Work Text:
Mike is curled up in his chair by the window, watching the torrent of rain pour down the casement and wondering how he's going to get to work tomorrow, when he hears the buzzer go off.
"Who the hell…?" he mutters, wandering over to the tinny, plastic speaker and flicking it on. "Hello? Who's there?"
"M-m-mike?" the man on the other end is clearly shivering, his teeth chattering even around Mike's name. "B-buzz me in, will-l y-y-you?"
Mike starts to agree, then hesitates.
"Who is this, again?"
"H-Harvey!"
Forget the buzzer. Mike is out of his apartment and down the short steps in a flash, whipping the blanket from around his shoulders as he rounds the corner of the landing to see—
Harvey. Yep. Right outside, tucked into the tiny recession of the building's stoop, soaked to the skin and looking absolutely miserable. Mike swears and drags him inside, bundling him up and hustling him back into the warm.
"What the hell happened?" he demands, plunking Harvey firmly down on his sofa and rummaging around for something – anything – to get some color back into those chilled-paled cheeks. "Hey, you drink cocoa, right?"
Harvey blinks, still looking a bit shell-shocked.
"No, but okay," he says, his gaze following Mike with a slightly bewildered air. "What are you doing?"
"You need warm fluids," Mike says firmly, leaning over the counter and poking the wooden Cocoa Spoon (yes, he has one specially designated, shut up – cocoa is important) at Harvey's nose. "And dry clothes. I have – hang on." He abandons the cocoa for a moment and rushes into the bedroom, digging through his dresser drawer for something that might, conceivably fit Harvey. They're close in height, but Mike knows he's kind of a skinny fucker…aha!
"Here we go," he says triumphantly, darting back into the living room and tossing a worn t-shirt and a pair of heather grey sweatpants with the Columbia University seal emblazoned in blue on the left leg. Harvey catches them and frowns.
"You mind if I shower first?" he asks, even managing an imperious little arch of his eyebrow.
"Wha—oh, yeah, no, of course, sorry!" Mike ducks into the tiny bathroom and starts fiddling with the stubborn, rusted shower knobs. "Hang on a second, there's really only room for one in here…ah!" With a grunt of triumph, he manages to wrench the master knob on, starting the water spurting down from the little nozzle. "There we go. It should warm up in a few minutes, but turn the hot water knob as high as you want; I guarantee you won't get scalded." He smiles crookedly, a little self-deprecating, and steps aside to let Harvey in. "Uh…there's soap and towels and stuff, so—"
Harvey – as expected – shuts the door in his face. Mike just grins, and goes to finish the cocoa.
He hears the water shut off when he's almost done, and sure enough, a few minutes later Harvey wanders into the kitchen. He's got Mike's grey sweatpants on, the thin fabric pulling tight over his thighs with every step, little rivulets of water running down his sides to disappear beneath the low-riding waist. Mike's t-shirt, however, is slung over his shoulder, getting sprinkled wet as he scrubs one of Mike's towels through his hair.
"Shirt's a bit small," he says, placing it neatly on the counter and slinging the towel around the back of his neck. "I didn't want to rip it. You don't mind, right?" He gestures to himself, from broad shoulders to tight nipples to the cut line (and really, that shouldn't surprise Mike, Harvey has more physical confidence than any man he's ever met) of his abs and hips.
Mike swallows.
"Nope," he squeaks, then coughs, trying to clear out his throat. "Don't mind at all."
"Great." Harvey plants his arms on the counter behind him, pulling himself up to perch there with a soft little hup!. "Now, what were you saying about cocoa?"
"Wha—oh! Right, right." Mike tears his eyes away from Harvey's biceps and fumbles for the mugs, thrusting Harvey's at him and making the hot, dark liquid slop a little against the edges. They sip in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the low hum of the radiator and the clanking of the pipes as they settle back from Harvey's shower, until Mike clears his throat and asks, "Um…you want marshmallows with that?"
Harvey looks from Mike, to his half-finished cocoa, back to Mike. Then he grins, lopsided and affectionate, making Mike's breath catch a little as he reaches out and playfully nudges Mike's hip with his toes.
"Do I look like I'm five years old to you, kid?"
"Hey, if you're too much of a prude to appreciate the awesomeness of hot cocoa and marshmallows…" Mike dares to step forward and brush his fingers through Harvey's bangs. Without the gel, his hair is just a mess, bangs flopping over his forehead in a dark, damp tangle and the rest sticking up in little cowlicks where the towel mussed it even further.
"Yeah," Harvey says, low and rough. "Okay." He crooks his knees, wrapping his legs around the backs of Mike's thighs and drawing him in and scooting forward a little until their hips are pressed flush together. Mike's mug is plucked gently out of his hand, put carefully well to the side along with Harvey's – and then Harvey's hands are in his hair, tilting his head back as Harvey puts the height advantage of the countertop (which, Christ, he really, really doesn't need) to good use, and proceeds to kiss the ever-living daylights out of Mike.
Harvey tastes of cocoa, and like cocoa – dark, rich, bittersweet, enough to make Mike just a little lightheaded. His knees wobble; Harvey catches him, but breaks away with a last little peck to the tip of Mike's nose.
"Well," he says, looking as smug as the cat who negotiated a hostile takeover of the cream factory, "now that we've finally got that established – what were you saying about marshmallows?"