It's a long day after a long week and Mike needs to de-stress. Desperately. He doesn't smoke pot anymore--he's got some kind of associated illness with the thought now, from the gut-wrenching guilt smoking on Louis' orders had left him with.
He figures getting hammered while in the middle of a case is a bad idea, but they've won the estate dispute and their client is going to get everything he wants and Mike doesn't have to be at work tomorrow.
He's happy, Harvey's happy and Mike is down a six-pack of Sam Adams' finest. He's fantastic. So what if he's drinking alone?
He tries not to get depressed about that, and somehow ends up looking through his contact list for someone he can call to come over.
He nearly calls Trevor automatically before he can stop himself and then he shakes his head. He definitely needs a life. And new friends.
He sets the phone on the table and pulls out the second six-pack, grateful again that he doesn't have to work tomorrow.
His first thought when he wakes up isn't so much coherent thought as it is a wish for a quick death.
Half an hour, some Tylenol, a bottle of water and the greasiest omelet he can stomach making later, Mike's feeling human enough to shower. The cool water helps wash away the remaining hangover and Mike's feeling pretty good when he pulls on a pair of old jeans and heads into the kitchen to take stock of the damage.
His phone vibrates from the floor, and he stares down at it, uncomprehending, before dread grips him by the throat. He kneels and very cautiously picks up his phone. He licks his lips and then presses the button to activate the touchscreen.
1 new message from Harvey.
Mike swallows and presses view. You better be awake and sober.
Mike stares down in undisguised horror. Why didn't I put my phone up? he wonders hysterically. I always drunk dial.
He stares at his phone until morbid curiosity forces him to open his messaging center and check his sent messages. 13 last night, all to Harvey.
"Fuck." He swallows to moisten his dry throat and begins scrolling through, hoping beyond all hope he didn't ruin everything last night.
God i love my job...so much.also beer
U have fantastic hair
Y can't anyone beat the yankees? Too busy staringat the pinstripes
OMG YOUR MANTLE
U were righy about the suits...makse a difference...
U look great in ur usits tho...sometimes i thing about messin them up
I almost called trevor tonight...sorry :(
But i didnt! Dont b mad ok
Ur mad aretn u? Rly sorry...ill make it up to u.
I giv good head.
Dodny mean to send yhat last one. Plz delete i.T
Dont fire me.u should spank me instead. Or i can do laundry.
Im sry for this. Ur too hot. Noy mu fault. Dont b mad. Soryr.
"Oh, my God, I'm so fired," Mike says, staring at his phone in horror. Not only did I drunk text my boss, I drunk booty texted him. He might actually take out a restraining order or something.
He sets the phone on the table numbly and buries his head under his arms. "Fuck."
He sits there, head laying on the table, feeling vaguely ill, and then the wild hope appears: maybe he has Harvey's cell programed wrong. Maybe he just drunk messaged some random person, who didn't respond because it was obviously meant for someone else. Maybe he hasn't fucked up the best thing in his life.
Before he can really process the ridiculous number of ways that isn't possible, his phone vibrates ominously on the table, like his irrational hope was a cue for ruin and wrath. Open the door.
Mike stares at it, mind blank, and then there's a knock. He doesn't move, for some inane reason remembering the part of Jurassic Park with the raptors.
His phone buzzes again after a minute and he automatically thumbs the message open. Now, Michael.
Mike forces himself to stand, clutching his phone tightly in his left hand and stumbles to the door.
He carefully unbolts it and stands to the side when he opens it in case Harvey barrels through it with the intent to punch.
Instead, Harvey stares at him inscrutably until Mike backs up, pulling the door wide enough for him to enter.
He does so, moving passed Mike without a word. Mike notes his hair is as perfect as it is at the office and he's as attractive as he ever is, wearing a soft looking sweater, dark grays marbled with strands of white, and black slacks and shoes.
Mike closes the door and turns slowly. He's still holding the phone and he steals a quick look at Harvey, who's examining the apartment, then quickly drops it down the back of the couch. Maybe he can say someone stole his phone?
He doesn't think there's a world where that could work, but at this point, it's all he has. "Hey, Harvey. Sorry about the wait, I was getting dressed."
"I was having dinner with a lovely woman last night," Harvey says.
He can do this, he just has to sell it. "Uh. That's nice? Why are you telling me? Why are you here, actually?"
Harvey narrows his eyes at that, gaze finishing its somewhat dubious sweep of the room, and then he takes a deep breath. He holds it for a minute and Mike realizes he's trying to smell for pot and flinches a little.
"I really should spank you," Harvey says, voice low and sharp. Each word is emphasized and each word hits Mike like a double-punch to the libido and guilt-complex at once. Harvey's talented like that.
Harvey points in front of him meaningfully and Mike cautiously approaches. When he's where Harvey wants him he stops and looks up briefly. Harvey's eyes are darker than they normally are, almost black.
Mike looks down.
He sees Harvey's hand raise and doesn't move until he reaches his head to grip the back of his neck. Then Mike shakes, and his knees wobble, and he makes a really embarrassing sound.
Harvey holds him like that only that one point of connection between them as Mike's world shifts and restructures itself. The guilt and the shaking and the whirling thoughts of I'll lose my job and I'm such a fucking loser start to fade. I disappointed Harvey is the last to slip away under the floating lassitude.
"...yeah," Harvey is saying distantly, his hand sliding to Mike's shoulder. Mike's vaguely aware of being steered toward his couch and lets go.
Mike starts to think again after a while, but it's a slow process. He realizes he's kneeling beside his couch, leaning his cheek against Harvey's knee. He blinks, confused and a little freaked out, and then Harvey strokes his hair back from his eyes and the germ of panic fades. He looks up when Harvey taps his temple.
"I'm guessing that was a first for you."
Mike blinks. "Uh...yeah. That would be. Yes."
Harvey looks at him thoughtfully and then smiles a little, hand moving back to Mike's hair and doing...something. It feels good. Not as disconnected as before, but still a little floaty.
"You've got some research to do before this goes any further, boy wonder," Harvey murmurs, hand stilling.
Mike doesn't mean to, but he's rubbing his cheek against the finely woven fabric covering Harvey's knee. "Uh."
"And we're going to have a long talk about what kind of things it's appropriate to send your boss."
Mike flushes even through the remaining tendrils of calm. "I'm...so sorry. Lots of beer."
Harvey touches two fingers curiously to Mike's hot cheek. "I figured."
Mike swallows. "What..."
"I have some books in the car for you to read," Harvey interrupts. "You can ask questions afterward. And then we need to have a serious talk."
Mike looks up, searches Harvey's face for a cue on what to feel. Harvey looks calm, maybe a little amused. "OK?"
Harvey looks down at him, brow furrowed faintly, and then sighs. "I might owe you an apology." Mike's eyes widen and Harvey nods faintly. "Read the books. Let me know if I do."
Mike frowns at him, insanely curious and confused, but. Harvey's earned a little trust. "All right."