Mike wakes up dead.
Well, that's not quite true. One can't wake up dead. One can wake up and then die, or one can wake up and wish they were dead, but waking up dead is a paradox, an impossibility. Even the guy who's currently trying to drill a hole through Mike's left eye with an eggbeater can't erase Mike's abilities with logic from his Professor X-like brain. Besides the hole being drilled through his left eye with an eggbeater, his head feels oddly detached from the rest of his body, which aches inside and is being tugged in a million directions on the outside. It's like a dream within a nightmare.
This is way too much Inception for whatever time it is right now. Because, seriously, a hole is being drilled through his left eye with an eggbeater, and he has no idea where he is.
It takes about a year to work up the energy and the willpower to move his arm, which hits something large and soft, and he turns his head slowly (oh God, he's never moving again) to find a pair of plastic, beady eyes staring back at him. It's a giant panda. There is a giant stuffed panda not two feet away from him. Complete with a bamboo pipe. What the actual fuck.
His eyes leave those of the bear -- which looks way too cheerful to be part of Mike's suffering -- and take a turn about the. Wow. Yeah. The place is about forty-six times the size of his apartment, all gigantic windows and plush carpet and about six too many small staircases that lead nowhere. The Jacuzzi should be out of place, but it's not, and neither is the chandelier that looks kind of like a firework explosion that was dipped in carbonite. So, this is not a room. This is a city. It may actually be Gondor. He jerks in surprise when he catches sight of the three, small helicopters buzzing in circles in the air.
And then he sees the writing on the wall. Literally. "HARVEY SPECTER OWNS THE WORLD" is written in bubble letters all along one giant, cream wall.
Okay, back to the logic skills and Professor X's brain, because they really can't pick now of all times to fail him. He brings up the last twenty-four hours up in a PowerPoint presentation in his head, complete with text effects and clip art. The first slide is a short biography of Pearson Hardman's most recent client: Gordon Jeremy, the vice president of Fabrique, which pretty much owns the fabric market (who knew there was even one, although no, makes sense, because how else would clothes be made and hipsters get their fabric purses).
Next slide: Jeremy had been framed by the president of the company for tax evasion and fraud, but Jeremy is actually a pretty decent guy (you know, for a vice president) and was found innocent, thanks to Harvey's mad closing skills and Mike's mad everything skills.
Next slide: Since the company president (ex-president) is going to jail for a while and Jeremy's been instated as president, a celebration was called for. In Vegas. Because Jeremy is nothing if not a generous man.
Next slide: The last thing he remembers is doing tequila shots with Harvey at the Palms Casino.
End of slideshow.
Fuck. Fuck, okay. He's in Vegas. In a strange room. Aching in strange places. Places that haven't ached since he last saw Christopher, the graphic designer from Manhattan who was so painfully straight-edge that he cut all ties (and cut all his actual ties, including the ones Gram'd got him for Christmas) with Mike after discovering the pot thing. Before that, though? Fun times. Not sitting for a week never felt so good.
But that doesn't explain why he's aching like that now. He must've gone with someone after the bar. Harvey just let him go with some random guy? Really? This is Vegas; there could be 24 dead hookers and a metric ton of cocaine somewhere in this suite.
All right. First things first: take a piss. Possibly forever. Seriously, his back teeth are floating. After that, he'll check the place for bodies, wipe down all the doorknobs and phones, and get the hell out.
Sucking in a breath, he rolls over, plants his feet firmly on the ground, and patiently waits for the entire world to cut him a goddamn break and stop spinning. His left eye throbs pointedly and he shoves the palm of his hand into it and rubs as hard as he can until it goes away. A moment passes and his eye starts burning. Through the pain-tears, he peers down at his hand. It's covered in red glitter.
Huffing a breath, Mike pushes away from the bed and stumbles sideways out of the room, falling down the ridiculous tiny staircase that leads to the main part of the suite. He crashes spectacularly into the floor and whimpers. It's at least carpeted with the nice, soft stuff and not that wiry shit that feels like pubic hair.
"Oh my God, why are you so loud?"
Mike stills. "Harvey?"
"No, it's the great and powerful Oz." Which forces Mike to lift his head and scan the suite for Harvey… and oh god, the suite. The suite that's covered in broken glass, a multitude of colored stains, sharpie, glitter, and… sequins. There is a stone sphinx on one of the couches, and the other couch looks like someone hemorrhaged all over it. Or maybe it's wine. Please be wine. He also has no idea how they ended up with twenty-odd Big Willie Style CDs, where one would go to buy them, or why they're stacked to form some kind of weird CD version of Eureka's castle.
And there's a flat screen TV face-down on the floor. No, correction. There's a flat screen TV face-down on top of Harvey who's on the floor and who seems to be having an issue with clothing. As in he's not wearing any. The calves sticking out from under the TV are fucking gorgeous. How is Mike supposed to live in a reality that encompasses this?
"I think I woke up dead," Harvey groans, clutching at the TV.
"You can't wake up dead," Mike says, and wow, Harvey's arms. It may even be necessary to call them "guns," because the thought of how much weight those arms can probably take hits him like a bullet right between the eyes.
With a grunt, Harvey pushes the TV off of him, exposing his entire body to the air and closing the book once and for all on whether or not Harvey Specter is a human being. And the answer is no, he is not, because human beings don't look like that.
"Harvey, you need to put on some pants, like, right the fuck now." The because I will molest the hell out of you if you don't goes unsaid but is heavily implied. Naturally, a man as observant as Harvey will pick up on it right away and spare Mike the jail sentence.
"Why? Am I offending your delicate sensibilities?" Never mind. 10-25 years sound about right. "Jesus Christ, what the hell happened last night? I remember leaving the bar and then… nothing."
"I don't know. But it looks like a bomb hit the suite."
"A bong? What did I say about the pot?"
Mike drops his head to the carpet and groans loudly. "No, a bomb. Jesus, how are we going to explain this to management?"
Harvey lifts his head at that and looks around, the expression on his face somewhere between horrified and proud. Mostly proud. He gets to his feet with a lot more grace than someone who woke up under a 55" TV should have and stretches. Naked. Still very naked. Naked stretching, happening right before Mike's eyes. Except there's something about his skin that looks… bruised. Like he got the shit kicked out of him.
"You're ogling," Harvey says, amusement overriding the pain of his hangover, and Mike shrugs from the floor.
Mike doesn't mean it like that, except that he totally does, and Harvey's amusement melts into something approaching delight, then he turns away and surveys the room with a low whistle. "This is almost impressive."
"I hope that's exactly what you tell the cops when we're arrested," Mike grumbles, wincing at a twinge that makes itself known deep inside, as if his body is acknowledging that he got thoroughly fucked last night and offers its congratulations in the form of a small rush of warmth that washes it away.
His bladder pulses once, pointedly, and he suddenly remembers he's going to get some mutant UTI and die horribly if he doesn't pee soon. He forces himself to his feet and mindlessly flails in the direction of what he hopes is the bathroom, feeling Harvey's eyes on him all the way.
"You're naked," Harvey calls back. "And you look like a war orphan. Am I not paying you enough to afford food?"
Mike ignores him, stumbling into the bathroom, which is too bright and has goddamn pieces of gold in the stupidly shiny walls. He eats plenty, thank you. It may not be foie gras or filet mignon or whatever pretentious bullshit Harvey gorges on, but pizza rolls and Cheez-Its are found in the grocery store, ergo: food.
He stands in front of the toilet, grips himself, aims, and this is going to be just like that Austin Powers scene. He'll just stand here and piss forever.
A quarter of the way through his epic bathroom break, Mike sighs so loud in relief that he almost doesn't hear the splash. The other splash. The one not coming from the toilet. Oh god, he knows that as soon as he turns his head and looks that this already shitty morning is only going to get exponentially worse.
Closing his eyes, he exhales and continues pissing, and it's not until he finds a happy place that he turns his head to look.
The giant orange and white koi in the tub looks back.
There are days when Mike really misses the uncomplicated life of a stoner. This is one of them.
He turns back to the toilet and finishes, complete with a cramping in his gut, which is most likely his bladder threatening to go on strike if he pulls this shit again. And somewhere in the world, a bus full of starving orphans explodes while he uses the softest soap to ever touch human skin to wash his hands in the gold sink.
His fingers brush up against something hard and smooth, and he glances down and --
Hey, you've reached Mike Ross. I'm not here to take your call right now. Leave a message after the aneurysm. I mean, beep.
He dries his hands, ignores the giant fish swimming in the tub, and storms back out into the suite. Harvey managed to dredge up some consideration for Mike's dearly departed sanity and put on pants, but somehow all they do is highlight the bruises covering Harvey's entire body.
"We have problems," Mike announces. "So, apparently we kidnapped the Godzilla of sushi, you got the shit kicked out of you, and I got married. And got fucked. Maybe even in that order. Have you seen my pants?"
Harvey blinks. "… Sorry, what? You got what?"
"Married. And fucked. Keep up, Harvey, would you?" Mike purses his lips and looks around. "No, seriously, I know I was wearing pants at some point last night."
"Is this shock?" Harvey groans. "Are you in shock?"
Shock sounds about right. How did this even happen? He's working for Pearson Hardman; this kind of shit isn't supposed to happen. He gave up the pot, the taking tests for stupid people, the wasting of his potential, all for the promise of… a Vegas marriage. There is a ring on his finger and somewhere in this city is a chapel with a picture of his drunk ass up on the goddamn wall.
There's suddenly a hand on the small of his back and it slides up until it sits between his shoulder blades, warm and steady, holding him upright. Harvey smells like liquor and sweat and bad decisions, which is probably exactly what Vegas is made of.
"Deep breaths," Harvey rumbles, and Mike can feel it in his veins. "If you pass out and die, I will be very disappointed."
And immediately, Mike feels way calmer than he did two seconds ago. Unbelievable. Harvey's like the Associate Whisperer, who apparently doesn't believe in personal space or shirts. Mike's sort of okay with this, except, yikes.
"I was wrong," Mike says, looking at Harvey's chest in a hopefully this-does-not-warrant-a-citizen's-arrest kind of way, and Harvey blinks in confusion. "You didn't get the shit kicked out of you, but someone definitely tried to eat you. Is the zombie apocalypse coming? You feeling okay? I'd hate to have to bludgeon you to death before we figure out just what the hell happened last night."
Harvey rolls his eyes and steps away, which is totally uncalled for, and then looks pointedly down at Mike's cock. Harvey then reaches down and -- oh. Harvey was looking at his hands. Dammit.
"Huh," Harvey says aloud, lifting Mike's left hand up so the light of the chandelier glints off the gold band. "That's different. And you don't know --"
Mike yanks his hand away and brushes past Harvey to go find some pants. A buffer between his dick and Harvey would probably be beneficial in this situation. "Like I said, we've got proble -- OW, FUCK!"
One of the toy helicopters kamikazes right into his face, practically shattering his cheekbone and then falling to the carpet with a cheerful thud. Whimpering, he clutches his cheek and reaches down for the thing when his watering eyes catch a glimpse of TOY SHACK, 450 Fremont Street, Las Vegas NV, 702.538.8600 attached to one of the landing skids.
"Rookie, are you dead?" Harvey calls, coming up behind him. "Well, dead or not, you're still not wearing pants."
"Stop saying words for a second," Mike says, dropping his hand from his throbbing cheek to clutch at the helicopter. He shoves it in Harvey's face. "See this?"
"Or you could try and take out my eye --"
"There's an address here. Which means it was purchased. Which means they will have remembered us. Which means --" He adopts his best Fred voice for this, "Hey gang! A clue! Harvey, check your pockets. I want to have some kind of clue bank by the time I manage to locate pants." God only knows what they got up to last night. Something twinges in Mike's thigh and he shifts uncomfortably. Or who they got up to.
Harvey crosses his arms, making his chest look even more amazing, and jerks his head over toward the tower of CDs. "Any idea where those might've come from?"
"This might be a good time to own up to your terrible, unspeakable love for shitty 90s music."
"I will do no such thing," Harvey says, shifty-eyed. Mike's 71% sure Harvey has the entire N'Sync collection on vinyl and listens to it at least twice a day. "Go find pants if you must. I'm going to go call Donna, see if we can get this whole thing straightened out."
Donna. Yes. Their avenging angel will make this all go away, even if she has to infiltrate and take over the UN to do it. That is, if she hasn't already. Donna gets an hour break and he can only imagine what she does with it.
Harvey turns, intent on finding his cell phone (or trying to hide the fact that he still owns a pair of Hammer pants), presenting his broad, freshly-inked back to Mike, who kind of wants to lick the wings of his shoulder blades and --
"Oh. My god. Harvey."
Harvey looks over his shoulder, eyebrow quirked. "What now?"
Swallowing, Mike takes a step, lifts his hand and places it firmly upon what once must have been smooth skin. Harvey jerks away from his touch like Mike's got a radiator taped to his hand, scowling.
"The hell did you --" The penny drops. Mike can literally see it hit, spin for a moment, and fall Lincoln-up. "Oh god."
Mike has never seen a human being run that fast. Or heard a human being make that noise. The sounds coming from the bathroom are probably something closer to a bison's death throes.
"HOW THE FUCK DID THIS EVEN HAPPEN. ROOKIE, GET YOUR PERT ASS IN HERE RIGHT NOW."
By the time he gets to the bathroom, Harvey's sitting on the toilet lid, head in his hands and his gigantor tattoo of the scales of justice on display. The skin around the lines is pink and slightly puffy, but the tattoo looks to be healing nicely. Mike's always wanted one but held off until he actually had a design in mind, something he'd be able to live with for the rest of his life. Maybe a potato. Can't go wrong with a potato.
"My career is over," Harvey moans into his hands, spine muscles rippling and causing the scales to move, like they're weighing his stellar life against a single night in Vegas. "I can't go into a court room with this."
"Yeah, I don't follow," Mike says. "How is your truly frightening court room reign over because of a tattoo? Unless you plan on going Hulk and ripping your shirt off during a trial, I'm missing something."
Harvey peeks over his fingers with a glare. "No self-respecting lawyer has a tattoo. Of any size, let alone a fucking mural."
"What about whatshername, Monica Letierre's lawyer. She had that goth thing going. She had a neck piece."
"I said self-respecting lawyer."
"She still wiped the floor with you." And what a floor-wiping it had been. That woman was ruthless. Mike had been looking around for popcorn during most of the trial. One of those giant foam #1 hands wouldn't have been out of place, either.
"You're missing the point, Michael."
A shiver wracks Mike at the way Harvey wraps his name up in a growl, feeling it almost physically, like it was whispered against his neck. "I-I don't think there's a point to miss, here, Harvey. I think you're inventing a point because you just like giving me extra work. Still doesn't negate the fact that I'm married, you're a walking, half-eaten billboard, and I've decide to name the fish Ricky." Also doesn't negate that he wants to nibble Harvey's tattoo, which means he's going to pop a very inconvenient boner every time he sees a statue of Lady Justice.
Harvey looks over to the tub where Ricky the koi splashes around. "Should we feed the thing? I don't need an animal cruelty lawsuit on top of everything else."
Mike rolls his eyes. "We probably stole him from a koi pond somewhere close by. It hasn't been away that long, so we'll Google all the nearest ponds and sneak it back into one. And if you're worried about animal cruelty, better get rid of that fucking panda before I set it on fire."
"We stole a panda, too?" Harvey is starting to look a bit wild about the eyes.
"No, it's stuffed," Mike says, "but it's creepy as hell. It's going to come alive and kill me."
Harvey's shoulders drop with a sigh. He paints such a pathetically adorable picture that Mike can't resist reaching out and placing a comforting hand on the back of his neck.
"This would be so much easier if I knew what happened last night," Harvey says quietly, arching slightly into Mike's touch. Mike's heart decides it's a perfect time to go bungee jumping. "I hate not knowing. I know everything."
"I'm curious as to why you felt the need to write 'Harvey Specter owns the world' on the wall."
"You mean besides the fact it's true?" Harvey reaches up and grips Mike's wrist, thumbing his pulse point. "You're married, Mike. Christ, you got married last night."
Oh yeah. Buzz kill. "I'll just get it annulled. Not like I remember who I got married to, anyway. With my luck, it was a hooker. I can hear Grammy weeping from here. Anyway, it was probably one of those drive-thru chapels. They must have drive-thru divorce proceedings. Easy-peasy."
Harvey snorts a laugh, but doesn't loosen his grip on Mike's wrist, thumb still dragging slowly over his skin, and then leans forward until he's resting his head on Mike's bare stomach. "I can't believe I let you get married."
Mike stares at a point on the wall and hopes his growing erection will be a gentleman and not smack Harvey on the chin. "You didn't let me get anything. Harvey. Hey, look at me for a sec."
Harvey lifts his head, gaze burning with something Mike can't identify (he hopes at least 60% of it is hot sex against the sink) and Mike's hand slides down to cup his jaw. It's so new and terrifying, yet feels as though they've been doing it forever, a level of comfortable that makes Mike decidedly uncomfortable, and Mike lets out a shaky breath.
"Harvey," he murmurs, like a goddamn Regency heroine, and Harvey turns his face into Mike's hand. "Hey. It's fine. It's all good."
"Or you could live in reality with the rest of us," Harvey mutters into Mike's palm. "Because 'good' isn't the adjective I was thinking of."
"I'm very choosy about the realities I accept. I like mine better." He grins. "There are koi fish and helicopters and Big Willie Style CDs in mine; yours is probably just a giant closet full of Zegna."
A small smile curls Harvey's mouth, somehow brighter than the gold in the sink or the fish in the tub, and he peers over the edge of Mike's hand. "Pants, rookie. I'm going to call Donna, then we're going to pay the lovely people at Toy Shack a visit. And God help them if they don't have the answers we want."
With that, Harvey stands, releases Mike with a smirk, and leaves the bathroom with a spring in his step.
Mike sinks down to sit in Harvey's vacated seat, heart pounding. What in the fucking hell just happened? Was that a come-on? Was Harvey coming onto him? Or is this what a psychotic break looks like? He's sort of under the impression that those warrant a psych eval, not a boner.
"God," he mutters skyward, "why do you hate me?"
Well, comes the imagined reply, there's just something about you that pisses me off.
At least things can't get any worse.
"WHERE THE FUCK IS MY PHONE?"
"Oh, thank God!" A tiny creature assaults them the second they walk through the entrance of Toy Shack, their cab pulling away from the curb, the driver no doubt counting the obscene amount of money Harvey threw at him. No wonder why Ray's so happy all the time.
A woman of about seventy-five years and four feet grips Harvey's shirt in her microscopic, gnarled hands and shakes him. "Where have you boys been? Do you have any idea how long I've been awake and waiting? I see you got rid of those foolish uniforms." She turns her gaze on Mike. His life flashes before his eyes. Excepting this last year, his life? Pretty disappointing. And kind of dull. "You! You promised you'd be here at exactly 8:14!"
He what? "I what? 8:14? Why would I ever pick that time?"
The woman sniffs and shrugs, releasing Harvey with a careless push. "I don't pretend to understand the younger generation, but you said 8:14 and not a minute later. Do you have any idea how hard it's been to hide the stupid thing?"
Human beings supposedly do not possess any prophetic powers whatsoever, but Mike may be an exception to this rule because he foresees another mistake from last night about to bite him in the ass.
"I've had nearly ten people in here asking about it since I opened! I swear to Christ one of them was about to pull a gun on me! Good thing I've got my own."
Spunky old people are awesome. In most cases. Like his gram. This woman? Is terrifying. She must've been the equivalent to Donna in WWII. Hell, she probably won the war.
"Pardon me, ma'am," Harvey cuts in smoothly, smiling with all the charm a lawyer can possess, "but to what are you referring?"
The woman snorts. "Save it, pretty boy."
Harvey makes a face and drops the act. "Fine. What the hell are you talking about and what can you tell us about last night?"
"Can't remember a thing?" Yellow teeth flash in their direction, curved with amusement. "That's Vegas for you."
That should be the new tagline for Vegas. Lose all your money? That's Vegas! Can't remember last night? Totally Vegas! Wake up in a destroyed hotel room with a giant fish and a wedding ring? Oh, Vegas.
Mike misses New York's urine smell.
The woman takes pity on them and jerks her thumb toward the back of the store. "I've got it waiting for you if you've got the 10 grand."
The what. "The what?"
"The 10 grand you promised me. I said I'd give it to you if you'd pay 10 grand, up front."
Mike's never even seen 10 grand all in one place before, never mind would give it away for something found in a goddamn toy store. A toy store in Vegas.
Harvey's got his checkbook out. "Check okay?"
"You lost your phone but you somehow managed to keep hold of your checkbook?" Mike demands, eyeing the black leather case and the felt-tipped pen Harvey's got poised above the paper. "How do people let you fight for their lives?"
"I'm trustworthy when it comes to money," Harvey says airily.
"Bet it's awesome diving into your swimming pool full of gold, Scrooge McDuck."
Harvey rolls his eyes. "Am I making this out to Toy Shack?"
Mike snatches it from Harvey's hand and tosses it somewhere behind him. Harvey's checkbook is probably considered a weapon of mass destruction in some countries. In Vegas, definitely. "Are you insane? I get that money is just green tissue paper to you, but you don't just throw 10 grand away on something like that! Especially when you don't even know what that something is!"
The woman crosses her arms. "That something is the limited edition Captain Kirk 1971 action figure. And you can make it out to Maureen Packard."
Harvey looks like he's just seen a unicorn. "S-say that again?"
"No," Maureen says. "Give me my money and you get the toy. Then you can both get the hell out of my store."
"Do you treat all your customers like this?" Mike asks. She doesn't have to be so mean about this. Weren't manners all the rage back in the day?
Maureen smiles, and it's scary as hell. "Only the ones I really like. Now cough it up. You don't want your gift to collect even more dust, now do you?"
Mike opens his mouth for a pretty incredible rejoinder when Harvey clamps a hand over his mouth and says slowly, "You said the limited edition 1971 Captain Kirk action figure."
"As in, in this building."
"… Are you slow?"
"And Mike was gonna get it?" Harvey's eyes are wide, and Mike thinks he may be drooling. His hand smells like sweat and… wait, why does that other scent smell familiar? "Rookie, something you want to tell me? I thought you weren't a Trek fan."
Maureen rolls her eyes. "Said he wasn't buying it for himself. It's a wedding gift. For his husband."
Mike pulls Harvey's hand from his face and surveys Maureen with a look that hopefully conveys, well, hope and not 'possible escapee'. "My husband? Then you know who I was with last night?"
A slow, truly frightening smile breaks across her face. "Why don't I just give you the chapel's address? And Captain Kirk's going to be $10,000, plus $810 in tax."
Harvey's not talking to him, which makes their cab ride to Viva Las Vegas Wedding Chapel awesome. There's nothing quite like sitting next to the New York's biggest man-child in a car that smells like cheese and wet dog while their cab driver sings along to some song that Mike can't actually understand. Screamo was never his thing, but the dude behind the wheel is rocking out.
Mike sneaks a glance to his left. Harvey's wearing what his Gram used to call the 'storm cloud face.' It was adorable on Mike when he was a kid, but on Harvey it's just plain scary.
"Shut up, rookie. You don't get to say a single word."
How mature. "Not even about how much of a creep you're being about that stupid doll?"
Said doll is still in its box, buckled into the seat between them. Jim Kirk never looked so smug.
"What doll?" Harvey asks, obnoxiously wide-eyed and faux innocent. "Oh, you mean the one-of-a-kind action figure you were going to just give away to some guy you got hitched to while drunk in Vegas."
Put that way, it does sound a bit sketchy. "I don't remember actually wanting to do this, you know."
"You know how long I've been searching for that fucking thing? Years. Practically since birth. And right when it's finally within my grasp… you buy it for someone you probably met in a backroom somewhere. Oh, and well done on that front, rookie. I'm so proud of you for shackling yourself to a complete stranger, probably a stripper or a pimp; this is one way to promote the Pearson Hardman name I hadn't thought of --"
"If you're going to be like this, I'd rather go back to the hotel and hang with the murder panda. And insulting my husband, who's probably a billionaire? Yeah, you can cut that out anytime." Mike settles into his seat with a scowl. He crosses his arms and hides his hands under armpits so he won't be tempted to punch Harvey in his stupid face. "I'm sorry that, in my unbelievably drunk state, I was going to buy a doll for 10 grand and give it to someone else."
"Doll." Mike risks another glance. "I don't know why you're being an asshole about me getting married. If anything, I should be acting the douche in this scenario and you should be falling all over yourself to make me feel better. You probably had sex with two dozen supermodels last night. If you're really that worried about the Pearson Hardman name, then I can just quit and go live with my billionaire husband on some deserted island and live on nothing but bon-bons and kinky sex."
Harvey says nothing, which is a triumph Mike can't find any victory in. But as always with Harvey, the silence doesn't last long.
"The Kirk action figure should be mine."
Seriously? "Seriously? You're still talking about the doll? You know what? Take it. It's yours. I'll get my billionaire husband something else. Something that will be taken out of the box and actually appreciated."
Harvey's mouth tightens. Any tighter and it's going to disappear. "You should've given it to me."
"For Christ's sake, Harvey --"
"Last night. You should've given it to me. As a gift. It should be mine."
Hey, you've reached Mike Ross. I'm not here to take your call right now. Leave a message after the aneurysm. I mean, beep.
Mike has been known to hear one thing and then interpret it as the complete opposite. Like when Gram would say, "Michael, don't eat these freshly-made cookies until after you eat," he would translate it as I know I said don't eat these cookies, but eating them is okay too. So when he hears Harvey's sudden bombshell (well, barely hears it over the Rammstein playing in the front), it comes through as I could not have possibly said what you thought I said.
"Uh," Mike says intelligently, "when you say 'should have been mine' --"
"You're not stupid," Harvey snarls, staring out the window. "Don't act like you are. You heard me."
This is not reality. This only happens in Mike's dreams, and sometimes when he's taking a shower and fantasizes about the hot sex they have afterward.
Mike pinches himself. He's still in a shitty cab with shitty music blaring and Harvey sitting next to him with a shitty pout on his face. Because Mike's Vegas-married.
The cab pulls up to the curb with a jerk.
"DU HAST," Rammstein howls.
Mike's not entirely sure what that means, but it sounds an awful lot like "YOU'RE FUCKED."
The Viva Las Vegas wedding chapel is… exactly what Mike had been expecting. It looks like a Vegas wedding chapel. Like, if 'Vegas wedding chapel' were in the dictionary, the picture of the Viva Las Vegas chapel would pop out and punch you in the face.
Harvey stares at it like it's personally offending him. And it probably is, the yuppie.
"So." Mike kicks at the ground, then peers up at the chapel. "I guess --"
"Shut up," Harvey grumbles, starting forward, back ram-rod straight, and leaving Mike to scramble after him. He strides through the doors, pushing them open grandly, like a goddamn king. "All right, I want some answers and I want them now! Who the fuck did Michael Ross marry last ni --"
A fat guy comes out from behind the front desk, waddles across the lobby, and throws his arms around Harvey with a laugh. Mike decides to stay in the doorway, because nope. And he wishes he had his phone; this needs to be all over Facebook five minutes ago.
"I thought you boys weren't ever coming back! Your phones were ringing off the hook before they finally died, and I had no way of finding you to get them back to you. Not in this city, at least. Come on in, come on in! I hope you two had fun last night… and I hope you brought the costumes back -- dry-cleaned. Can't let other people use them if they're all stained, you know!" The man guffaws, stepping away from Harvey, hands on Harvey's arms, and then beams over at Mike. "We got your stuff all printed, just how you wanted it! HEY, RINA, BRING OUT THE PEARSON-HARDMAN STUFF!"
Harvey has an expression that wouldn't look out of place on a UFO abductee. "Wait, what? We were both here last night?"
The man grins. "I thought you guys were a little too happy. Shoulda blamed it on the a-a-a-alcohol, baby!" At their horrified faces, he shrugs. "No? Oh well. But I want you to know that your ceremony was beautiful. The vows were just… God, just so heartfelt and perfect. I've been in this business a long time and yours was definitely in the top five, maybe three. I've never seen a Star Trek one pulled off so flawlessly."
Please, please, please let Mike have heard that wrong. "I'm sorry, a what themed wedding?"
"I mean, if we ignore the hair, you were a great Spock," the guy says, elbowing Mike in the chest. "You did the salute thing right before the kiss; I thought Elvis was gonna melt into a puddle."
Mike nods, because this obviously is his life. "So. I was Spock in a Star Trek themed wedding, which was officiated by Elvis. … I have no sarcastic comment to add. I just wanted to make sure."
The guy pats Mike and Harvey both on the back. "But hey! Look on the bright side! Kirk here bought you the helicopters we had and Spock here said he'd buy you whatever you wanted. Between that and all the Will Smith CDs you bought, I'm sure a good time was had by all! RINA, WHERE'S THE PEARSON-HARDMAN STUFF?"
Harvey. It's Harvey. His mysterious, possible billionaire husband is Harvey fucking "I own the world" Specter. This is either the best or worst thing that's ever happened in the history of ever. Oh God, Louis can never know. Ever.
"Mike got married… to me. He got married to me." Harvey cranes his head and stares at Mike with something like disbelief and shock's bastard love child on his face. "Which means --"
Mike rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I know, the Kirk doll was yours all along."
"Do we have to have that conversation about how you keep interrupting me?" Harvey asks lightly, a grin curling his mouth, which is all well and good except for the smoldering heat in his eyes. Mike's dick perks up, very interested. Traitor.
A dark-haired, bored-looking woman comes out carrying a box, dumping it on the counter. "Mazeltov," she says flatly, then turns around and leaves again.
"Here we go!" The man says, pushing past them to get to the box, holding it like it's got the friggin' Holy Grail in it. He brings it back over. "Freshly printed and ready to go!"
Mike and Harvey peer inside at the twenty coffee mugs, five mouse pads, and a bajillion pens, all with their picture blazoned on them. Their picture, in which Mike is wearing a blue Starfleet shirt and Spock ears and is doing the Vulcan salute. Harvey chokes on a laugh, lifting a mug out and holding it up to the light.
"I have no words for how much I hate you right now," Mike says absently, because Harvey makes for a pretty hot Captain Kirk. Shatner, eat your heart out.
"Put it all on my card," Harvey says, amused as hell, grinning at the guy. "The costumes, too. You're not getting those back."
"Hate," Mike mutters. "Just… so much hate. I want a divorce."
The man affects a sorrowful pout at the sudden downturn, glaring like Mike's just crushed all his dreams, and says, "I know a good lawyer."
Harvey positively beams at him. "I know a better one."
Ignoring all of this bullshit, Mike turns to the guy. "I've been meaning to ask. The Will Smith stuff. Where and why?"
"Oh, that. I have a friend a block down who owns a used music store. And your Captain Kirk wanted you to have plenty of copies of your wedding song. I mean, I was always partial to 'Miami', but he was all about 'Men in Black'."
"Did you ever imagine we'd end up here, like this?"
They're lying side by side on the hotel bed, catching their breath after round… 6? 7? Whatever. They've been pushing the boundaries of biology for the better part of five hours, and Mike's body is waving the white flag. He needs a nap, Gatorade, a shower and to call his Gram -- in that order. A phone call's already been made to Donna, who promised she wouldn't throw them a congratulatory party when they got back to the office on Monday (Mike and Harvey both know she's a dirty liar).
Mike closes his eyes and turns his head, nose brushing Harvey's shoulder. He pulls the reins on his thudding heart. Any second now he's going to start waxing poetic about Harvey's beautiful elbows and stupid smile and how much of a badass he is in a deposition. "The fish was a surprise, but I've thought about it before. You and me. Together. A lot."
"Naturally," Harvey says, his smug grin audible. "I mean, why wouldn't you? Look at me. I'm goddamn perfect."
"And so modest," Mike mutters, rolling onto his side, away from Harvey. "Ugh, how are we going to get this dissolved? You've gotta know people, right?"
There's a long pause, long enough that Mike rolls over to face Harvey, who's staring up at the ceiling with a peculiar look on his face. "I was thinking."
"God help us."
"Shut it, rookie," Harvey snaps, eyes sliding shut. "I was thinking… maybe we'd… leave it. And see. Think of it like a trial period."
"You've gotta get rid of that fucking doll."
Captain Kirk smirks at them from his box, which is sitting on the night stand next to the bed.
"For the last time, he's an action figure and he stays. You don't like it? There's a lovely wine-stained couch out there with your name on it."
Mike woke up dead this morning. And sore. And married. And tonight, he's going to bed sore. And married. At least the day got better as they went.
Grinning, he leans over and brushes a soft kiss against Harvey's bottom lip, accidentally knocking the box of condoms off the bed with his foot. "According to the states of New York and Nevada, what's yours is mine and mine is yours. So, you get a bike and I get your condo."
Harvey's eyes snap open. "Keep dreaming, rookie."
"Don't have to anymore."
Something startled and young flashes in Harvey's eyes before it's smothered to death by smarm. "No, I guess you don't."
Grinning, Mike settles down against him, tucking his nose against Harvey's throat, and exhales. An arm drapes itself over his side and there's a brush of lips against his hairline. This might work. This will work.
Gordon Jeremy is getting one hell of a fruit basket when they get back to New York.