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Mike could handle himself. Really, he could. He had practically been on his own his entire life, and now, without Grammy or Trevor, there wasn’t any other option but independence.
That would be, if Harvey Specter didn’t exist.
Mike’s life had been taken into Harvey’s hands and molded into something unrecognizable; but Mike? Mike didn’t change that easily. No matter what happened, he would always be Mike Ross: a genius wonderboy, a freak with a crazy memory, but most importantly, a guy who could handle himself.
Harvey wouldn’t take that away from him. He wouldn’t. Not if Mike had any say in it.
But who’s to say he would?
…
Harvey had finally, if only just this once, agreed to let Mike pay for lunch. It felt like a personal win, and, if Mike was to be dramatic, it felt like the heavens shining down on him to be able to do something as important as paying for Harvey Specter.
The last time Mike partook in anything close to taking care of someone else was his being constantly on Trevor Evan's front lines; cleaning up messes and defending him from whatever stupid shit he had managed to do.
That didn't mean he was exactly taken care of, either.
But that was fine. He didn't need to be taken care of. Clearly, he thought, as he signaled for the check with a giddy smile on his face.
He wanted Harvey to be there to watch him do it, and okay, maybe Mike wanted to gauge his reaction to a once in a lifetime event. But he had excused himself to the bathroom moments before, and just as Mike pulled his card out, the waiter approached and—
“Sir, the checks already been paid.”
What?
“What?”
The unnamed waiter just nodded with a confused expression— like it was obvious.
“The man you were with? He paid and seems to be waiting outside.”
Mike's eyebrows furrowed as he turned around and saw Harvey, leaning against his mustang, smile as smug as ever.
He looked at the waiter defeatedly and sulked his way towards the entrance.
…
Harvey opened the passenger door and gestured for Mike to get in.
And as peeved as he was, Mike slid into the leather seat. That was how it worked with them— Harvey was Harvey, but Mike was an extension of Harvey, and extensions didn't disobey direct orders.
And, with Harvey, everything was a direct order.
That didn't mean Mike didn't have wiggle room.
It also didn't mean Harvey couldn't be put on a leash; Mike just hadn't learned how to wield it yet.
Harvey still hadn't wiped the smile off his face and it only widened when he glanced over the center console to see Mike pouting.
“You know, puppy, it's customary to be grateful when someone pays for your meal.”
Mike just scoffed and adjusted his messenger bag in his lap.
“You told me you'd let me pay this time.”
Harvey rolled his eyes.
“Associates don't cover food-fare.”
“Maybe my eidetic memory is failing me— spoiler alert: it's not— but I recall all first years having to personally cover their rookie dinners. With the exception of me.”
“You're not just any first year associate, Mike. You're my first year associate. You said it yourself, you're an exception.”
Harvey spoke casually, like he hadn't just tilted Mike's entire world on its axes— like Mr. I'd explain it to you but then I'd have to care about you didn't just admit how close he had allowed himself to get to one lowly Mike Ross.
Mike knew he was special to Harvey, of course he was. With a memory like his and unrivaled stubborn empathy that made Harvey sigh on a good day? He had to be.
But this was different; this was an actual confession, a reasoning behind all the rides home and all the soft smiles behind whiskey glasses.
Mike was Harvey's.
He knew that, he was Harvey's guy, always. But he didn't think that was how Harvey saw it. He didn't think he'd be able to earn such loyalty this fast, such possession. Something new and perhaps a little twisted arose in Mike's gut at the thought of being at Harvey's heel and liking it— in equal proportion to Harvey.
Mike's trademarked, Harvey-reserved smile returned and he snugly held his bag against his chest. The frustration from the lunch lie dissipated and was replaced with a sense of obedience he somehow found pride in, like it was an accomplishment to be placated by Harvey Specter.
Mike wondered what it would be like to placate, instead.
He made it his mission to find out soon.
…
Kyle Durant was a fucking asshole.
Mike concluded this, and continued to conclude it over and over again in the duration of the mock trial he'd been forced to participate in.
Kyle was teasing him at his cubicle in his typical fashion of high school mean girl and Mike tried not to look smug as he watched Harvey stalk over.
Kyle stumbled and stuttered in Harvey's presence— they all do— and Mike would replay what happened after the aforementioned offender walked away with his tail in between his legs for weeks after.
Harvey leaned over his cubicle, eyes analytical and searching.
Mike folded first.
“Good?”
Harvey parroted.
“Good?”
“...Yeah.”
Harvey nodded, satisfied.
“Good.”
And that was it— a blip. A few words exchanged that meant everything. Mike's mind couldn't help but run circles around the implications of Harvey's one-word question.
…And the implication of Mike's hypothetical answer that burnt the tip of his tongue; if only to see what Harvey would do.
“No.”
Would he have asked anything else?
Would Kyle show up to work the next day?
Would Kyle be in the same city?
How little could Mike divulge without losing credibility?
He wasn't gonna lie to Harvey, not about something as trivial as a stupid experiment.
But, he decided, next time something happened…
He'd let Harvey handle it for him.
And not only that, he'd actively encourage it.
…
Okay, he hadn't expected the hypothetical to go like this.
Mike had been at a bar. A club, if you will. Completely normal for an over-worked, constantly on-call associate who'd been graciously allowed a night off with a sly smile and a “Nice job, pup.” that sent him out the door with his ears perked up and his tail wagging.
He was drunk— not enough, he realized, as he was still undeniably coherent enough to understand the situation he had found himself in: sitting in a noisy, bright police station at 12am on a Friday.
He'd been dancing, talking, and drinking here and there. When he felt a hand graze his ass, that was fine. People were close, bumping into each other all over. It was a mistake, he told himself.
And then it happened again.
By the third time, it was much more than just a graze.
Mike didn't consider himself a violent person— he was confrontational, but he didn't want to punch anyone tonight. Really.
He turned around and the culprit was a guy his age, a bit taller and broader, with blonde hair and brown eyes. He looked like a total prick, which, Mike thought, checked out.
Mike leaned in and spoke loudly into the stranger's ear:
“Can you stop touching me?”
Nice, polite, got the point across. He figuratively patted himself on the back.
Mr. Blondie only smiled in response before—
“Why don't we take this outside?”
Mike strained his ears to listen and realized he must've misheard him.
“What?”
And with that, his wrist was being roughly grabbed and he was being dragged outside before he could process what was happening.
“Dude, let go of—”
The cold night air hit him straight in the face and his back was shoved against a grainy brick wall. Lips were on him in a second and finally, Mike's fight or flight, dulled by the sluggishness of alcohol, kicked in. The next thing he knew, his fist was reeling back, and a loud crack resonated throughout the techno music still able to be heard from the speakers inside.
The perpetrator stumbled back, hands coming up to cradle his bleeding mess of a nose.
“You broke my fucking nose!”
Mike blinked as hard as he could as he felt his breath pick up.
What the fuck just happened?
“You- you were trying to—”
“Save it. I'm calling the cops. I'm pressing charges for assault.”
Mike sighed through his frayed nerves. This was going to be a headache.
“You don't wanna do that, trust me. I'm a lawyer.”
Blondie just eyed him up and down and scoffed.
Okay, rude.
Fine, Mike thought. He wanted to press charges for self-defense? Fuck it. Let him.
Mike almost had a change of heart about his lax attitude as his pounding head only throbbed more with every flash of the police car.
He knew who he'd have to call.
…
They both got taken in— Mike explained his stance of self-defense and they decided not to arrest him, and now he was sitting smack-dab next to the jerk.
The phone rang once.
“Mike?”
Harvey's voice wasn't sluggish in the slightest— he hadn't been asleep, but he sounded exhausted.
Mike tried to push down the giddiness of Harvey's pick-up time, which wasn’t necessarily a hard task. Even for him, it was hard to be chipper at the moment.
“Hey, Harvey.”
Mike’s voice was a little quiet and more than a little raw. and Harvey clocked it immediately.
He wasted no time between hearing Mike alive and okay and asking his next question.
“Where are you?”
Mike's strained chuckle echoed through Harvey's phone.
“...The police station. Midtown Manhattan.”
Mike heard Harvey trying to keep his composure over the line.
He better smooth this out quickly. The last thing he needs right now is Harvey yelling at him.
“Are you alright?”
Mike's instincts kicked in first: he was about to reassure, as he always did, but he realized it wasn’t even true.
Might as well tell the truth.
“Honestly? Not great. Some guy— it's a whole thing.”
Harvey was clearly (at least, to Mike) taken aback by the absence of rushed correction on his well-being. The line fell silent, until—
“I'm on my way. Sit tight.”
Mike smirked at the hardness in Harvey's voice. For once, he was 100% certain it wasn't directed at him.
“Thank you, Harvey.”
Harvey didn't respond to that, and it was at this point Mike figured he had no reason not to push just a little further. Really hit the nail on the head.
“Harvey?”
“Yeah, Mike?”
Harvey’s voice was slightly muddled by the sound of keys jangling and the sounds of New York as he presumably got into his car.
Mike chose his next words carefully.
“I– I think I need you to take care of this for me.”
All the noise stopped.
For a second, Mike thought the line had dropped. Or, even worse, that Harvey had heard Mike’s words for what they were— a cautious demand wrapped in a pretty plea— and decidedly wasn’t too happy about being ordered around by his associate.
And then—
“I’ve got you, Mike. Don’t worry about a thing.”
Harvey’s voice was rough with anger, and Mike recognized it instantly.
He realized this was the first time he had ever directly asked Harvey for help. Harvey had always been forced to break a window to get in and fix, but now, Mike was opening the door and pointing at the leak.
And Harvey knew, even without any other information, what that meant.
That whoever did this had really gotten under Mike’s skin.
Mike thought about thanking him again but settled for:
“See you soon.”
He hung up and tried not to worry about a thing.
…
Mike hears Harvey before he sees him; the sound of handsome dress shoes clacking on the tiled floor.
He sees him next: the tense set of his broad shoulders, his sharp, clenched jaw. The way his eyes don’t scan, but rather look straight ahead.
Harvey was furious.
Mike smiles again and Blondie happens to look over.
“What the hell are you smiling about?”
Mike tracked Harvey with his eyes.
“You are so fucked.”
Harvey arrived in front of them and assessed them both. Albeit Mike much more thoroughly.
"This the guy?”
Harvey's demanding voice cut through the noise of the precinct.
Mike only nodded in response and Harvey's eyes narrowed as he caught a glimpse of the bruises forming on Mike's wrist. Mike was shaking, if only a little, and the collar of his shirt was slightly ripped. Something dull and empty in his eyes, as if he was trying to pretend everything was much better than it was, almost made Harvey do something that would have him thrown in a cell for the night.
Or the next decade.
He wasn’t an idiot. And the picture Mike’s ensemble was putting together wasn’t pretty.
He took off his coat and gently wrapped it around Mike’s trembling shoulders. Mike immediately let a small smile encapsulate his face and held it tightly around him. Something about the sight, Mike wrapped in Harvey’s clothes, looking nothing more than absolutely content, made something stir deep within his gut. And it only made the thin line his composure was sitting on that much thinner.
Blondie pitched in when he really shouldn't have.
“Cute. Is this your little boyfriend?”
A need to protect flared up in Mike's chest.
“He's a lawyer, asshole.”
“Oh thank god. Maybe you'll take me seriously, because these cops certainly haven't been.”
Mike saw a mask of professionalism slip in place of Harvey's barely unbridled anger.
“I'm listening.”
“For starters, your client broke my nose for no reason.”
Mike scoffed.
“You're lucky I'm not filing for sexual assault.”
Harvey's neck snapped towards Mike so fast he could've sworn it made a sound.
Unfortunately, a police officer had chosen this exact time to walk up to Harvey.
“Sir can I—”
“Mike Ross is my client and I'll be taking him home right this instant.”
Harvey was speaking to someone else, but his eyes were trained on Mike the entire time, as if he was barely registering the words coming out of his own mouth. His body had assumed a singular primary motive: get Mike out of here and away from this guy now.
“I'm afraid we still have to take his st—”
“Correct me if I'm wrong, officer, but he's not under arrest and can therefore reschedule this interview to consult with his lawyer.”
Harvey spared a single glance at the officer and put his hand on the back of Mike’s neck: a warm, grounding anchor.
“I’m right here.”
The cop sighed and looked between all three of them.
“Fine. But—”
“Thank you. And what was your name?”
Harvey leaned towards Blondie and Mike pretended the venom dripping from his every word wasn't palpable, and like it hadn’t awakened a sense of pleasure in Mike that he hadn’t realized he was capable of.
He didn’t like watching people get hurt.
He didn’t like watching people get threatened.
But watching Harvey do it, for him…
it was different.
“...James Hackworth.”
Harvey nodded and shot him his client-winning, case-closing smile as he leaned in.
“I'm going to fucking ruin you, Mr. Hackworth.”
The smile dropped.
Harvey retreated and snaked his hand around Mike's waist as they walked out of the station. Mike was glad he wasn't in any desire to escape the hold, because it was iron-clad, and it only tightened as they stepped out into the night.
As soon as they made it to the sidewalk, Harvey spun Mike around in his arms and surveyed every inch of him.
“Are you okay? Did he do anything to you?”
Harvey’s hands ran up and down Mike’s arms.
Mike got whiplash (and maybe a headrush) from the sudden change in demeanor.
“It’s alright, Harvey. I’m just a little shaken up. Sorry, for scaring you.”
Harvey’s eyes hardened.
“Don’t. Don’t apologize to me because some sick bastard made this situation out to be something it's not.”
Mike just smiled bashfully and looked down at his shoes.
Harvey put a hand on the small of his back and led him forward to the car.
“Aren’t you gonna ask me what happened?”
Mike's voice was tired but curious; the adrenaline still managed to make its way through his body, less from James and more from Harvey's public display.
Harvey shook his head.
“You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to.”
There was a pause.
“Wouldn't you want evidence for the case?”
“I'm not building a case, Mike. You said you weren't filing.”
Oh.
“Oh.”
Okay, maybe Mike had come to the end of the rope. He didn't want Harvey to sue the guy, but he kind of hoped that the whole show wasn't an empty threat. He was still grimacing at the memory of being pinned against—
“I told you I'd take care of it.”
Mike's head cocked.
“Doesn't mean it has to be on the record. You won't ever see him again, Mike. I can guarantee you that.”
Oh!
Oh, wow.
“Harvey you don't have to—”
“This isn't up for debate. You need me, you’ve got me. You don't have to think about it, not anymore.”
Mike hadn’t exactly thought ahead on his admittedly shapeless plan. He hadn’t realized that opening the door wasn’t a reversible decision— Harvey wasn’t going to stop now that he’d been given permission, hell, he hadn’t even stopped when he didn’t have permission! With it? He was going to steamroll over every goddamn law in the country to get rid of James.
Harvey Specter was a loaded gun Mike was learning how to point.
…And Mike? Mike didn’t mind. It felt good, to be taken care of to the extent of not being able to stop it. Like it wasn’t conditional. Like Harvey would fight to the ends of the Earth if Mike only asked.
“Thanks. For being there when I need you.”
Harvey looked him up and down and opened the passenger door.
“Always, pup.”
Mike climbed in.
…
“You know, you really don’t have to be so worried.”
Mike insisted as Harvey rolled up his sleeves to get a better look at the bruising.
Mike figured they were going back to Brooklyn, to his apartment, but quickly caught on they were going the wrong way.
“Harvey—”
“You’re coming back to mine. That’s final.”
“I don’t have any clothes—”
“You can wear mine. Any more excuses?”
And who was Mike to argue with that?
He looked unamused and Mike took that as an invitation to elaborate.
“Really! I mean, he just kept touching me. And when I asked him to stop, he dragged me outside and tried to— but, you know the rest.”
Harvey looked up from his ministrations and shook his head.
“There’s no just in that entire situation, Mike. Stop trying to soften things. You don’t have to, not with me.”
Mike didn’t have a response for that, because Harvey was right.
“You can sleep in my room, I’ll take the couch.”
“What? Harvey, I’m not sleeping in your room. What’s wrong with the spare?”
“My bed’s better. Go, there’s a shirt and sweats on the dresser.”
Mike opened his mouth to argue.
“Nope. Go.”
He sighed and started in the direction of Harvey Specter’s bedroom.
“Goodnight, Harvey!”
He yelled as he walked in, leaving the door open behind him.
“Night, Mike.”
…
He couldn’t sleep.
Harvey’s bed was practically made of clouds, sure, and it definitely smelled like Harvey, yeah, but he still couldn’t sleep.
Something about tonight was still clinging to him, eating at him, and he didn’t know how to make it go away.
So, he tried the only thing he knew how to do.
The living room was dark, only illuminated by the computer screen on the coffee table that Harvey was mulling over.
He had a blanket from Harvey’s bed wrapped around his shoulders, much like his attire earlier in the night, and slinked down next to Harvey, putting a tentative head on his shoulder.
Harvey welcomed him, one arm sliding to secure itself around Mike’s waist.
“You okay?”
Harvey’s voice was hushed and tender and that, that was lulling Mike to sleep.
He only nodded, and Harvey eyed him for a few more seconds before shutting the laptop and laying down on the sofa, pulling Mike down with him.
Mike immediately adjusted accordingly, head fitting perfectly in the crook of Harvey’s neck.
He was about seconds away from sleep when Harvey spoke.
“I’m glad you called tonight.”
Mike heard the words Harvey wasn’t brave enough to say loud and clear:
“I’m glad you told me. I’m glad you know you need me.”
“I am too.”
Mike’s voice was slurred, now with sleep, and he decided there was nothing like falling asleep in the arms of someone who doesn’t have a limit on how far they’d go for you.