Work Text:
In retrospect, Mike probably should’ve taken a cab into work after his fifth straight night of less than three hours of sleep. If he had, maybe he wouldn’t currently be lying face down on the sidewalk, groaning in a decidedly undignified manner while a crowd gathers around.
In his defense, he used to messenger high all the time, and since starting at Pearson Hardman he’s always made it into the office in one piece, despite more than his fair share of near-sleepless nights. Biking usually wakes him up. But the added stress of Hardman’s general existence was apparently too much, or maybe he just ran out of luck. Either way, he missed a cab pulling out and now here he is, fucked on the last day he can afford to be fucked.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” A man kneels by his side, one hand hovering around his shoulders but not touching. “Are you okay? Should I call an ambulance?”
Oh, this must be the cabbie the clipped him. Mid-50s, graying hair. He looks nice, genuinely concerned, as if it’s his fault Mike biked badly.
“No, no ambulance.” Mike takes a deep breath that makes his entire side hurt and struggles up to his hands and knees. Another breath, another sharp twinge of pain. That can’t be good. “I’m fine.”
Fine is an overstatement, but with the help of the cabbie and a few onlookers he manages to stumble to his feet. His bike, thankfully, is more-or-less in one piece, and a few experimental steps proves he can walk well enough to make it the last few blocks to Pearson Hardman. If he books it, he can get Harvey his merger documents on time, and after that maybe he can convince Donna to find him an ice pack and a quiet corner of the file room to recover in while he plows through the pile of work waiting on his desk.
Some of the gathered crowd tries to convince him he really should go to the hospital—with enough urgency that he revises his plan to include a stop in the bathroom to clean up—but he repeats he’s okay over and over until they disperse. He makes the cabbie’s day when he declines his contact information.
“It was my fault, I was distracted. We don’t need to get your insurance involved,” he assures the man, who shakes his hand and thanks him profusely.
So, yeah, fine may be an overstatement, but it is, really. He’s had worse days.
***
Of course, then his bad luck gets worse: he reaches the bike rack outside Pearson Hardman at the exact same moment Harvey steps out of his car. Their eyes meet, and it’s instantly clear Harvey is pissed.
Fantastic.
Mike holds up his hands defensively as Harvey stalks over to him. “I know, I know, I’m going to get cleaned up as soon as I get inside. And look, I have the documents—”
Harvey stops close enough to technically count as an invasion of his private space, not that Harvey believes in boundaries.
“What the hell happened?”
“I had a slight run-in with a cab.”
“A slight run-in with a cab.” Harvey frowns, eyes darting from the torn knees of Mike’s pants to his rumpled tie to what Mike can only assume is a pretty bad scrape on his cheek, judging from the stinging and the blood he’s wiped away multiple times in the last fifteen minutes. “It doesn’t look very ‘slight.’”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not. Come on.” Harvey grabs Mike’s arm, dragging him toward the building at a clip.
“I—what? Harvey, stop, I—ouch.” Mike pulls free, pausing to inhale sharply, which helps nothing. Turns out walking fast is not great for whatever is causing pain when he breathes. “Give me a second.”
Harvey observes Mike carefully as he gasps for air, expression a confusing mix of furious and worried. “You should go to the hospital.”
“There’s no time today.” Mike shouldn’t have to explain this to Harvey, of all people. “Speaking of which, as I was saying before, I have the final drafts—”
“Don’t worry about that right now.”
“I’m sorry, did I hear that right? Did you just tell me not to worry about work?” Mike dramatically slaps a hand to his forehead. “Is this a hallucination? Am I concussed?”
“You’re an idiot is what you are.” Harvey steps closer and, incomprehensibly, wraps his arm carefully around Mike’s waist. “Lean on me, we’ll go slowly.”
Mike’s utter shock must show on his face because Harvey rolls his eyes like Mike’s the one being ridiculous, which is just not true. Sure, Mike’s head is starting to throb in a way that makes the joke about a concussion seem a little too plausible, but his grasp on reality hasn’t slipped entirely. They aren’t lean on me people.
With Harvey’s arm pulling him close, Mike doesn’t have much choice except to do as he’s told. It’s not like he’s complaining: the solid support of Harvey’s body makes the journey into the building easier, and the scent of his aftershave, almost overwhelming this close, is comforting in a way that’s better not to dwell on.
“So,” Harvey says, casual, once they board a mercifully empty elevator, “who are we suing over this?”
Mike smiles weakly and shakes his head. “No one. It was my fault; I was too tired to be riding.”
“Like I said: idiot.”
Mike’s not sure if Harvey means he’s an idiot for refusing a lawsuit or for getting on his bike in the first place, and he’s too woozy to bother asking for clarification. He sighs and drops his head to Harvey’s shoulder. “Maybe. But you like me anyway.”
Harvey must really be worried, because his only response is to laugh quietly and tug Mike a little closer.
***
After a short trip down the halls of Pearson Hardman—Harvey shooting death glares to silence any comments about Mike’s unprofessional appearance—Mike finds himself on the couch in Harvey’s office, sipping a glass of water while Harvey barks orders at Donna to call someone named Dr. Windsor.
“The chief of medicine at Prescott Hospital?” Mike recalls after a few beats too many. His brain is definitely not working at full capacity, though it’s hard to tell if it’s because of the accident or the lack of sleep.
“Yep.” Harvey ducks behind his desk, fetching a first aid kit from his bottom drawer.
“Why are you calling the chief of medicine of Prescott Hospital?”
Harvey straightens up and shoots Mike an unimpressed look, like the answer should be obvious.
“They’re our clients,” Mike realizes. “You’re pulling strings to get me a last-minute appointment.”
“Glad to see that brain of yours hasn’t been irrevocably scrambled. But actually, I’m pulling strings to get an in-office visit. You’re not moving from that couch until the doctor gets here.”
“What if I need to pee?”
“Deal with it.” Harvey strides across the room and drops onto the couch next to Mike. Right next to him. Knees-grazing next to him. “Let me see that.”
Before Mike can fully process what’s happening, Harvey grabs his chin, tilting his head to get a better look at his scraped cheek.
“Hey!” Mike protests, more on instinct than because he really minds. “What happened to waiting for the doctor?”
“I can handle this part on my own.”
“Because you have so much experience taking care of cuts and bruises?”
“Boxer, remember?”
Oh, right, that makes sense. Harvey really can do everything.
Mike lifts his chin in invitation. “Fine, but this better not end like Million Dollar Baby.”
“Okay, I know you need to see a doctor because that makes no sense. Now hold still and stop talking.”
Harvey starts by cleaning the area around the wound with a wet wipe, eyes narrowed in concentration. He’s surprisingly gentle, each swipe soft and efficient. This close, Mike can see his chest rise and fall as he breathes, measured and steady; his own breath slows to match, calming the post-adrenaline jitters.
Despite Harvey’s care, it still stings when he dabs directly at the wound with antiseptic. Mike can’t entirely hide his hiss of pain.
“I know, I know. Almost done.” Harvey strokes his thumb across the unharmed skin below Mike’s cut before reaching into the first-aid kit to fetch a large band-aid. He holds it up for Mike’s approval.
“Aw, no Flintstone’s themed?” Mike teases. “What kind of doctor are you?”
“Hate to break it to you, Rookie, but you’re a big kid now.” Harvey peels the band-aid and carefully places it over the scrape. His fingers linger, drifting back to Mike’s chin, tilting his head this way and that to admire his handiwork. “Okay, all set.”
But he keeps his hand on Mike’s chin, meeting his eyes. Harvey’s are dark and worried, and deep enough to drown in.
Mike swallows, then swallows again, suddenly dizzy. “Um…”
“Your pupils are dilated,” Harvey declares. He drops his hand and scoots back. “I think you might really have a concussion.”
Ah. Yeah, that would explain the dizziness. It doesn’t explain the overwhelming urge to lean forward and kiss the man in front of him, but that was a pre-existing condition.
“Seems possible,” Mike admits. “I was wearing a helmet, but the fall wasn’t…great.”
Harvey purses his lips. “Confidence inspiring, as always. Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. I really need to go deal with this merger. Doctor should be here in…”
“Fifteen minutes!” Donna chimes in over the intercom.
“Fifteen minutes. If I leave, can you manage to sit here and not fall asleep before they arrive?”
“Actually, the no-sleeping thing is a myth—”
“Be that as it may, it’s still unprofessional to take a nap in your boss’s office.”
“Fair enough.” Mike settles back on the couch, attempting a reassuring smile. “I’m good, seriously. Go kick ass.”
Harvey stands, gives Mike another once over, and then, apparently concluding he’s not likely to drop dead in the next fifteen minutes, grabs the merger documents from Mike’s messenger bag.
“These better be perfect, because someone ate up all the time I was going to use to review them,” he warns, as if a stern parting message can distract Mike from how damn worried he’s been. Or how kind.
“I proofed them, of course they’re perfect.”
“Says the man who forgot how to ride a bicycle.”
Mike shakes his head, ignoring the way the room is starting to spin. “Are you going to stand there all day making fun of me, or are you going to go put my flawless work to good use?”
Harvey smirks. “Donna, I’ve changed my mind. Cancel the doctor, we should let nature take its course on this one.”
“Got it,” Donna agrees through the intercom. “One trip to the farm for the puppy, coming right up.”
“I hate you both.” Mike tilts his head back and closes his eyes. There, that helps with the spinning. “So cruel, so uncaring.”
“No sleeping,” Harvey reminds him. “If you die before the doctor gets here, I’ll kill you.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Mike mutters, consciousness flickering. “Love you, too. Now go.”
***
Harvey goes. Two minutes later, Mike jolts upright.
“Holy shit, did I say that out loud?”
“Yep.” Donna is sitting at Harvey’s desk, grin lighting up her face.
“Did he hear me?”
“Yeeep.” She pops the p, purposefully obnoxious. At least someone is amused by the situation.
“Is he ever going to let me live it down?”
“Harvey? He’s never going to mention it.”
“Oh.” Mike takes a moment to digest that. Makes sense, actually: acknowledging it would require responding, which would require getting in spitting range of the concept of emotions, and that doesn’t sound like something Harvey would voluntarily do. “Does he think I meant like that? Because I didn’t. I meant, you know, like…as a mentor.”
Donna raises one perfect eyebrow. “You sure about that?”
Oh, who is he trying to kid here? It’s Donna; she can see right through him. And while Mike’s not entirely ready to say he love-loves Harvey, he doesn’t not mean it that way, either. It’s complicated, okay? Complicated, and he tries not to think about it, because it’s hopeless anyway. Easier to shove it to the side…at least until it comes spilling out in a moment of weakness.
Yeah, great plan, Mike.
“If I admit I’m not sure, are you going to make me talk about it?”
The amusement slips off Donna’s face, replaced by something closer to understanding. “Not if you don’t want to.”
“I really don’t want to.” Mike groans and stretches his arms, which reminds him his body hurts almost as much as his head. “Wait, if you’re not going to grill me, why are you in here?”
“Harvey told me to keep an eye on you until the doctor comes.”
“Oh.” Something warm settles in Mike’s stomach; the first nice feeling he’s had all day. “Cool. Watch away, then.”
***
The doctor arrives with a privacy screen, a wide smile that would make Mike fall a little in love with her if he weren’t so busy being woozy, and—after an efficient and only somewhat painful evaluation—a diagnosis: his main injuries are bruised ribs and a mild concussion.
“This is good news,” she tells him in a tone so chipper it makes his head throb. “It could’ve been much worse.”
Mike’s not convinced it is good news, especially after the doctor advises he should go home, take the next few days off—“Or at least easy,” she adds when he gives her a look he hopes manages to convey Are you crazy? Do you see where we are? I don’t get days off—and then caps off her list of impossible instructions with a firm admonishment that he shouldn’t be alone tonight, in case the concussion gets worse.
“Do you have someone who can look after you?” she asks.
“Yes,” Mike lies, because he has a feeling she won’t leave him alone if he tells the truth: there’s no way he’s worrying Grammy with this, and he can’t think of a single other person to ask, not since everything blew up with Trevor and Jenny. Maybe Rachel, before his aborted attempt at dating her, but now even that’s off the table.
The doctor, apparently satisfied with that answer, gives Mike a prescription for the fun kind of painkillers (to help with the ribs), followed by a lecture about not abusing the fun kind of painkillers (yeah, like he’s going to risk Harvey’s wrath by touching the stuff), before leaving him to contemplate the sad state of his social life. This morning alone he told his boss he loves him and realized he has no one to call when he needs a personal favor. He should really make a friend outside of the office. But who is he kidding? Between work and more work, there’s no way.
And speaking of work, he should probably get to that. Harvey’s going to be tied up with the merger for at least a few more hours, which’ll give Mike time to plow through the briefs Louis asked him to proof. Proofing is “taking it easy,” right? Right. He just needs to make it to his desk and he’ll be fine…
“Don’t even try it, mister.”
Donna is at the door, arms crossed. When did she get there?
“Huh?” Mike asks inelegantly, brain struggling to keep pace.
“You were about to stumble your way to your desk. No way. You’re staying right where you are.”
“Is that coming from you, or Harvey?”
“Does it matter?”
She’s got him there; he’s not up to defying either of them right now.
Mike drops back onto the couch. Man, relaxing feels good. “Can you at least grab the briefs on my desk for me? I’ll go crazy if I sit here doing nothing all day.”
Donna stares at him for a few moments, doing that Donna thing where she peers into his soul from across the room. Finally, she nods. “Sure. You wait here and rest.”
“I’m not five, Donna. I know how to take care of myself.” To prove the point, he closes his eyes. Bye-bye, spinning world, hello sweet darkness. “Just get the briefs, okay?”
“Uh-huh, of course.”
Mike keeps his eyes closed. Maybe a five-minute nap while he waits isn’t the worst idea. It’s been a tough morning. He can afford five minutes—
***
“I thought I said napping in your boss’s office is unprofessional.”
Mike startles awake. Oh, right. Bike crash, Harvey’s office, five-minute nap that apparently turned into more like several-hour nap, because his neck hurts from sleeping sitting up and Harvey is looming over him, hands in his pockets and amused quirk on his lips.
“I, uh—sorry, I, I wasn’t—”
“Calm down, Rip Van Wrinkle, it’s fine.” Harvey tilts his head, assessing. “You told the doctor you have someone to take care of you. Is that true?”
“I—” Mike blinks a few times, mind still coming back online. At least Harvey’s acting normal; Donna was right about him ignoring Mike’s slip-up. “How do you know? Did she tell you? Because I’m pretty sure that’s a HIPPA violation.”
“If you’d actually gone to law school, you’d be one-hundred percent sure.”
Mike rolls his eyes, and immediately regrets it. Since when does rolling his eyes make him nauseous? “You can’t dodge my question with a tired joke.”
“You mean a very excellent joke. And Donna told me.”
“Wait, was Donna listening?”
“When are you going to learn, Rookie? Donna’s always listening.”
“To my medical appointment? That’s creepy. You both know that’s creepy, right?” Mike glares at the back of Donna’s head through the glass. “I’m not bringing you free coffee for a month.”
Her shoulders jiggle a little, like she’s hiding laughter, but she doesn’t turn around.
“So, do you?” Harvey prods.
Mike turns back to him, neck protesting being forced to look up. “Do I what?”
“Have someone to look after you? Actually, don’t bother answering, I know the answer is no. Or, more accurately, it’s yes, but you think it’s no.”
Mike tries to parse that. He fails. “I’ll be fine.”
“That’s not what the doctor said.”
“And I’m sure you do everything your doctors tell you.”
“Doesn’t matter what I do.” Harvey points down at him, accusatory. “What matters is what you do, and I’ve invested too much in that brain of yours for you to risk ruining it by being stubborn. You’re coming home with me. Now.”
Mike gawks. It takes effort to prevent his jaw from dropping open like a cliché from a movie. “I’m sorry, what did you just say?”
“You heard me.”
“Did I? Because it sounded like you suggested I come home with you in the middle of the work day.”
“There was no suggestion. That was an order.”
“But…” There are a million buts here, starting with being embroiled in a battle with Daniel Hardman and ending with Harvey doesn’t do things like that. He cares more than he pretends, sure, but that’s worlds away from cutting out of work and inviting his banged-up associate into his private space.
“Mike,” Harvey says, with the tone he uses when a client is starting to annoy him, “Ray’s already downstairs and I’m not in the mood for an argument we both know I’m going to win. Say yes.”
“Yes,” Mike parrots back. He’s not sure if it’s the confusion or the concussion that’s making his head hurt, but one thing’s for sure: at least it will be nice to get out of the noisy office and into Harvey’s quiet condo.
***
By the time they get to said condo, Mike has to admit Harvey may have been right to insist on keeping an eye on him. He’s exhausted and everything hurts; if he’d gone home alone there’s a good chance he would’ve collapsed halfway up the stairs and stayed there all day.
At Harvey’s invitation, Mike spends half an hour luxuriating under a steady stream of hot water in what must be Manhattan’s nicest shower, which helps a bit with the sore muscles. When he emerges, he discovers Harvey’s laid out clothing for him on the bed: a pair of unbelievably soft sweatpants, a Pearson Hardman Softball Team t-shirt (there must be a story there, he’ll need to ask one day), and a faded NYU hoodie.
Mike dresses slowly, mostly because even that much movement makes his body ache, but also because these are Harvey’s clothes, which makes it all feel a little illicit, like seeing behind Oz’s curtain. He lingers over the NYU hoodie, tracing the stitched lettering before pulling it on. It’s small enough to almost fit Mike. Must be from Harvey’s undergrad days. Surprising he still has it; that seems almost sentimental.
Dressed, Mike shuffles into the living space. Harvey is seated at his dining table, laptop open, half-eaten sandwich on a plate in front of him. He looks up as soon as Mike is in his line of sight and smiles, small but warm, crinkles around the edges of his eyes like he really means it.
“He lives.”
Mike opens his arms, palms up: look at me. “He sure does.”
“You hungry? I can make you a sandwich.”
The idea of Harvey making a sandwich is so incomprehensible Mike almost says yes just to watch him follow through on the offer, but he’s still nauseous, so he shakes his head. “Nah, I’m good for now.”
Harvey narrows his eyes; he doesn’t like that answer. But he lets it go, gesturing at his couch. A pile of familiar papers sits on the coffee table.
“I had Donna bring over everything from your desk,” he explains. “I had a feeling you were going to be annoying about it if I didn’t.”
“Is this your way of saying a light concussion is no excuse not to get my work done?”
Harvey closes his laptop, fixing Mike with a sincere gaze. “No, it’s not. If it were up to me, you’d lie on that couch and do nothing all day.”
“Funny way of showing it.”
“Are you really trying to tell me you wouldn’t have spent the next hour fretting Louis was going to fire you if I hadn’t done this?”
“No way.” Mike grins. “Fifteen minutes of fretting, max.”
Harvey grins back. “You’ve clearly never timed yourself when you fret.”
“Because you’re known for breaking out the stopwatch.”
“Trust me, I count every agonizing minute.”
Mike ducks his head, suddenly and unexpectedly shy. Bantering with Harvey feels so normal. But it’s not, because he’s standing in Harvey’s apartment, in Harvey’s clothing, and, oh yeah, he used the l-word a few hours ago. What the hell is he supposed to do with that?
“Anyway, I’ll just…get working,” he mumbles at his feet. “I’ll stay out of your hair.”
“Don’t overexert yourself,” Harvey warns. “Remember: a broken associate doesn’t do me any good.”
Neither does an associate who makes things awkward, so Mike takes his cue, limping his way to the couch and all the proofing he can stand.
***
Turns out, he can’t stand very much proofing at all. He tries, pretty valiantly if he does say so himself, but in less than half an hour his head is pounding, and twenty minutes after that the words get so blurry he’s forced to give the whole thing up as a lost cause. And he’s exhausted, even though he slept all morning. The doctor warned him this might happen, but it doesn’t make him feel any less lazy as he slides sideways onto the couch, resting his head on a pillow he’s pretty sure is supposed to be decorative.
He’s already played this game today, but this time it really will be a short nap. Just a little one to recharge. After all, how much can one man sleep?
***
When he blinks awake, New York is glittering in the dark through Harvey’s insane windows, jazz is playing softly in the background, and something smells incredible. As Mike pushes himself to sitting, a blanket that wasn’t there before falls from his shoulders.
“That smells great. What did you orde—oh.” One glance at the kitchen makes it clear Harvey didn’t order anything: pots are piled in the sink and something is simmering on the stove. Mike glances around the apartment, finding Harvey back in place at the dining table, suit jacket off and sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he pours over what looks suspiciously like one of the briefs Mike is supposed to be working on. “You cooked?”
“You don’t have to sound so surprised,” Harvey deadpans without looking up. “Beef stew. My dad always made it when I was sick.”
Well, damn. Harvey never talks about his family, and yet here he is, cooking Mike a childhood recipe. What the fuck?
Mike stands slowly, testing his muscles—sore, they’re all sore—as he reflects on a response. In the end, he decides to go with the tried and true: joking about it. It’s what Harvey would do. “I see. You cooked so I’d be forced to eat out of guilt over all the effort you went to.”
That gets Harvey to look up, one eyebrow quirked. “Did it work?”
Mike is feeling more hungry than nauseous, so he nods. “I mean, it would be rude to let all your hard work go to waste.”
***
The stew is, of course, incredible. Of course, because this is Harvey—Mike was surprised to see him cook, but isn’t at all surprised to discover he’s good at it, because he’s good at everything. Or, perhaps more accurately, he doesn’t do things he’s not good at.
They eat at the table, Harvey all but hovering to make sure Mike has what he needs—enough water? Enough bread? Is he okay with the utensils? It’s a little overwhelming, honestly. There’s only so much of Harvey’s direct attention Mike can take before it starts to do very inappropriate things to his dick.
“I bruised my ribs, not my fingers!” he exclaims the second time Harvey reaches out to steady his admittedly shaky grip on the spoon. “I can feed myself.”
Harvey raises his hands in mock defeat. “Okay, Touchy. But remember this moment the next time you complain I’m not being nice enough.”
It’s said as a joke, but underneath there’s a hint of hurt. Harvey’s eyes dart away, focusing on his own food, covering whatever vulnerability might be exposed there.
Oh. Right. This is Harvey attempting to take care of him. He’s going overboard, because he’s Harvey and he does everything turned up to eleven, but he’s trying his best, and Mike just rebuffed him.
“Sorry. I just…” Can’t deal with all this attention without wanting to swoon like the heroine in a Victorian novel. Yeah, like Harvey would respond well to that. “I’m okay, really.”
Harvey doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he nods in understanding. If anyone gets not wanting to appear weak, it’s him.
“So, anyway,” Mike adds, ready to move past the awkward moment. He gestures at the pile of briefs still sitting next to Harvey on the table. “You’re doing my work now?”
Harvey glances at the briefs, then shrugs. “Someone has to. The last thing we need is Hardman accusing us of slacking off on the job.”
“But that stuff’s for Louis, not Hardman.”
“If you think Louis wouldn’t try to use my protégé falling behind as a way to get in with Hardman, I haven’t taught you anything.”
“Good point.” Except it looks like Harvey’s already plowed through the assignments due tomorrow and is headed into stuff that doesn’t need to be touched until later in the week. “But you don’t have to do all of it. I can finish the rest tomorrow.”
“No, you can rest tomorrow. Mike Ross’s Day Off, boss’s orders.”
Mike blinks, several times, waiting for Harvey to crack a grin and tell him he’s joking. Harvey stares back, dead serious, daring Mike to challenge him. Mike breaks first.
“Who are you and what have you done with Harvey Specter?”
“Doctor said you should take it easy, you’re going to take it easy.”
Damn Donna and her eavesdropping. “I didn’t know ‘take it easy’ was in your vocabulary.”
“It is when my associate nearly gets himself killed because of me.”
Mike can feel his eyebrows fly up involuntarily. “I’m sorry, what? You think this is somehow your fault?”
Harvey pokes at his stew, letting the question hang in the air long enough to become painful before finally explaining, “I know the pressure I’ve been putting on you because of Hardman. You’re supposed to work hard; you’re not supposed to work so hard you can’t get into the office without almost dying.”
Mike gapes, understanding forming like a hard rock in his gut. Harvey’s been so attentive all day because he feels guilty. Which is…disappointing. It’s disappointing. Mike hadn’t even realized, but somewhere along the way he started to think maybe there was more to it, the kind of more that makes those words he said earlier a little less crazy—
Yeah, that was stupid. Obviously. Probably the head injury fucking with his brain.
“The accident was my mistake, Harvey,” he says, trying not to give away his disappointment in his tone. “Late nights are part of the job. I should’ve realized I was too tired to bike.”
“Maybe, but after it happened you still decided to walk to work instead of going to the hospital.”
“You needed those merger documents.”
“Not more than you needed to see a doctor.” Harvey slams his spoon down and fixes Mike with a look bordering on angry. “You were hit by a car, Mike.”
“Hit is a strong word. It was more like a graze; the real problem was it got me off balance—”
“Michael.”
Mike’s mouth snaps shut so fast and so hard he hears his teeth clamp together. Harvey never calls him by his full name, and definitely never in that tone.
“You were hit by a car,” Harvey repeats, and now there’s nothing bordering about the anger; it’s controlled but clear, dripping off every word. “And then you walked to work, and you were planning to stay there until I forced you to do something about it. The evidence shows you still haven’t learned how to take care of yourself, so I’m going to do it for you, which means you’re going to go to bed early, take tomorrow off, and let me worry about your work. Got it?”
Wow. Just—wow.
“Got it,” Mike agrees, voice barely above a whisper. He clears his throat. “You know, most people don’t yell at the person they’re trying to be nice to.”
Harvey glares at him for a few moments before shaking his head, lips curling into a hint of a smile. “Shut up and eat your damn stew.”
***
The rest of the evening is spent in relative quiet. Harvey puts on a baseball game and plugs away at Mike’s work while Mike curls up on the couch, drifting in and out, only vaguely attempting to follow the game. He feels a little better after eating, but focusing on the screen for more than a few minutes at the time makes the world spin. It’s easier to give himself over to sleep.
Eventually, Harvey shakes him awake and tells him to go to bed. Harvey’s bed.
“Don’t you have a guestroom?” Mike asks as Harvey manhandles him to standing and practically pushes him towards his room.
“If I had a guestroom, it might give some people the mistaken impression I want guests.”
“What do you call me, right now?”
“Special circumstances, not to be repeated.” The second part of the sentence is an admonishment, as if Mike might be contemplating another bike accident. “Now come on.”
Harvey’s bedroom is as overwhelmingly fancy as the rest of the condo. It’s not exactly what Mike would call inviting, so neat it doesn’t look lived in, but it contains Harvey’s bed, and now Harvey is telling him to sleep there, on the same sheets Harvey uses every night.
“I can take the couch,” Mike offers, staring down the empty bed. It feels like it could swallow him whole. “It’s basically more comfortable than my bed at home.”
“Do I need to repeat the You Were Hit by a Car lecture already?” Harvey shoves Mike into the room. “And it sounds like you need to invest in a new mattress.”
Mike takes a deep breath. Arguing either of those points is a losing battle, so he nods. “Thanks, Harvey. For all of this. Seriously, it’s really nice.”
Harvey glances down. If Mike didn’t know better, he’d say he looks embarrassed. “Don’t worry about it. And if you need anything, let me know. I’m not about to lose out on a good investment because you’re too stupid to take care of yourself.”
“If I’m so stupid, am I really that good an investment?”
“Eh, I like a challenge.”
Mike smiles and shakes his head. “Night, Harvey.”
Harvey smiles back, a gentle, sincere expression unlike anything Mike’s ever seen on his face before. “Night, Idiot.”
***
Traces of Harvey’s cologne cling to his sheets; Mike’s dick gets interested the moment he slips under the covers. He squeezes himself through his sweatpants—Harvey’s sweatpants, actually, a realization that makes him throb with want. But he’s too tired to do anything about it and, besides, it would probably be inappropriate to jack off in his boss’s bed. After another idle stroke (okay, three), he lets go, settling into sleep.
(And if he buries his face in the pillow, inhaling deeply, comforted by the scent of whatever fancy hair products Harvey uses—well, no one needs to know.)
***
Mike wakes aching and desperately thirsty. He doesn’t need to check a clock to know it’s the middle of the night; there’s an undeniable stillness in the air, even up here in the penthouse where it’s always quiet.
Groaning, he props himself up on the pillows and glances around the room, eyes adjusting to the darkness. Harvey shut the blinds over the floor-to-ceiling windows, but there’s enough light spilling in around the edges for Mike to see that a glass of water and bottle of Tylenol have appeared at the bedside table since he was last conscious.
His chest tightens. God, this man. Honestly, who can even blame Mike for those words he used earlier?
Unfortunately, two painkillers and the entire glass of water later, Mike could still drink the entire Hudson. The idea of walking all the way to the kitchen makes his body scream in protest but there’s no way he’s falling asleep again when he’s this thirsty, so he forces himself to slip out of bed, shaking out his stiff limbs as he stands. At least the dizziness has improved, which means they can probably stop worrying about the concussion symptoms getting worse.
(Which also means Mike can probably go home tomorrow for his day off. Maybe Harvey will insist he stay. He wouldn’t mind that at all.)
Getting to the kitchen means creeping past Harvey, asleep on the couch. He’s on his back, in a black t-shirt, one arm flung over his face and a blanket pulled halfway up his chest. The expanse of skin from his biceps to his hand practically glows in the dark; Mike’s tempted to shuffle closer, get a peek at his face slack with sleep, discover if every strand of hair stays in place even at night. But the idea of Harvey waking up and catching him looking is horrifying enough to send him stumbling onwards.
***
Between the dark and Mike’s injuries, navigating the kitchen turns out to be unexpectedly challenging, but he pushes through, biting off a groan when the simple act of reaching into the cabinet sends shooting pain down his side. Eventually he finds a glass and fills it in the sink, then immediately starts gulping it down so fast he almost makes himself choke.
“You know, nobody’s going to take it away if you pace yourself.”
Mike starts, almost dropping the glass as he whips around. There’s Harvey, leaning against the kitchen island, watching him with a bemused expression. The t-shirt Mike noticed before is paired with grey sweatpants that somehow look chic.
“Um,” he says, like the idiot Harvey keeps accusing him of being.
Harvey points at the almost-empty glass clutched to Mike’s chest. “You break it, you buy it."
Mike squeezes tighter. His hands are starting to shake; hard to tell if it’s leftover adrenaline from being startled or a sign he’s been out of bed for too long. “You won’t make an exception for your favorite customer?”
“Who says you’re my favorite?” Harvey strides forward, snatching the glass from Mike’s hand. “My favorites follow my instructions, and I distinctly remember telling you to let me know if you needed anything.”
“Okay, first of all, none of your favorite people follow shit…” Mike trails off, slumping back against the counter, entranced by the sight of Harvey’s Adam’s apple bobbing as he finishes off the water.
Harvey catches him staring and raises a quizzical eyebrow. “Was there a ‘second of all’ to that thought?”
“Oh, um…yeah. I didn’t need anything. I was fine.”
Harvey snorts derisively before turning to refill the glass. “That’s not what the yelp that woke me up said.”
“Hey, I didn’t yelp—”
Harvey presses the glass into Mike’s hand before he can finish his protest. Annoyingly, his trembling fingers refuse to grip it securely. This is not convincing evidence of the I didn’t need anything theory of the case.
Harvey’s lips curve up at the edges in a smug I told you so expression. Mike shrugs at him, defeated.
“Okay, but I still say I didn’t yelp."
“Yeah, yeah. Stop being stubborn.”
Harvey steps forward, wrapping his own hand around the glass. His fingers brush against Mike’s as he smoothly guides the glass towards Mike’s mouth, tracking every movement with dark eyes. Mike takes a slow sip. He has to concentrate to avoid choking; the intensity of that gaze makes it hard to breathe, let alone swallow.
After Mike downs as much water as he can manage without drowning right there in the kitchen, Harvey removes the glass, reaching to place it on the counter, eyes never leaving Mike’s face. The movement brings him close enough to feel his body heat. He smells fresh, like he showered after Mike went to sleep.
“You’re staring,” Harvey murmurs.
Damn right Mike’s staring. How could he not?
“Harvey, why are you doing this?” he whispers back.
“Doing what?”
Mike waves a hand, trying to encompass the apartment, the entire day, and the last five minutes all in one gesture. “Being so…accommodating.”
“I told you, if I don’t, I’m afraid you’ll never recover. Plus, I don’t want you to break my dishware.”
Yeah, those excuses are starting to wear thin. Mike may be staring, but Harvey’s staring right back, eyes bright pinpricks in the dark. And he’s standing really close, even though Mike’s no longer at risk of dropping anything. For Harvey, that’s a lot. Especially after a day like today. Especially after Mike said what he said.
Maybe there’s more to it than guilt after all.
Mike catches Harvey’s gaze dead on, a rush of improbable hope bubbling in his chest. Harvey—never one to back down from a challenge—doesn’t look away. His expression is hard to read in the dark, mouth a neutral line, but there’s something soft around the edges of his eyes, almost inviting.
“No, that’s not it,” Mike says out loud, more confident than he really feels. It may or may not be the head injury talking, but that’s definitely going to be his excuse if Harvey takes this the wrong way.
“What’s not what?”
“Broken associate, broken glasses—that’s not why you’re doing this.”
“Mike, it’s too late at night for another one of your Harvey Secretly Has a Heart speeches. We both know how it goes anyway.”
“Then I’ll skip the speech.”
Mike tips forward before he can lose his nerve, brushing their lips together. It’s a short kiss, hardly more than a peck; Mike rocks back, heart pounding, shocked at his own daring.
“Mike…” Harvey breathes, eyes wide. He sounds utterly, completely stunned.
But he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t put any distance between them. And Harvey’s not the kind of guy who freezes; if he hated what Mike just did, he’d be on the other side of the room in a second.
“It can’t be that surprising,” Mike forces himself to say, trying for a joking tone but landing more in the vicinity of pleading. “I told you how I feel this morning.”
Harvey swallows. One of his hands wanders, almost absently, to Mike’s hip, resting there lightly. “I wasn’t sure you meant it like this. Or at all. You were a little out of it.”
Mike’s heart is racing; his legs are weak, and maybe that’s the accident or maybe that’s Harvey, but either way he’s glad to have the counter to lean on. “Well, I did.”
Harvey nods, frowning. Absorbing new information, sliding it into the file labeled Mike Ross in his head. Calculating, if the restless pace of his eyes searching Mike’s face is any indication.
“You’re not only saying that because you think it’s what I want to hear, right?” he finally asks. “Or because you feel like you owe me?”
Mike raises his eyebrows. “Seriously?”
At least Harvey looks moderately abashed as he replies, “I have to do my due diligence.”
“Before what?”
“Before this.”
Harvey brings his free hand to Mike’s cheek, cupping it softly, and leans in for another kiss. It’s closed mouthed but deeper than the first attempt, passionate in its tenderness. Romantic is the word Mike would use, even if Harvey would never admit it.
This time it’s definitely the kiss and not his injuries that leaves Mike breathless.
“Wow,” he gasps when Harvey pulls back. And then, because he sounds pathetically blown away by a single kiss: “I cannot believe you just made a bad law joke. Is that your idea of game?”
Harvey grins the kind of grin that lights up his face, like he can see right through Mike, knows the effect he had, and loves it. “Hey, it worked.”
“Only because I felt sorry for you.”
“We both know that’s not true.”
They do, don’t they? Mike concedes the point by pitching forward, resting his head on Harvey’s shoulder.
Somehow, despite everything, it’s still a surprise when Harvey wraps Mike in his arms, one hand pressing between his shoulder blades, the other secure around his waist, holding him steady but not too tight, conscientious of his ribs. Mike melts into it, basking in the warmth of Harvey’s body, practically falling asleep on his feet.
“Now what?” he mumbles.
“Now we get you back to bed so you can rest, like I told you to in the first place.”
Mike huffs against Harvey’s neck. “Not what I meant.”
“I know. But this is not the moment for that conversation.”
“Harvey…” As tired as he is, Mike’s not sure he can sleep if they leave it like this, a big open question mark.
“Mike.” Harvey slides his hand up Mike’s back, to his neck, gripping firmly. It’s possessive and soothing all at once. “You said what you said, and I kissed you anyway. You have a concussion, so I’ll give you a pass on not putting two and two together, but let me be clear: you’re going to enjoy how the conversation goes. I just want to save it until you’re not falling asleep on my shoulder.”
Relief runs warm through Mike’s core. “Okay,” he agrees. “Okay, that’s probably smart.”
Harvey’s answering laugh is a gentle rumble. “Wow, barely any pushback? I should’ve kissed you a lot sooner.”
Mike can’t argue with that.
***
Despite having Harvey to lean on, the journey back to the bedroom takes a lot longer than the one coming out; apparently the excitement of standing up for ten minutes—and, oh yeah, having his entire world revolutionized by a kiss—was too much for Mike’s battered body. By the time Harvey deposits him in bed, all he wants is to sink into sleep again.
Well, almost all.
“Stay,” he says, catching Harvey’s wrist. At Harvey’s confused expression, he adds, “It’ll be easier for me to tell you if there’s something else I need if you’re right here.”
“Well, if it’s for your health…” Harvey pretends to consider the question before smirking. “Okay, slide over. And no funny business. You’re in recovery.”
“Funny business?” Mike scoots to the other side of the bed, nestling into a pillow and yawning, eyes falling shut of their own accord. “I am so making fun of you for that in the morning.”
He’s already fading fast by the time he feels the heavy weight of another body dipping the mattress beside him. A warm hand splays protectively over his chest.
“Rookie, if we do this, I need you to promise me something.” Harvey’s voice is a low murmur, his breath hot against Mike’s face, closer than expected.
“Hmm?” Mike manages, only half sure he’s not starting to dream.
“You don’t ever get to scare me like this again.”
“Mmm, okay.” Mike lifts his arm, heavy with exhaustion, and flops it on top of his chest, groping around until he finds Harvey’s fingers. He squeezes. “I like that plan.”
Even though his body is aching in places he didn’t know it could ache, Mike falls asleep with a smile on his face.