Work Text:
Mike Ross doesn’t panic.
Sure, he may have undiagnosed ADHD. He may occasionally run around the office like a golden retriever that has consumed an irresponsible amount of red bull. He may work such insane hours that he starts hallucinating.
But the point is, Mike Ross does not panic.
He used to.
Hell, every day used to be Panic Day.
Panicking about being a fraud. Panicking about a case. Panicking about a lie he’d told to cover up another lie, which had itself been built on top of the massive, load bearing lie that was his entire professional existence.
But somewhere along the way, he’d stopped.
When, exactly? Mike isn’t sure.
Maybe it happened after his fiftieth near death experience at Pearson Hardman, then Pearson Darby, then Pearson Specter, Mike wasn't even keeping track anymore. Maybe his nervous system simply gave up. Maybe his fight or flight response filed for early retirement.
Or maybe it happened when he started trusting Harvey.
Which is a thought Mike will examine later.
Preferably never.
So, to reiterate: Mike Ross does not panic.
Which is why he is currently standing in the middle of his fuck ass studio apartment, staring at the panda painting like it might offer something, anything.
It does not.
The panda looks smug.
Mike hates it. What? No, he doesn't. God, he's such a bad grandson, he should call his grandma more often, she gifted her the painting, he does not hate it. Oh God, he's losing his mind.
He is not panicking, because why would he be panicking?
He had sex.
People have sex every day. All over the world, probably. Statistically speaking, someone is having sex right now.
Good for them.
Mike has had sex before. He hasn’t panicked about sex since he was sixteen and somehow convinced Sarah Jacobson to let him into her bedroom despite having the haircut of a victorian orphan.
And he isn’t panicking because it was with a man, either.
That particular bridge had already been crossed years ago, during an extremely confusing period involving Trevor, cheap vodka, and an agreement never to discuss what happened in the back seat of Trevor’s car.
So no.
This is fine.
He is fine.
He is just—
He fucked Harvey.
Mike’s brain stops.
Then, because it hates him, it restarts.
Technically, Harvey fucked him.
Except Mike had been on top for a while, so did that count as fucking Harvey? Or was he still being fucked while on top? Was there a legal definition?
No.
Absolutely not.
He was not researching this.
Mike takes a deep breath and lights a cigarette.
He stares down at the cigarette between his fingers.
Right.
Okay.
Minor setback. What the fuck is he doing?
He puts it out, and immediately lights another one.
He is not panicking.
Jesus Christ.
Harvey Reginald Specter fucks guys.
Okay.
Fine.
Apparently, the rumors are true.
That guy fucks. (and not just women!)
Mike had always assumed people meant that metaphorically. As in, Harvey fucked opposing counsel. Harvey fucked the rules. Harvey fucked the concept of humility every morning before breakfast.
He had not realized they meant Harvey Specter sometimes took men home, removed his extremely expensive clothing, and—
No.
Nope.
That train of thought is being cancelled due to severe weather conditions.
Mike paces toward the kitchen.
It takes four steps.
He turns around.
Four steps back.
His apartment has never felt this small before.
The panda continues to watch him.
“You saw nothing,” Mike tells it.
The panda, being a painting, offers no reassurance.
Mike points at it anyway.
“And for the record, he started it.”
This is not technically true.
Harvey had said, “Mike, go home.”
Mike had said, “You’re not the boss of me.”
Which was both factually incorrect and, in hindsight, an astonishingly poor choice of words.
Then Harvey had looked at him.
Not normal Harvey-looking. Not the usual narrowed-eyes, mildly-amused, I-can-hear-your-last-two-brain-cells-colliding look.
It had been different.
The kind of look that made Mike forget several major amendments and possibly his own social security number. Which is ironic, because you know, he doesn't just forget stuff. He can't, that's like, his whole thing.
Then Mike had said something.
What had he said?
Oh, God.
He’d said, “What?”
And Harvey, because he was a complete asshole, had leaned closer and said, “You know what.”
Mike had, in fact, not known what.
He had learned quickly.
Very quickly.
Enthusiastically, even.
Mike presses both hands over his face.
This is bad.
Not the sex.
The sex had been—
Mike walks directly into the kitchen counter.
“Fuck.”
Yes.
That.
The sex had been that.
Which was part of the problem.
Because terrible sex with Harvey Specter could have been dismissed as an unfortunate lapse in judgment. A cautionary tale Mike could bury beside the Trevor incident and every tie he wore during his first year at the firm. (He still wears skinny ones, don't get him wrong).
But good sex?
Great sex?
Sex that had apparently rearranged several of Mike’s internal organs and permanently altered his relationship with Italian wool suits? He adored Rene and his mind and Harvey's body-
That was a problem.
A huge problem.
A Harvey-sized problem.
And Harvey was very—
No.
He was not finishing that sentence.
Mike grabs his phone from the table.
No messages.
That’s good.
That’s completely normal.
Harvey is probably busy. Harvey is always busy. He has clients. Cases. Meetings. A complicated daily grooming ritual involving imported moisturiser and the blood of junior associates. Plus, it's a Sunday, the day of the Lord or whatever.
There is no reason Harvey would text him.
Mike checks again.
Still nothing.
He puts the phone down.
Picks it back up.
Unlocks it.
Locks it.
Throws it onto the couch.
Immediately retrieves it, because phones are expensive and he is not Harvey.
Maybe he should text first.
Something casual.
Hey, thanks for the sex.
No.
Psychotic.
Last night was fun. Thanks for the breakfast this morning.
Worse.
Are we okay?
Absolutely not. He would rather walk into Jessica’s office and confess everything, including crimes he had not committed.
Mike opens the message thread anyway.
He types:
So.
Deletes it.
Types:
About last night—
Deletes that too.
Then his phone buzzes in his hand.
Mike nearly throws it through the window.
It’s Harvey.
Of course it’s Harvey.
Because the universe is cruel.
You left your tie.
Mike stares at it.
That’s it.
No greeting. No acknowledgement. No indication that Harvey remembers pinning Mike against a wall and doing things that should probably be illegal in at least three states.
You left your tie.
Mike looks down.
He is not wearing a tie.
This discovery should not be surprising, considering he is also not wearing a shirt.
Keep it.
Three dots appear immediately.
Then disappear.
Then reappear.
Mike stops breathing.
Or you could come and get it?
Mike Ross does not panic.
Mike Ross makes a sound so high-pitched that a dog starts barking somewhere down the street.