Work Text:
Harvey Specter liked mornings like this. Not because they were exciting—not because they involved billion-dollar mergers, hostile takeovers, courtroom ambushes, or Louis having some kind of emotional crisis over a mud bath, a cat, or a perceived lack of appreciation—but because they were rare.
The office was quiet in a way that almost never happened once the day properly got started. Sunlight spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, washing everything in warm gold and making the city beyond the glass look almost peaceful. Manhattan was already moving at full speed, people flooding sidewalks and traffic clogging streets, but from up here the chaos felt distant, removed, manageable. His jacket was draped over the back of a chair, his tie had vanished somewhere around eight-thirty, and a half-finished cup of coffee sat beside an intimidating stack of paperwork that would have made most attorneys question their life choices.
Paperwork wasn't glamorous. Nobody made movies about paperwork, nobody looked cool doing it, and nobody won dramatic victories because they'd properly reviewed a hundred pages of contractual language. Still, Harvey had been practicing law long enough to know that paperwork ignored today became disasters tomorrow, and there was something deeply satisfying about getting ahead of it before it could turn into a problem.
For nearly forty-five uninterrupted minutes he had been reading, signing, initialing, and organizing—accomplishing more administrative work than he normally managed in half a week, which, in hindsight, should have warned him that something was wrong. Nobody got forty-five uninterrupted minutes in this firm.
The office door burst open—not opened, burst—and Harvey looked up from a contract halfway through a signature, immediately knowing trouble had arrived.
Mike stood in the doorway looking like he'd been launched into the building rather than entering through conventional means, his hair as though he'd lost a fight with a hurricane, his shirt untucked on one side, his messenger bag hanging halfway off one shoulder. Most concerning of all, he looked unbelievably pleased with himself, and that expression never meant anything good. Ever.
Harvey slowly lowered the document in his hand. "Morning."
Mike grinned wider. "Beautiful boyfriend, brilliant barrister."
The office fell silent. Harvey stared. Mike continued smiling. Harvey stared harder. Mike somehow looked even more pleased. A long moment passed before Harvey finally said, "What?"
Mike stepped inside as if nothing unusual had happened. "Pleasant paperwork procession."
Harvey blinked once, then twice, his brain attempting to process the sentence—failing, trying again, failing a second time. "Did you just have a stroke?"
Mike laughed, actually laughed. "Gambling goof, good grief."
"Oh my God." Harvey leaned back in his chair, suddenly afraid to ask questions and equally incapable of stopping himself, while Mike wandered farther into the office and dropped into the chair across from the desk with the confidence of someone who believed he was behaving completely normally.
"Bizarre bargain," Mike explained.
"Stop."
"Careless colleague challenge."
"Mike."
"Ridiculous rookie rivalry."
Harvey pinched the bridge of his nose, the beginnings of a headache already forming somewhere behind his eyes. "What are you doing?"
Mike looked almost offended by the question. "Speaking strictly similarly."
Harvey stared. Mike stared back. Neither of them moved, and eventually Harvey decided that if he waited long enough maybe reality would correct itself. It didn't. "I don't even know what's happening anymore."
Mike sighed dramatically and slumped into the chair. "Desperate dumb decision."
That was close enough to coherent that Harvey felt a flicker of hope. "What happened?"
"Stupid summer... associate."
Harvey immediately groaned. Of course—of course this involved associates. Associates, as a group, possessed less collective common sense than a bag of hammers, and whenever they were left unsupervised for more than twenty minutes they inevitably invented some new and creative way to make everyone's lives worse. "What did they do?"
Mike rubbed both hands over his face and visibly struggled for several seconds before speaking again. "Friendly foolish financial wager."
Harvey stared at him. Mike stared back.
Harvey waited. Mike waited.
The silence stretched until finally Mike added, "Pathetic pointless proposition."
"English, Mike."
"Can't."
Harvey barked a laugh before he could stop himself. "Can't?"
Mike pointed accusingly at him. "Contractual communication constraint."
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."
Mike looked genuinely miserable. "Unfortunately."
Harvey sat there for a moment, trying very hard not to laugh and failing spectacularly, "So let me get this straight."
Mike nodded immediately.
"You made a bet."
Another nod.
"With another associate."
More nodding.
"And now you have to talk like..." Harvey gestured vaguely in Mike's direction. "...whatever this is."
Mike sat up straighter. "Linguistic limitation."
"You sound like a malfunctioning Dr. Seuss character."
Mike dropped his head backward and groaned toward the ceiling, and Harvey laughed—a real laugh, the kind that bent his shoulders and made it impossible to maintain any dignity. Mike pointed at him again. "Heartless humor."
"Oh, don't give me that."
"Merciless mockery."
"You did this to yourself."
"Victim vilifying!"
Harvey laughed even harder. This was ridiculous, completely ridiculous, the sort of thing that shouldn't have been funny after the age of twelve—unfortunately, it was hysterical. What made it worse was that Mike was clearly committed to the bit; there wasn't even a hint of hesitation. He looked annoyed, embarrassed, and deeply inconvenienced, but he also looked determined to see the entire thing through, which somehow made everything funnier.
"How long?"
Mike immediately looked away.
Harvey's eyes narrowed. "Mike." Silence. "Mike."
Mike winced. "Entire employment excursion."
Harvey frowned, then realization dawned. "No."
Mike nodded.
"No."
"Not the whole day."
Mike nodded harder, and Harvey dropped his forehead onto the desk, the polished wood muffling his laughter. "This is unbelievable."
"Agreed." At least that answer had been normal.
Harvey lifted his head and looked at him. "You know you could just quit."
Mike looked genuinely horrified. "Personal principles."
"You have principles about a stupid bet?"
"Honor."
Harvey stared at him for several seconds before saying, "You once pretended to be a Harvard graduate."
Mike opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. "...Fair."
Harvey nodded. "Thought so."
Mike slumped lower in his chair.
For a little while they sat quietly—Harvey eventually picked up another contract and returned to work, while Mike remained exactly where he was, watching him. One minute passed, then two, then three, before Harvey signed another page and looked up. "What?"
Mike smiled. "Handsome hardworking hotshot."
Harvey immediately felt warmth creeping into his face, which was absurd. He was Harvey Specter. Harvey Specter did not blush, certainly not because of compliments, and definitely not because of compliments delivered by a man apparently possessed by an alliterative demon. Mike's grin widened. "Flustered."
Harvey pointed his pen at him. "Don't start."
"Spectacular significant sweetheart."
"Oh my God."
"Perfect partner."
"Clever captivating counselor."
"Dreamy dazzling—"
"Michael."
Mike laughed, and Harvey hated how much he loved that laugh. Even now. Even sounding like this. Especially now, somehow. A few weeks wasn't a long time in the grand scheme of things, but being with Mike had already become alarmingly easy, comfortable, natural in a way Harvey hadn't expected—there was something unsettling about how quickly Mike had worked his way into the routines of his life.
The office door opened before he could think about that too much, and Donna stepped inside. She stopped almost immediately, one look at Harvey, one look at Mike, and her expression shifted into the look she reserved for situations that promised entertainment. Years of experience had given her an almost supernatural ability to detect nonsense. "What happened?"
Harvey pointed at Mike. Mike pointed at himself. Donna looked between them. "Why do I suddenly feel concerned?"
Mike sat up straighter. "Dubious deal."
Donna blinked.
Harvey covered his face.
Donna stared.
Mike smiled weakly.
Donna stared harder, then asked, "Did he break?"
Harvey laughed while Mike looked mildly offended. "Functioning fully."
Donna slowly approached the desk as though Mike might be contagious. "Mike," she said carefully, "are you okay?"
"Outstandingly okay."
Donna looked at Harvey, who shrugged helplessly. "He lost a bet."
Instant understanding appeared on her face. "Ah."
Mike groaned. "Universal understanding."
Donna's lips twitched. "No."
"Donna. Don't encourage him."
"Defensive darling."
Harvey nearly threw a folder at him, and Donna laughed outright.
At that moment Mike visibly realized exactly what was about to happen: Donna would tell Rachel, Rachel would tell someone else, someone else would tell somebody else, and eventually Louis would hear—and once Louis heard, the story would spread through Pearson Hardman faster than a biological weapon. Mike's shoulders slumped. "Dreadful development."
Donna patted him sympathetically on the shoulder, then left without offering even the smallest amount of mercy. The door closed behind her, and silence returned. Mike stared at the door for several long seconds. "Catastrophic."
Harvey smirked. "You deserve this."
Mike sighed heavily before his attention drifted toward the mountain of paperwork covering Harvey's desk—contracts, reports, forms, signatures, enough to bury a lesser attorney. "Monstrous mountain."
Harvey followed his gaze. "Yeah."
Mike leaned forward. "Need notable nourishment?"
"What?"
Mike pointed at the coffee, then pointed toward the empty corner of the desk where breakfast should probably have been, and understanding clicked into place. "You want to get me breakfast?"
Mike nodded. "Boyfriend benefits."
Harvey considered pretending to refuse, then decided he wasn't that committed to the bit. "Sure."
Mike stood immediately, victorious. "Pancakes possibly?"
"You know exactly what I want."
A grin spread across Mike's face. "Breakfast bagel."
Harvey pointed at him. "See? Photographic memory."
Mike headed for the door, but just before reaching it he stopped and looked back. For a moment the joke faded, the bet disappeared, and the ridiculous alliteration vanished behind something softer—something real.
The expression on Mike's face made Harvey's chest tighten unexpectedly: affection, contentment, happiness, the quiet sort that crept in slowly and settled before you noticed it. Mike smiled. "Gorgeous guy."
Harvey rolled his eyes, but he couldn't stop smiling. "Get out."
Mike laughed. "Bye, boyfriend." Then he disappeared into the hallway, the door swinging shut behind him, and the office became quiet again.
Harvey sat there for several moments staring at the closed door before finally shaking his head and looking back at the paperwork waiting on his desk. His boyfriend was an idiot—an absolute disaster, a walking catastrophe powered almost entirely by caffeine, bad decisions, reckless confidence, and apparently alliteration. Somewhere out there, Mike Ross was about to spend an entire workday attempting to function inside a major law firm while speaking like a rejected comic book sidekick, and the image alone made Harvey laugh again.
It was going to be a very entertaining day.