“You ordered dog food.”
“For tonight.”
“And what happens tomorrow?”
Mike’s shoulders lift. “I’ll call around. See if anyone’s looking for him. Take him to a vet, check for a chip. Find a shelter if I have to.”
Harvey hears the last part.
If I have to.
Mike carries the plate over.
The dog looks up at him with such open adoration that Harvey feels another annoying tug somewhere behind his ribs.
“Okay,” Mike says softly, setting the plate down. “Easy.”
The dog waits until Mike pulls his hand back.
Then he eats like he hasn’t seen food in days.
Maybe longer.
He devours every last bite, fast but not aggressive, tail wagging the entire time. Mike watches him with a small, aching smile, one hand resting on the dog’s back like he can’t quite help himself.
Harvey watches Mike.
No, Harvey thinks again.
They are not keeping the dog.
The dog licks the plate clean, then looks up at Mike with his whole face bright and grateful.
Mike smiles.
Harvey closes his eyes.
Goddamn it.
-
The dog food arrives while Mike is halfway through wiping muddy paw prints off Harvey’s floor for the second time.
Harvey stands in the kitchen with his arms crossed, watching Mike move from the hallway to the living room and back again with a towel in one hand and an apologetic look he clearly thinks is helping.
“It’s clean,” Mike says.
Harvey looks down at the floor.
“Cleaner,” Mike amends.
The dog sits beside the kitchen island, damp and freshly washed, tail sweeping hopefully across the floor every time Mike looks at him. Harvey tries not to look too closely at that. He tries not to notice the way the dog keeps checking to make sure Mike is still there, or the way Mike keeps checking right back.
The delivery bags are absurd. Food, treats, bowls, a leash, a collar, and one squeaky toy shaped like a gavel.
Harvey holds it up by two fingers. “Explain.”
“It was law-themed.”
“It squeaks.”
"Yeah, and? So does Louis when Jessica walks into a room.”
Harvey wants to be irritated, but Mike is smiling like this entire disaster has somehow become the best part of his day, and the dog is looking at the bag of food like it might save his life.
So Harvey puts the toy down and says, “Feed the dog, Mike.”
Mike does. He fills one of the new bowls and sets it on the floor. The dog waits, still and uncertain, eyes flicking from the food to Mike like he needs permission.
Mike’s face changes.
Harvey sees it.
“Go ahead, buddy,” Mike says softly. “It’s yours.”
Only then does the dog eat.
Harvey looks away first.
After that, Mike finally showers. Harvey tells him he’s leaving puddles everywhere, and Mike points out that he already cleaned the puddles, which leads Harvey to inform him, “You are the puddle I am talking about.”
Mike glances down at himself, soaked jeans, damp shirt, alley grime still clinging to one sleeve. “Oh. Yeah. Right. That's fair. Shower time.”
Before he disappears down the hall, he looks back at the dog.
“He’ll still be here when you get out,” Harvey assures.
Mike pauses.
“I know that. I wasn’t like worried or anything.”
“Riiiight.”
Mike smiles a little. “Be nice to him. I'm serious, he'll tell me if you aren't.”
Then Mike is gone, and Harvey is left alone with the dog.
For almost a full minute, they stare at each other.
“No,” Harvey says.
The dog happily wags his tail.
“This is temporary.”
The dog tilts his head.
“Don’t do that.”
The dog does it harder.
By the time Mike comes back out in one of Harvey’s old t-shirts and a pair of sweatpants, Harvey is standing at the counter with the dog leaning against his leg.
Mike stops in the doorway.
Harvey points at him. “Do not.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re smiling in a way I don’t appreciate.”
“I’m appreciating silently.”
“Appreciate less.”
Mike bites back a laugh, and the dog immediately trots over to him, tail wagging like Mike has been gone for years instead of fifteen minutes.
Their own dinner arrives not long after, and they eat at the coffee table with the dog sprawled on the floor near Mike’s feet, the squeaky gavel tucked between his paws. Every few minutes, it squeaks.
Every few minutes, Harvey looks like he loses another piece of his sanity.
Mike laughs every time.
When they finish eating, Mike cleans up before Harvey can ask. Then, finally, the apartment settles. The rain has softened against the windows. The lights are low. The movie is queued up on the screen, waiting to be played.
Mike curls into Harvey’s side on the couch, and Harvey drapes a blanket over both their laps like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t think about it. Like Mike doesn’t notice.
The dog sits on the floor in front of them.
Staring.
Mike looks at Harvey.
Harvey looks at the dog.
“No,” Harvey says.
Mike doesn’t say anything.
The dog rests his chin on the edge of the couch.
Harvey exhales slowly. “Fine. Let’s do this too.”
Mike’s face brightens.
“Come on, buddy.”
The dog launches himself onto the couch with absolutely no grace, climbing over Mike’s knee, stepping on the blanket, nearly knocking the remote onto the floor before finally wedging himself directly between them.
Then he sighs, long and content, and drops his head into Harvey’s lap.
Harvey goes completely still.
Mike does too.
The dog closes his eyes.
For a few seconds, neither of them says anything. Harvey stares down at the dog’s head on his thigh, at the soft fold of one ear, at the way this animal has somehow decided Harvey is safe. Mike watches Harvey with a look so tender it almost hurts.
Harvey clears his throat. “Start the movie.”
Mike smiles and presses play.
-
For a while, they watch in comfortable quiet. The dog sleeps between them. Mike is warm against Harvey’s side. Harvey’s hand ends up resting on the dog’s head at some point, though he has no memory of deciding to put it there.
Halfway through the movie, Harvey says, “What would you even name him?”
Mike turns his head.
Harvey keeps his eyes on the screen and clears his throat. “You know. If you could keep him.”
Then he looks down at the dog, still sleeping with his head in Harvey’s lap, and something soft moves across his face.
“Chilton,” he says.
Harvey finally turns from the screen. “Chilton?”
Mike shrugs, but it’s too careful to be casual. “Yeah. You know. Like the hotel.”
“The hotel where we met.”
Mike’s mouth twitches. “Technically, the hotel where I almost got arrested and you decided committing fraud was better than hiring Rick Sorkin.”
“Pretty solid business decision.”
“You hired a stray with a briefcase full of weed.”
Harvey looks down at the dog.
The dog lets out a sleepy breath and shifts closer against him.
Mike smiles faintly. “So it feels thematically appropriate.”
Harvey says nothing for a second.
Because it’s ridiculous. It’s a ridiculous name for a dog. It’s also not really ridiculous at all, because Harvey remembers that day too well. The hotel room. The interview. Mike sitting there with that too-fast mouth and those too-wide eyes, looking like trouble wrapped in a cheap suit. Harvey remembers thinking, against all better judgment, that there was something worth saving there.
And now Mike is beside him, warm under the blanket, suggesting they name a stray dog after the place Harvey first decided to keep him.
Harvey clears his throat and looks back at the movie.
“Chilton’s not terrible.”
Mike turns his head slowly. “That sounded dangerously close to approval.”
“It was an observation.”
“An approving observation.”
“It was neutral.”
“The dog heard approval.”
“The dog is asleep.”
Mike leans down slightly, voice softening. “You hear that, buddy? He likes your name.”
Harvey rolls his eyes, but his hand moves over the dog’s head once, slow and absent.
“Temporary name,” Harvey says.
Mike’s smile goes small and private.
“Right,” he says. “Temporary.”
The dog sighs in his sleep, perfectly content in the middle of them.
Neither of them corrects it.
-----
By Monday morning, temporary has already started to feel like a lie.
Mike takes Chilton to the vet before work because he says he just wants to make sure he’s okay, make sure he isn’t hurt and make sure there isn’t someone out there looking for him.
Harvey tells himself that’s the right thing to do.
Of course it is.
Some family could be missing him. Some kid could be crying over him. Some decent person could have lost him in the storm and be putting up flyers, calling shelters, checking every corner of the city for a medium-sized lab mix with big brown eyes and a worrying amount of emotional intelligence.
So Harvey tells himself he wants the vet to find a chip.
He tells himself that several times.
He tells himself again when Mike texts him from the waiting room.
at the vet now. he’s being very brave.
Then again, ten minutes later.
they gave him a treat and now he’s trying to commit fraud for more treats.
Then again, a little while after that.
no chip.
Harvey stares at the message longer than he needs to.
No chip.
No owner.
No easy answer.
His first thought should be practical. It should be shelters, rescues, logistics, allergies he doesn’t have but could invent if necessary. It should be the expensive furniture, the floors, the fact that Harvey Specter does not own a dog and has never wanted to own a dog.
Instead, all he thinks is, Good.
Then, immediately after, Shit.
Because Mike is going to be devastated.
Not today, maybe. Today he’ll be relieved because Chilton doesn’t have to go back to someone who lost him. Today he’ll tell himself that means they have more time to find the right place. A good place. A safe place. A home.
But Harvey knows Mike.
Mike will spend every night checking rescue websites with that tight, careful look on his face. He’ll make calls. He’ll ask Donna if she knows anyone. He’ll ask Rachel. He’ll probably ask Louis, which is how Harvey knows the situation is serious.
And the whole time, Chilton will follow him from room to room like Mike is the only fixed point in the world.
The whole time, Mike will get more attached.
The whole time, Harvey will pretend not to.
By the end of the week, Chilton has a collar, a leash, two toys, a bed he refuses to sleep in, and a deeply annoying habit of putting his head on Harvey’s knee whenever Harvey is trying to read.
Mike keeps making calls.
Harvey keeps hearing pieces of them.
“No, I understand. I just don’t want him sitting in a shelter indefinitely.”
“He’s really sweet. He’s housebroken, I think. Mostly. I mean, there was one incident, but in his defense, Harvey scared him.”
“No, I don’t know the breed for sure.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I can send pictures.”
“He needs a home,” Mike says one evening, standing by the kitchen counter with his phone in his hand and his face turned away from Harvey. “Not just somewhere that’ll take him. A real home.”
Harvey doesn’t say anything.
Chilton is lying on the floor between them, chewing on the squeaky gavel.
Mike looks down at him and smiles, but it doesn’t last.
That’s when Harvey knows.
Not suspects. Knows.
The next day, Mike goes out to run an errand after work. Something about picking up a few things from the store, though Harvey knows it’s mostly because Mike is restless and sad and trying not to show either.
Chilton sits by the door for a full five minutes after he leaves.
Harvey stands in the hallway, looking at him.
“You’re not making this easy,” he says.
Chilton looks up at him.
“No. Don’t give me that.”
Chilton gives him that.
Harvey sighs.
By the time Mike comes back, Harvey has made the decision.
He hears Mike’s key in the lock, then the door opening, then Chilton’s tail thumping hard against the floor before he launches himself toward the entryway.
“Hey, buddy,” Mike says, voice immediately softening. “Hi. Yeah, I missed you too.”
Harvey stays in the living room and listens to Mike laugh as Chilton dances around him, nails clicking over the floor. Listens to the rustle of a bag being set down. Listens to Mike murmur something too quiet for Harvey to catch.
Then Mike walks in with Chilton glued to his side.
He sees Harvey standing there and pauses.
“What?”
Harvey takes a breath.
“Mike, about the dog.”
It happens in real time.
The light leaves Mike’s face.
Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just slowly, quietly, like he’s already trying to prepare himself for the thing he thinks Harvey is about to say.
He looks down at Chilton.
Then back at Harvey.
“I know,” Mike says.
Harvey’s chest tightens.
Mike swallows and keeps going, like if he talks fast enough, it won’t hurt as much. “I know, Harvey. I’m still looking for a place that’ll take him. I don’t just want him sitting around in a shelter. He’s too sweet for that, and I know we can’t--”
“Mike.”
“I know we can’t keep him,” Mike says, softer now. “I know that. I just want him to have a home.”
Harvey looks at him.
At the way Mike is trying so hard to be reasonable about something that is clearly breaking his heart.
At Chilton, standing beside him with his tail wagging, completely unaware that his entire future is being discussed in Harvey’s living room.
Harvey clears his throat.
“That’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about.”
Mike’s brow furrows.
“I found somebody who’ll take him.”
Mike goes very still.
“Oh,” he says.
It’s almost convincing. The smile he tries to put on. The way he nods like this is good news, because it is supposed to be good news.
“You did?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s--” Mike stops and looks down at Chilton. His hand moves automatically to the dog’s head. “That’s good. That’s really good. Are they--I mean, do you know them? Are they nice?”
Harvey’s mouth twitches.
“Nice might be pushing it.”
Mike looks up, confused.
Harvey steps closer.
“There’s this guy,” Harvey says. “Big blue eyes. Brilliant legal mind. Kind of a pain in the ass.”
Mike blinks.
Harvey keeps going, because if he stops now, he might lose his nerve, and he refuses to be the kind of man who loses his nerve over a dog.
“But he loves like no one else. And I can’t think of anybody better for Chilton to have at his side.”
For a second, Mike doesn’t move.
Then understanding hits him.
His whole face changes.
Lights up, really. Brighter than the city outside Harvey’s windows. Brighter than Harvey has seen it in days.
“Seriously?”
Harvey shrugs, like his heart isn’t currently doing something embarrassing in his chest. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
Mike crosses the room in two strides and kisses him.
It’s quick at first, more joy than coordination, Mike’s hands catching Harvey’s face as he laughs against his mouth. Then it softens, just for a second. Gratitude and relief and something so warm Harvey feels it everywhere.
When Mike pulls back, his eyes are shining.
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Mike kisses him again, then turns immediately and drops to his knees in front of Chilton.
“Did you hear that?” Mike asks, wrapping both arms around him. “You’re staying. You’re staying, buddy.”
Chilton’s tail goes wild. He licks Mike’s face, his chin, his nose, and Mike laughs so hard he almost tips backward.
Harvey watches from a few feet away.
Mike has both arms around the dog, face buried briefly in clean fur, holding on like he can’t quite believe he gets to.
Chilton leans into him like there was never anywhere else he was meant to end up.
And Harvey knows, with a quiet certainty that settles right in the center of him, that he made the right decision.
Even if his floors are doomed.
Even if his towels will never recover.
Even if the dog is definitely going to sleep in the bed by the end of the week.
Mike looks up at him from the floor, smiling like Harvey has handed him something precious.
Harvey rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling too.
“Just so we’re clear,” he says, “I’m still not a dog person.”
Chilton leaves Mike long enough to trot over and press his head against Harvey’s leg.
Mike grins.
Harvey looks down.
Chilton looks up.
Harvey sighs and scratches behind his ear.
“Temporary dog person,” he amends.
Mike laughs, bright and happy, and Harvey lets himself stand there with the dog leaning against him and Mike smiling at both of them like this is exactly where they all belong.
Maybe it is.