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Got a real jam goin' down

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Donna walks into Harvey’s office unannounced at least twenty times a day, either to force him to do all the crap he tries to put off, to announce the arrivals of clients, or to remind him just how shitty his life would be without her. When she does come breezing in, her attention is on Harvey 97.4% of the time and so Mike has learned to just ignore most of what goes on around him.

Except this time.

Mike is working hard-slash-hiding from Louis “let’s go back to the health club, wasn’t that fun” Litt — which is just too creepy for words and Pearson Hardman won’t pay for counseling — in Harvey’s office, highlighting the Maxton briefs with what he’s dubbed his lucky yellow highlighting sword of vengeance and awesomeness (hasn’t failed him yet), when Donna swans in.

“Someone’s got a visitor,” she sings, gleeful in a way that spells trouble for lesser mortals and major European governments in need of a good dismantling.

He glances up and nearly chokes on the highlighter cap he’d been chewing on, because what the good god hell.

This is not a client. He’s pretty sure the clients of Pearson Hardman do not have giant chest pieces. Or wear winged eyeliner. Or low-cut Hello Kitty shirts. Pretty sure.

Harvey lifts his gaze from whatever he’s reading — probably the sports page, the slacker — and his face turns into this weird, epileptic See & Say of emotion, and the arrow spins before finally settling on horrified. The pen he’s holding falls from lax fingers. “What the hell have you done to yourself.”

The girl — woman? — grins and looks down at the intricate and rather incredibly shaded tattoo taking up pretty much all of her chest. Her blacker than black and obviously-from-a-bottle hair falls into her face. “Like it? I got it done a couple of months ago.”

“You look like a gang member from that shitty George Clooney Batman movie.”

“I love it when you dish out compliments. You don’t do it nearly as often as you should,” she says, pouring herself into the overstuffed chair Harvey bought on a whim a month ago, legs thrown carelessly over one of the arms. “Guess who’s playing messenger?”

Harvey goes back to the sports page. “Sorry, I don’t talk to people who can’t express their individuality through productive means for want of the mental and/or creative capacity.”

Mike’s said a truly amount of stupid things to women before, but Harvey’s words are so precise and flawless it’s as if they were sharpened on a whetstone. He scrunches up his nose and waits for the explosion, but it never comes. Instead, the girl claps her hands together and positively beams, like Harvey hung the moon just for her.

“So! Thanksgiving is —”

“No.”

“Oh, yes.”

No.”

She sniffs and looks over her shoulder, gazing out the window to where New York is stretched out along the sky. There’s another tattoo right behind her ear but he’s too far away to make it out. A squid, maybe? “You skipped out the last two years, and she’s not going to stand for you pulling that shit a third time. In fact, she was talking about coming here herself —” At Harvey’s hunted look, she continues “— but I told her I’d come instead. You’re welcome.”

Harvey stares at her for a long moment, and Mike can honestly say that he’s never seen that look in his eyes before. It fluctuates somewhere between angry and fond, an odd variation of the look that Mike is usually on the other end of, but it’s more than that. This isn’t a woman from Harvey’s past (too young, too tattooed) but she’s definitely part of his life to be in his office with this kind of familiarity.

Wait.

Familiarity. Familiar.

fa·mil·iar
 (adjective)

1. commonly or generally known or seen: a familiar sight.
2. well-acquainted; thoroughly conversant: to be familiar with a subject.
3. closely intimate or personal: a familiar friend; to be on familiar terms.
4. unduly intimate; too personal; taking liberties; presuming: the duchess disliked familiar servants.

Origins: Mid-14c., “intimate, very friendly, on a family footing,” from O.Fr. famelier, from L. familiaris “domestic, of a household;” dissimilated from *familialis, from familia (see family)

This girl isn’t just part of Harvey’s life. She’s part of his family. Harvey has a family. An actual family. Mike needs to readjust his entire world view because this means Harvey isn't the bastard child of Lady Justice and Frank Abagnale.

“So, howyabeen?” The girl affects an obnoxiously thick New York accent, and Harvey wrinkles his nose.

“I’m billing you for every second you’re here.”

She shrugs. “I’m still waiting for you to cough up the money you owe me for a new bike.”

“You were eight.”

“Which means I’m also due a shit ton of interest. Bye bye, student loans.” The girl glances around Harvey’s office disinterestedly, then frowns and gives it a more critical once-over. “There’s something different about this place. You redecorate? I mean, it still looks as douchetastic as ever, but there’s something else…”

Harvey shrugs, abandoning all pretense and snapping the newspaper open pointedly. “Not a clue. However, I’m very busy and important, so unless you’re suing Fordham’s theater program for wasting the last three years of your life, the door is right over there.”

“It’s not the shelving unit,” she muses aloud, eyes sliding over the walls and the furniture before landing on Mike. She sits up, snaps, and points. “Oh my god, there’s a person in here! Have you been here the entire time?”

Mike gives her a deadpan look. “Mr. Specter does not allow me to speak to actual people. Or look out the window. Is it nice out? I haven’t seen the sun in, like, four days.”

Harvey snorts, amused, and the girl full-on laughs.

“I like this one, Harvey. You know who else will too? Mom.”

The mirth on Harvey’s face is taken behind the metaphorical shed and shot, and Harvey points to the door. “Get. Out. And when you talk to mom, tell her I’m dead. And don’t you dare mention Mike. The last thing I need is for her to descend upon me, breathing fire and demanding adopted grandkids.”

She dimples. “Mike? Oh, you mean your associate boy toy who looks like he’s twelve. No offense, Mike. Can I call you Mike?”

“No,” Harvey says.

“Yes,” Mike says. Because if Harvey’s crazy harpy mother is going to pounce on him at some point in time, she’ll call him by name.

The girl rolls out of the chair, shrugs her bag over her shoulder, and points at Harvey. “Thanksgiving. You will be there, or there will be seven levels of Hell to pay. Don’t give me that look; I’m just the messenger. Mike, you’re invited too. Bring pie; mom loves that good manners shit. See you both then!”

“Emily, I’m not going!” Harvey bellows as she opens the door. “And there isn’t a single thing you can do or say that will make me change my mind!”

Pausing, Emily quirks her head and opens the door as wide as it can go. She holds Harvey’s gaze, using his own smirk against him, then turns and shouts into the hall, “HEY HARVEY, YOU LEFT YOUR SPACE JAM CD AT MY DORM THE LAST TIME YOU VISITED. I JUST CAME TO BRING IT BACK. YOU’RE WELCOME.”

Everyone out in the hall — including Louis — pauses, staring.

Emily grins, waggles her fingers, then traipses out the door.

There’s a really long, uncomfortable pause as they watch the glass door slowly shut behind her, then Harvey cuts a quick look at Mike. “I’m not sure what that may have looked like —”

“A shaking, quaking space kaboom?”

“Get out.”