Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

So, magic is a thing.

Like, it’s a thing thing. Meaning it’s not just something you pay twenty bucks to see performed in some dive bar on the lower east side by some dude who thinks he’s hip with the kids when he’s really, really not. Magicians perform tricks, not magic, because magic is something that’s all around and it kind of loses its impact after a while.

Everyone has magic. Everyone uses magic, consciously or not, every single day of their lives. It’s not a new, amazing thing, and in fact it’s the topic of most rom-coms in the entire world. Most of a person’s magic is always there, thrumming just below the surface of their skin, seeping out of their fingertips even if it’s invisible.

It’s more of a feeling.

Point is, magic is a thing. But in times like this, Mike wishes it wasn’t.

He’s late. He’s so, so late, and the couple in front of him walking at a snail’s pace with their arms interlinked are going to make him catastrophically late. And here lies the issue Mike has with magic: if the world were normal, he could circumvent the love birds without a second thought, clutching his files under his arm as he briskly walks past them, but no. He can’t do that. Why?

Because there’s a trail of crisp autumn leaves floating around the couple like a cyclone, gentle enough to be considered romantic, but an eyesore for people like him who are late for work. The leaves are blocking the entire sidewalk, forming a line of disgruntled commuters behind them, all trying to get from A to B as quickly as possible. And, look, it’d be pretty endearing and downright cute if Mike weren’t extremely late. Had he mentioned that?

This kind of magic is unconscious, mostly, so he can’t exactly blame the couple. He can see it in their smiles as they turn to look at each other; the love in that one look would be enough to bring any layman to his knees. So, Mike gets it. Respects it, even. But right now, he’s so fucking late that he doesn’t care. He kicks a few orbiting chestnuts away, watching as they scatter amongst the crowd, and promptly jaywalks to the other side of the street.

He's already a fraud, what’s one more crime under his belt?

He’s a sweating, dishevelled mess by the time he stumbles against Donna’s desk. His hair is skewed in all directions and his cheeks are tainted maroon, but he’s here. He’s only a minute late which is probably a testament to his speed-walking skills.

“You’re late,” Donna says passively, like Mike didn’t already know that. The soft clicking of her keyboard falters as she glances up at his appearance. “Did you run here?”

“Kind of,” Mike clears his throat and attempts to flatten his hair, handing Donna the file with his other hand.

“What’s that?” She looks at it but doesn’t take it.

“Signed affidavit from Miles Jensen that Harvey requested.” Mike says, a little triumphantly, since he’s got nowhere to boast given that Harvey’s office is currently empty. Where he could be, though, Mike has no idea. “I tracked him down last night.”

Donna stares at him like he’s grown another head. He has the irrational urge to rub the back of his scalp just to check if he has, in fact, grown another head. (He hasn’t.) “Why’re you giving it to me?”

“Harvey’s not in his office,” Mike says, unsure. He brings the file back to his own body, second-guessing himself.

“Don’t pout,” Donna smirks over at him in that way of hers, one that is so characteristically Donna that it’s as attractive as it is terrifying. “He’s in conference room C. Hand deliver it. I don’t have time to run your errands, puppy.”

“O-kay,” Mike enunciates, feeling like a kicked puppy. The air around them thickens, the smell of rain assaulting his nostrils before he realises what’s happening. A by-product of the sudden wave of anxiety flowing through his veins. Another reason Mike finds magic irritating – he can’t control it. Donna’s eyes meet his, a soft smile forming on her lips.

“God, Mike.” She makes a move to stand, rounding her desk until they’re face to face, her red hair swaying at her shoulders. “You always wear your heart on your sleeve, don’t you?”

“Don’t pity me,” Mike rolls his eyes, wishing away the distinct smell of rain and thunder and clouds that his magic has apparently decided to emulate around him. Like a dark cloud of unease following him wherever he goes.

He’s in the middle of turning around and heading towards conference room C when a bundle of sparkling particles halt him in place, materialising in front of his eyes. They merge into a glowing, paper coffee cup, steaming hot. He takes it gingerly, looking over his shoulder at Donna who’s doing her best to act like she has no idea what happened.

“What’s this for?”

“To calm your nerves,” Donna rolls her eyes at him and shoos him away with her hand.

“Thanks, Donna.” Mike smiles and takes a sip – it’s his favourite. Skinny latte with a sprinkle of cinnamon. Donna really does know everything, including how to control her magic when it suits her. Mike could probably learn from her.

And, okay. Sometimes magic is nice. But it takes a lot of emotion to conjure up something like this – people can’t just make things materialise from nothing without enough emotion powering their magic. Love, hate, sadness, adrenaline… the list goes on. The only thing magic won’t allow for some reason is the ability to conjure up living things.

Mike couldn’t make Harvey magically appear in front of him, for example. Not that he’s tried. (Well, maybe once.)

Harvey is, indeed, in conference room C, readying for this afternoon’s deposition. His brow is furrowed and he’s staring at a file in his lap, legs crossed elegantly in front of him. Mike envies his posture; always straight and polite in comparison to his own slouching. Maybe that’s why Harvey’s a senior partner and Mike’s a rookie associate.

(Although maybe that’s to do with the fact that Mike is a fraud.)

Harvey doesn’t look up when Mike slaps the file down on the table with a proud grin. “Signed affidavit as requested.”

“So you tracked him down,” Harvey says without looking up from his file.

“Wasn’t difficult considering he frequents the same bar every weekend and always orders a gin and tonic.” Mike purposely leaves out the fact that they’d sealed the deal by ordering a round that he’s currently still regretting this morning. Mike and alcohol are not friends. To compensate, he sips at the coffee Donna gave him.

“So,” Harvey sets the file down and spins in his chair to look up at Mike. “You had time to grab yourself a coffee this morning?”

“Not exactly,” Mike admits.

“Weren’t you late?” Harvey asks. There’s a ghost of a smile at his lips, though, so Mike knows this is just his usual badgering that won’t lead to anything. Truth is, if Mike had been over ten minutes late Harvey might’ve sent Donna on a wild goose chase to find him.

“It wasn’t because of the coffee. Donna gave me the coffee.” Mike explains frantically, waving the cup around whilst miraculously not spilling it. “There was a couple holding up the entirety of fifth avenue.”

Harvey rolls his eyes immediately. “Love birds?”

“I know this might be a foreign concept to you – people caring about each other – but it’s been known to happen.”

“Really?” Harvey feigns confusion, rising from his chair and buttoning his suit coat. “Maybe I should start billing them for making my associate late.”

“If you wanna bill people for caring, maybe you should start billing yourself,” Mike shoots back. It’s a weak argument and he knows it, but with Harvey staring at him like this it’s like his brain short-circuits and his ability to flick through his rolodex of witty remarks plummets.

Harvey snatches the coffee cup out of Mike’s hand instantly, their fingers brushing. Mike’s too blindsided by this fact to do anything about the theft of his sugary energy fluid. “I’m taking this as down payment.”

“Hey, that’s my-”

“Cinnamon?” Harvey eyes him after taking a sip. “Really?”

“’Tis the season.” It is autumn, after all.

“You’re an idiot.” And… Harvey’s left the conference room. But not before Mike (for some reason) replenishes the coffee cup in his hand without thinking about it. And that’s the thing with magic – if you can’t control it, it’ll control you. So Mike has no choice but to refill the sugary goodness in Harvey’s hand as he leaves, none the wiser.

Mike walks around smelling like cinnamon for the rest of the day. Like someone planted a cinnamon car air freshener somewhere in his cubicle and he’s suffocating with it.

Okay, so sometimes having magic is amazing. Sometimes Mike uses his powers for evil, but it’s so, so satisfying.

It’s really handy when Louis is being… well, Louis. He’s on the warpath, and he’s heading straight for Mike’s cubicle. This requires some critical and lightning-fast thinking. Three weeks ago, Louis passively mentioned to Rachel that he can’t stand parmesan cheese. The smell of it makes him nauseous. When he was a kid, he had some fettuccini alfredo (with parmesan) whilst out at dinner with his parents and ended up puking it all up over the table and on a waiter’s shoes. Now even the smell of it will set him off.

(Sometimes Mike’s memory is a little convoluted, but this is important data he can use as revenge).

It might be beneath him, but honestly, sometimes so is Louis. And Mike’s got work to do for Harvey and can’t be entertaining a famous Louis Litt Hissy Fit right now. So, if there’s suddenly a distinct aroma of parmesan cheese floating around his cubicle, well, Louis had it coming.

“Mike, I need-” Louis doesn’t get the rest of his sentence out before his mouth shuts so quickly his teeth click together. Mike tries to keep the smug grin off of his face but it’s an uphill battle.

“What’d you need, Louis?” Mike asks, as innocent as possible.

Louis is turning green. It’s only slightly hilarious. (See: tears in your eyes, smack your knee hilarious.)

He’s never seen Louis move so quickly, marching his way towards the senior partner bathroom on the floor. Mike lets the aroma linger no longer, retracting it with a sly smile over at one of the other associates – Harold. Sweet, innocent and slightly naïve Harold Gunderson, someone whose distaste for Louis might actually surpass Mike’s. They share a smile.

Sometimes magic is amazing.

Click clack. Click clack. Getting faster. That’s the sound of an angry set of designer heels attached to a beautiful and only slightly intimidating too-smart-for-her-own-good paralegal. Shit, Mike’s so screwed. He’d thought hiding in the file room would make him immune to her scolding.

“Mike,” Rachel hisses in that adorable angry way she does. She’s always beautiful, drop-dead beautiful maybe, but when she’s pissed she’s downright adorable. “I told you that Louis story in confidence.”

“No idea what you’re talking about,” Mike feigns innocence, highlighter in his mouth as he proofs what’s got to be the thousandth set of briefs for Harvey this week. Pulling an all-nighter is par for the course, sure, but after his fifth in the past month he’s learned to seek solace in the file room where no one will disturb him.

Well, until Rachel, that is. But she’s a welcome disturbance.

“Oh, so you didn’t make the bullpen smell like parmesan this morning?” Rachel asks, sarcastic as ever when she knows she’s got him in an obvious and only a little bit genius scheme. She perches delicately on the desk in front of him so he’s forced to meet her eye – a great tactic for a lawyer-to-be, though Mike doesn’t say that.

“You can’t prove that.”

“You’re the only one who could conjure up the cheapest-smelling parmesan cheese in the entire firm, Mike.” Shit, she’s got him there. The only parmesan he’s used to is the one you get in a cheap and embarrassing plastic container that lasts for well over a year.

“I invoke the Fifth,” Mike takes the highlighter out of his mouth and puts the cap back on. He rises from his chair and shrugs back into his suit jacket. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get these to Harvey.”

As Mike is gathering the briefs and side-stepping Rachel, he’s almost slapped in the face by the smell of cinnamon. It’s stronger than it was the other day, almost intentional. It stops him dead in his tracks, turning to give Rachel a death glare.

She looks innocent enough. “What?”

“Why’re you doing that?”

“Doing what?” She blinks innocently, and – oh, Mike sees how it is. An eye for an eye. “Cinnamon is sweet, and I like it.”

“How did you…?”

“Know you relate it to Harvey?” Rachel presumes. She hops off the desk and dusts down her skirt. “I have my ways.”

Mike stares at her as the facts slot into place. “Donna.”

“Donna.” Rachel confirms.

Mike may have to plot some more revenge.

The cinnamon thing is not a thing, no matter what Rachel and Donna think. There is no thing. There’s Harvey – untouchable and perfect Harvey who also likes a sprinkle of cinnamon in his coffee but’ll never admit it from that ivory throne of his (corner office). And then there’s Mike. ‘Nuff said.

Two different entities running parallel to each other, never to cross paths. Expert and protégé. Han and Chewie. Batman and Robin. Lawyer and fraud.

You get the point.

What’s so great about cinnamon anyway?

Mike grumpily scribbles out an error on his court filing, thinking so hard his head starts to hurt. Or maybe that’s the three cups of coffee he’s consumed in the last hour. Like a hamster on steroids, Harvey had called him once. Maybe there’s some truth to it. Maybe if he had his own human-sized wheel to run in a circle on he’d be able to expel some of his energy.

He'll settle for tapping his foot under his desk to the music in his earphones. That’ll do.

Cinnamon is fine. It’s not special. He could relate Rachel to cinnamon too – and she’s twice as spicy as Harvey can be. It doesn’t mean anything at all.

His cheek is assaulted by the tip of a pen as one earphone is ripped out of his ear, startling him. Harvey – of course.

“You got the Mackenzie files?”

“Hi, hello, how are you?” Mike mocks whilst simultaneously rummaging through his disaster of a desk for the binder in question. Harvey’s smiling that discreet smile of his, perching on the far edge of Mike’s desk as he waits. The other associates are looking, Mike notes absently, because he doesn’t have to explain his relationship with Harvey to anyone, does he?

Lawyer and fraud. Batman and Robin.

Cinnamon and… parmesan.

He needs to think of something better than that.

“As requested,” Mike hands over the binder with triumph. He’s nothing if not proud of the way he can churn out work faster than any other first year rookie associate. It’s only then that Mike realises Harvey is holding a coffee cup out to him, piping hot steam coming from the small sippy hole on the lid. “Is it laced with something?”

Harvey looks at him like he’s an idiot. “If I wanted to poison you, you think I’d do it here? In the bullpen?”

Mike takes the coffee gingerly, eyeing it suspiciously. “Maybe.”

“Too many witnesses.” Harvey admits, taking the binder from Mike and gesturing with his head to the small group of associates gathered by the water cooler staring at them. They scatter like a murder of crows once Mike shoots them a glare. “This is good work.”

“It gets better,” Mike takes a sip of his coffee and sets it down on his desk, signalling to his computer for Harvey to look. “Looks like Mackenzie Fields aren’t the only ones looking to make some money out of this deal.”

Harvey leans in to read what Mike is pointing at and for some reason all Mike manages to notice is the slight smell of whatever expensive aftershave he’s wearing. The kind that’d cost Mike three months’ worth of rent if he wanted to buy it. It’s nice, but maybe it’s just nice on Harvey. It’s not better than cinnamon, though.

“Great.” Harvey repeats as he leans away, none the wiser. “Have it on my desk before you leave tonight.” He gets up and begins to leave, file in hand, leaving Mike sitting alone in his cubicle.

“Great enough for some whipped cream next time?” Mike waves his coffee cup at Harvey’s retreating form before he disappears around the corner without acknowledging the request at all.

“Sounds like the only one whipped is you,” Kyle sneers back at him from across the bullpen. Why Mike had to sit across from that arrogant asshole’s desk is beyond his paygrade, unless Harvey was intent on torturing him for not going to law school. (Highly likely.)

Not dignifying him with a response, Mike shoves in his earphones and gets back to work. When he takes another sip of his coffee a few minutes later, there’s whipped cream on top that definitely wasn’t there before. With cinnamon.

Harvey.

So much for not caring.

Mike hadn’t really noticed Harvey’s magic before. He figured he only used it sparingly and didn’t really care to flaunt it around like other people do, but the more Mike pays attention the more he begins to realise that Harvey uses magic all the time. With everyone. Even Louis.

It’s in the whipped cream on Donna’s coffee in the morning, the replenished scotch glass in Jessica’s office at the end of a long day, in Louis’ cup of tea in the late afternoon. Harvey is all around and Mike didn’t even realise it. But now that he’s actively looking for it, he knows the tell-tale signs that Harvey’s been somewhere, caring all over someone when he’s adamant he cares about no one but himself.

It’s even in the sudden warm breeze whenever Mike is wrapping his coat around himself outside. It’s in the way Donna’s hair curls perfectly around her ear when she’s been trying to tame it.

Harvey is everywhere.

He’s also nowhere. It’s so subtle that it’s miss-able, particularly when Mike has been running on six hours of sleep over the course of two days and has no brain power left to adequately look for it. And he’s not so far gone that he’s delegating brain power to focus on Harvey’s not-so-subtle ways of using his magic. Nope.

“You’re still here?”

Mike starts, a few files on the coffee table scattering as he quickly rights himself by straightening his back and removing the pen from his mouth. Donna, of course. Who else could sneak up on him like that?

“I’d consider just crashing here, but Harvey doesn’t want me moving my things into Wayne Manor just yet.”

Donna gives him a strange smile. A Donna smile, like she’s already calculated what that might mean and preemptively organised sixteen different ways of making him come clean. Jokes on her though because Mike has no idea what she’s even thinking.

“Harvey’s on his way back,” Donna says, fixing her handbag over her left shoulder and sneaking a peak at the files scattered around the office. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate the mess.”

Mike cringes internally, but musters up the courage to hold up the holy grail of files he’s been cradling for over an hour. “I’m sure he’ll get over it pretty quickly when he sees this.”

“Is that-?”

“The needle in a haystack we’ve been looking for for two days.”

“Enough to vote out Mackenzie Fields’ current CEO?” Donna presses.

“Maybe,” Mike nods, lowering the file onto his lap with a slight grin on his face. He’s too tired to boast the way he wants to – and he’s sure Donna has already catalogued the dark circles around his eyes and fluffy hair. This job is his life, even to his own detriment.

Donna is quiet for a moment, watching him, but there’s a softness in her eyes that warms him to the core. It heats up the air around him, making the sofa in Harvey’s office way more comfortable and cosier than it was three seconds ago. If anything he’s feeling sleepier under her gaze, which is kind of a testament to Donna’s special powers of reading people. Or… is she doing it on purpose?

“Are you...?”

“Making sure you get some rest before Harvey sees you dead on your feet?” Donna interrupts gently. “Nope. Must be someone else.”

She’s using her magic on him. Again. She cares about him.

And here’s the thing: magic can be used to manipulate those around you, but only to an extent. You can’t make people say things you want them to, or force them to do a cartwheel on demand, for example. But you can alter the aura around them, just like Donna is doing now, calming him and the air around them. And it’s working, because Mike feels his eyelids begin to droop with each passing second.

As Donna turns to leave with a crooked smile, Mike smiles. “Donna?”

“Yes?” She looks at him over her shoulder, red hair swaying with the movement.

“Thanks."

Donna’s smile softens. “Goodnight, puppy.”

Harvey arrives a little under an hour later. It’s entirely dark on their floor aside from some emergency lightning near the elevators and the dull lamp on Harvey’s desk, and Mike may have fallen asleep thanks to Donna. Regardless, Harvey nudges him awake by kicking his left foot and jostling him into consciousness.

“Donna?” He blurts out without thinking. And in his defence, she was the last person in the office before he passed out.

“Try again,” Harvey looks tired too, suit jacket unbuttoned as he sinks into the armchair adjacent to Mike. “Although I’m sure Donna will be interested to know you’re dreaming about her.”

“I wasn’t. She was here – before. Well, before–"

“Before you fell asleep in my office?"

Mike rubs a hand over his tired eyes then scrambles for the file on the coffee table, holding it out to Harvey. “Your smoking gun. You’re welcome.”

Harvey eyes him before grabbing the file and flicking through it, resting it on his knee whilst Mike frantically thrums his fingers on his own knee. Harvey’s magic is around, but not now. He’s not using it on Mike, not now. Mike’s only caught him use it twice around him, and those were superficial changes made. Some whipped cream and a warm breeze. Comradery would be enough to generate that kind of power.

It doesn’t mean anything. It’s not like Mike’s keeping score, though, since he’s too busy controlling the scent of cinnamon threatening to assault both of their nostrils any second now.

“He’s only the interim CEO,” Harvey reads aloud from the file in his hand, prompting Mike to nod and point towards it.

“At least until the board votes him in within two weeks.” He checks his watch as if it has the date on it, but it doesn’t. It’s mostly for dramatic effect. “And that deadline ends on Friday.”

“Then we can convince the board that he isn’t worth their time.”

“Maybe find a decent replacement, too?”

Harvey smirks over at him, attention diverted from the file to Mike’s enthusiastic expression. “Have someone in mind?”

Mike tsks at him, at the audacity. Of course he does. He leans forward and rummages through the disarray of files on Harvey’s coffee table and produces a single slip of paper. “Sixteen suitable replacements right here.”

“Give me that,” Harvey snatches it away in feigned frustration, but the smile on his face is betraying his tone. Mike warms at the sight, knowing he’s done good work. Finally. Some praise even if it isn’t expressed vocally – but he’ll take anything he can get from Harvey. Like a dog begging for scraps.

Maybe that puppy analogy Donna and Harvey are constantly using on him is kind of appropriate, at least in this scenario.

Not that he’ll ever say that out loud.

“I’ll have Donna set up the meetings.”

“Sixteen meetings?” Mike gapes.

Harvey eyes him. “You want me to tell Donna you’re doubting her abilities?”

“No,” Mike says immediately, holding his hands out in front of him in defence, though it seems more like he’s begging. “I’d never do that.”

Harvey rolls his eyes and rises from his chair, moving to round his desk and set the paper down with a sigh. He really does look tired, the tell-tale dark circles around his eyes more pronounced in the dim lighting.

“Are you not sleeping?” The question is out of Mike’s mouth before he can viciously claw it back in. It hangs in the silence of the air for exactly eight seconds before Harvey shakes his head briefly… which seems like the only response Mike is going to get. It’s more of a dismissal than an answer to his question. “Sorry, it’s just – you look tired.”

“I’m fine,” Harvey says as he sits down and starts typing at his laptop, showing no signs that he’s about to call it a night and go home. Mike busies himself with gathering up the sea of papers he’s collected and organising them into a neat little pile.

It’s fine if Harvey doesn’t want to talk to him. It’s not like they talk about anything aside from work ever, even if Mike finds himself wishing they would. They’ve known each other for six months now, and whilst Mike has seen Harvey a grand total of one time outside of the office, he wishes it was more. He also kind of wishes he hadn’t been drunk the one and only time he’d caught a glimpse inside of Harvey’s penthouse apartment.

“I’m just saying you look like you should catch up on some z’s for tomorrow.” Mike continues, because why not. It’s technically out of office hours and he can talk to Harvey however he likes right now. Jessica isn’t here, so there’s a distinct improbability that she’ll come barrelling through the doors to Harvey’s office and fire him.

“Can we have one day without you caring all over me?” Harvey says back, not looking up from his laptop screen. Mike rolls his eyes. “Doesn’t it get overwhelming?”

“Does what get overwhelming?” Mike asks as he shrugs back into his suit jacket and moves to place the files onto Harvey’s desk.

Harvey rolls his eyes. No answer. Okay, fine. Time to pull out the big guns.

“I know you can be underwhelmed, and you can be overwhelmed, but can you ever be, like, whelmed?” It’s a cheap shot, sure, quoting a movie right now, but movie quotes never fail with Harvey.

It works, because Harvey’s typing ceases and he looks up at Mike with his eyebrows raised. Target acquired. Duel accepted. “You can in Europe.”

Right on target. Mike laughs easily and relishes in the way Harvey’s eyes crease when he smiles automatically. “I can’t believe you’ve seen that movie, dude.”

“Don’t call me dude. You’ve seen it too.”

“Hey, 10 Things I Hate About You is a classic and it, too, spoke to a generation!”

Harvey opens his mouth to relay what is no doubt some witty retort, but pauses for reasons unknown to Mike. His brow furrows in confusion, and that’s when Mike realises he’s fucked up. Cinnamon wafts through the room, warm and spicy with just a slight hint of vanilla whipped cream, and honestly Mike just wants to dig a hole in the ground and jump right into it.

Since he can’t do that, he’ll flee instead. “Well, goodnight!”

“Mike.” Harvey stops him with one word as he’s making his grand escape through the glass office doors. Mike clutches his messenger bag with one hand and turns halfway, looking over his shoulder at Harvey but somehow managing not to meet his eyes.

Whatever Harvey was about to say dies on his lips, for which Mike is thankful for. He doesn’t need his inability to control his magic to be the topic of conversation here, to the implications of that. No, he wants to live in denial, please and thank you.

“Goodnight,” Harvey says instead, and Mike offers him a quick two-fingered salute before he disappears out the door and scurries down the hall towards the elevators.

“No cinnamon today?”

“Coffee cart guy was all out,” Mike admits, offering the extra cup he’d bought to Rachel’s waiting hand with a smile. “Hope you like French vanilla.”

Rachel smiles as she takes a sip, gorgeous in the morning sun. They walk together into Pearson Hardman, Mike a little worse for wear after his little stunt with Harvey last night, but he’s lived to see another day and he refuses to think about it again.

“I had an interesting conversation with Donna this morning,” Rachel says passively when the elevator doors slide closed in front of them.

“Everything Donna does is interesting,” Mike admits. He’s too busy trying to make some whipped cream appear on his coffee to pay full attention to Rachel’s mischievous smirk as the elevator ascends.

“It was kind of funny, actually. She said she came in this morning to set up for your meetings this afternoon, and Harvey’s entire office smelled like cinnamon.”

Fuck.

“Really,” Mike deadpans.

“That wouldn’t have anything to do with you two working late last night, would it?” Rachel adjust her handbag over her left arm passively, like she’s trying to play it cool and failing miserably. Mike can see right through her.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mike lies, escaping out the elevator doors before they’ve slid open completely, Rachel hot on his heels. She keeps up with him easily as he unintentionally walks her to her office. “And even if I did, it has nothing to do with me.”

“Really?” Rachel’s brow lifts in disbelief as they round the corner leading to her office. “Because the only one who consistently smells like cinnamon in this entire building is you.”

“Oh, so you’re going ‘round sniffing people now, are you?” Mike slows his steps as they approach her office, her name and title in a neat font on the glass door, a reminder that she’s more important than Mike to this firm and probably always will be.

“Don’t change the subject,” Rachel says sweetly, opening her office door and beckoning him inside.

“I should really…” Mike’s attempts to escape fall on deaf ears once Rachel shoots him a look that makes it clear that she’s ordering him to come in and not requesting it. And Mike has a weakness for powerful women. Sighing, he sinks into the chair across from her desk and sets his messenger bag down on the floor at his feet. “I really need to make a start on the meetings for this afternoon, Rachel.”

“You did them last night,” Rachel assumes, which, okay, damnit. He did. He lied and she saw right through him. Of course. She sets her designer bag down on the desk and perches next to it, coffee cup in hand as she observes him squirming in his chair. “Tell me what’s going on, Mike.”

“Aside from being overworked? Nothing.”

“Mike, we’re friends. Aren’t we?”

“Was that ever in question?” Mike asks.

Rachel smiles. “Not on my side. But I’m serious. You can talk to me, and I promise it won’t leave this room.”

“The only thing that’s leaving this room is Mike,” An offending voice interrupts them belonging to Harvey, one hand on Rachel’s door holding it open. His face is one of passivity, but Mike has known Harvey long enough to identify the crease in his brow indicative of annoyance. Great. Just what he needed.

Rachel straightens her posture and nods, because she’s smart enough to know that Harvey is the senior partner here and he’s the one calling the shots. Mike rises from his chair instantly and secures his messenger bag over his shoulder, shooting Rachel a look that indicates they’ll continue this later. She nods politely as they both disappear out the door.

“Aren’t you a little old to be gossiping?” Harvey says as they walk together, making a beeline for Donna’s desk.

Mike snorts and shakes his head. “We were just talking.”

Harvey nods, staring straight ahead with a smirk ghosting his lips. “Pretty paralegal. I get it.”

“Okay,” Mike shakes his head, struggling to keep up with Harvey’s quick pace. “It’s not like that.”

“It’s exactly like that,” Harvey shoots him a look that effectively says don’t play me like a fool. Funny thing is, Mike’s the only one feeling like a fool here.

Donna is standing in Harvey’s office carefully aligning files into neat little bundles when they enter, Harvey first and Mike following closely behind. The scent of cinnamon assaults his nostrils instantly and he freezes, one foot in the door and one in the hall ready to bolt if he has to. Harvey’s face conveys his confusion, instinctively looking over at Mike and his telling crimson cheeks.

“Good morning,” Donna sing-songs easily, seemingly oblivious to the strong smell in here. It’s like a bakery as it opens, warm cinnamon and cookie dough and vanilla. It’d be mouth-watering if Mike wasn’t sweating with nerves.

“Donna,” Harvey begins, likely about to question the new fragrance of his office, but Donna interrupts him when she points to the small table in the corner of the office.

“I brought cinnamon buns.” She announces proudly, catching Mike’s eye knowingly. “I thought you both could use the sugar rush for this afternoon.”

“Really?” Harvey’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’ve never brought me desserts before.”

“Because they’re not desserts; they’re breakfast.” Donna shoots back easily, smoothing out her fiery hair. “Did you or did you not eat before you came in this morning?”

Harvey shakes his head, revealing that he, in fact, did not eat breakfast. Mike’s too busy processing what’s happening here to dignify her with a response.

“Thank you, Donna,” Donna mocks as she passes him. “You’re a great secretary, Donna. Thanks for the sugary treats, Donna.”

“Goodbye, Donna.” Harvey says loudly as she exits the office. But it’s not before she places a soft hand on Mike’s lower back – a gesture that speaks volumes.

She’d covered for him. She’d come in this morning, known Harvey would clock the distinct sugary scent and know that Mike left it there, and bought cinnamon buns to cover for him. God, Mike could kiss her if it wasn’t blatant quid pro quo sexual harassment.

“The paperwork for the meetings?” Harvey interrupts his silent freak-out session with a serious question, and suddenly reality slots back into place. Mike digs the files out of his messenger bag and hands them over, all sixteen possible replacements for Mackenzie Fields’ CEO.

“You’re really going to interview all sixteen today?”

“You have something better to do?”

Mike balks. “I’m doing them? By myself?”

Harvey huffs out a breath of air, and he’s close enough that it hits Mike’s face and smells faintly of cinnamon. But that’s probably just Mike’s imagination getting the better of him. “We’ll split the workload.”

“Fifty-fifty?”

“Seventy-thirty.”

“Oh, come on. Sixty-forty?”

Harvey ignores him.

“Fine, but I’m taking these as payment.” Mike saunters over to the box of cinnamon buns and picks them up.

“Good. They’re coming out of your pay check.” Harvey says, but beckons him back over with one finger. Mike holds out the box, knowing what Harvey is after without him even saying it – he’s seen the contents of his desk drawer, right hand side. Empty candy wrappers hidden underneath three-year old briefs. Harvey’s got a sweet tooth.

“Thank you,” Harvey says miraculously once he’s taken a cinnamon bun out of the box, waving Mike away with his free hand.

“Did you just say thank you?” Mike blurts, jokingly. “Do you have a fever? Oh my god, are you dying?”

“Only if you don’t get out of my office,” Harvey shoots back.

Maybe cinnamon isn’t so bad after all.

New York is glittered in colour, from the street lights to the neon signs in Times Square. Its glow is reflecting in every puddle forming on the sidewalk, rippling delicately as commuters attempt to avoid the oncoming storm. Some people play in them like kids do, young and in love, twirling each other in a dance only they know.

Magic can be beautiful sometimes.

It’s nights like these where Mike thinks about Trevor as he rides his bike through the organised chaos that is uptown. Back when he and Trevor were freshman and long before either of them landed themselves into a life of crime, they used to go out in the rain all the time just for the hell of it. They wanted to think they were rebelling against the norm – like going outside in a rainstorm without a coat and appropriate shoes was some kind of political statement to stick it to the man.

Still, some of Mike’s favourite memories of Trevor are during nights like this one.

The smiles on their faces barely lit up by the dull street lamps of Brooklyn, and the way they’d laugh together at something so stupid it brings a grin to Mike’s face even now. They’d use their magic to create ripples in the puddles at their feet, or to mess up each other’s drooping hair, or to launch water at passing cabs. But at the end of the evening when they’d tire themselves out, Trevor would always heat up the air around Mike to prevent him from catching a cold on the long, painful walk back to their box-like apartment.

It was the little things that mattered back then.

But that was a long time ago, and Mike has grown up somewhat against his will. Nights like that one have long since passed, and it’s not like he could force Harvey out into a monsoon because heaven forbid it might damage his pristinely styled hair. Rachel, maybe, would dance in the rain with him, but it’d take a hell of a lot more convincing than it did with Trevor.

He should call her sometime. But not now, definitely not now, because like always he miscalculated the distance from his apartment to the prestigious art gallery opening Harvey has forced him to attend. The weather hasn’t helped, and Mike is disastrously late.

He doesn’t even want to think about the mess of his hair under his helmet.

“What’d I tell you about taking a cab here?” are the first words out of Harvey’s mouth the second Mike cycles up to the front of the building glittered in fairy lights with a big, obnoxious banner outside reading Jefferson Mains Art Exhibition Grand Opening!.

“I need the exercise,” Mike lies, rushing underneath an awning once he’s managed to unhook his helmet and secure his bike to a railing. Harvey looks like he always does – amazing, jaw-droppingly. The kind of gorgeous that stops you in your tracks in the middle of the street. The kind of stunning that has you catching your breath in the middle of a crowded room.

Luckily the scent of cinnamon Mike is emitting is masked by the dull and damp smell of rain around them.

“You’re late.” Harvey states. There’s no surprise in his voice.

“And yet you’re still out here waiting for me.” Mike has to smile triumphantly at that. It’s touching, in some way, but it’s probably because Harvey doesn’t want to be here anymore than Mike does. And the only reason they’re attending in the first place is that Jessica strong-armed Harvey into it and he wasn’t going alone. “You’re sure Donna can’t come in my place?”

“You weren’t my first choice,” Harvey is busy thumbing his phone, not sparing Mike another glance. He probably wasn’t Harvey’s second or third choice either. “Or my second choice for that matter.”

Bingo.

Mike nervously pats down his hair to look somewhat presentable, completely aware that his suit is soaked and likely rumpled. Harvey could have is pick of the town, and yet here they stand. Lawyer and Fraud, Batman and Robin. Cinnamon and cheap fucking parmesan. “Surely you could’ve picked someone else to come to this, Harvey. There’s at least six other associates just begging to be your arm candy at all times.”

Harvey stops thumbing his phone at this, an eyebrow raised as he takes in Mike’s dishevelled appearance with a quirk of his lips. He tucks his phone into his inner breast pocket whilst Mike is still trying to tame his slightly damp hair.

“Well?” Mike asks, arms splayed out by his sides like he’s trying to present himself at the minimum level of presentable.

Harvey rolls his eyes with a heaved sigh and takes a step forward, taking whatever breath Mike had left in his lungs with him. Large, warm hands graze the sides of his neck as his shirt collar is flicked up before Harvey starts adjusting his tie. “Who taught you how to tie a tie like this? Because they deserve to be arrested.”

“Trevor,” Mike says simply, knowing he can’t escape the way Harvey shoots him a look despite being so close to him.

“I rest my case,” Harvey decides, fingers gracing the sides of Mike’s neck as he folds the collar back into place and steps back to admire his handiwork, allowing Mike to gulp in a discreet breath that mysteriously tastes like cinnamon on the tip of his tongue.

“Better?”

“It’ll do.”

“Aw,” Mike remarks as he follows Harvey inside the double doors, held open by a doorman with cream coloured gloves and a genuine smile. “You think I’m mediocre arm candy.”

The art gallery, as much as Mike initially complained, is actually pretty extravagant inside. There’s people everywhere dressed like they’re attending a ballet – and Mike would know because he’s seen Rachel dress for the ballet a couple times. Drop dead gorgeous. Pristine and elegant – everything Mike is not.

“Quiet and speaks-only-when-spoken-to arm candy,” Harvey says lowly so only Mike can hear. The ghost of his breath touches the back of Mike’s neck and sends a shiver down his spine and, yeah, there’d better be alcohol at this party because without it Mike might do something stupid like blush like a thirteen year old.

Oh, wait, shit, he’s already doing that.

So he’s Harvey’s arm candy for this evening, whatever. It’s a fluke, and Mike’s going to make the best of it by getting drunk and mingling to the best of his ability.

And it works for about an hour. He’s on his second glass of champagne, chatting idly to a wealthy elderly couple by the names of Sandra and Charles Forsyth. They own a couple of pretty powerful and influential family-style coffee chains across Manhattan, and they’re nice and easy to talk to. Older people are just much easier to converse with considering Mike’s one and only intelligent conversationalist in his life was his grandmother for years.

He hasn’t seen Harvey since they first came in and honestly he’s not surprised. The whole arm candy thing was just a figure of speech, and the reality is that Harvey is here to schmooze potential clients and Mike’s here to make sure he has an excuse to leave if he needs it. Burying his sorrows, Mike downs the remainder of his champagne and delicately places it on the tray of a passing waiter, gracefully accepting his third and definitely not final glass of the stuff.

He definitely does not startle when a warm hand presses against the small of his back whilst he’s engulfed in a riveting conversation about the different types of coffee beans with Charles Forsyth. Okay, maybe he does, but that’s probably the excess of champagne coursing through his veins and the fact that Harvey is attached to that hand. It increases in pressure as Harvey steps around him and introduces himself to the older couple, keeping his hand pressed against Mike like he’s staking a claim on him when he really has no right to.

Mike takes another gulp of his champagne and pretends, just for a minute, that Harvey does things like this all the time. It’s easier than he thought it would be.

“Oh, Harvey, I didn’t expect to see you here!” Sandra fawns over him like most women do, age gap be damned. Harvey’s flashing her the signature closer smile that creases his eyes at the corners and reveals his perfectly straight and white teeth. “Where have you been?”

“Places a lot less important than your coffee place on Fifth Avenue,” comes the reply in true Harvey Specter fashion. Mike can’t help but smile at him. “Charles, good to see you.”

“Harvey,” Charles shakes his hand easily, like they’re well acquainted and have been for some time. Mike really shouldn’t be surprised – Harvey knows everyone. “Where did you find this one then?”

It takes Mike a second to realise Charles is talking about him.

“Oh, he’s just adorable, Harvey,” Sandra cuts in, reaching out to pat Mike’s chest with a delicate, gloved hand, her other wrapped around a glass of champagne she’s barely had three sips of. Mike considers downing it on her behalf. “And he’s very knowledgeable in the art of coffee-brewing.”

“Really?” Harvey doesn’t sound surprised even if Mike’s pretty sure he never told anyone he used to moonlight as a barista back in college. Mike is surprised, however, when Harvey’s hand slides further around Mike and rests by his hip, sending his thoughts into a ripple.

“Really, honey, if you ever get tired of working in that big office building you should come down and see us,” Sandra offers, and after one sharp squeeze of his hip from Harvey’s offending hand, Mike snaps back into reality.

“If Harvey ever lets me take a break, I might just do that,” he punctuates his sentence by downing his third glass of champagne in record time and trying to forget about the fact that Harvey’s hand is gripping his hip like it belongs there.

God, he needs more champagne.

“Harvey, you better be giving that boy some time off,” Charles orders the way an older man does, one who thinks he has way more authority because he has the I’m older and wiser card. “He looked dead on his feet when he came in.”

“He needs a good vacation,” Sandra nods emphatically, reminding Mike of his grandmother. “Oh, Charles and I are just back from a beautiful cruise along the gulf of Thailand! You should take him there.”

Take him? Wait a second.

“Ah, yes. I’ll email you the details.” Charles nods with a smile, glancing between them like he’s just had a revelation and is mildly uncomfortable with it. “Plenty of things for couples to do there. A lot of excursions.”

Anxiety? Meet Mike Ross.

“There was this lovely beach we went to, oh it was beautiful…” Mike isn’t listening. He’s gone stiff as a post under Harvey’s hand and he knows the older man has picked up on it.

Couples? Excursions? Oh my god. They think Harvey is his… no. The idea is so ludicrous that Mike actually considers barking out a laugh in their faces, only managing to hold it in when Harvey’s fingers brush against the thin fabric of his dress shirt near his stomach, rendering him silent immediately.

He looks down at his empty champagne glass and almost whines. He needs another. He needs a hundred. Hell, just sent him a crate of the stuff and let him drink his sorrows.

Harvey’s eyes are on him for the briefest of moments, a simple glance in observation, reading him so effortlessly. Mike sometimes hates that he’s such an open book, heart on his sleeve, just like Donna had said.

“Lovely seeing you both,” Harvey announces politely, gently pulling Mike towards his body and carefully away from the naïve and innocent couple who have unknowingly rocked Mike’s world. “But we have some business to take care of.”

“Of course. I’ll send you the email in the morning.” Charles nods, and Sandra blows a kiss to Mike before they’re turning away and moving on whilst Mike feels like he’s been frozen solid, nothing but Harvey’s hand guiding him to keep him mobilised.

He bumps into someone as they move, and he mutters a stunted apology once he realises he’s spilled his champagne onto the floor at his feet. His… champagne that was empty a moment ago. Brow furrowed, Mike looks up at Harvey who has a smirk on his face.

(Harvey’s magic is cute, sometimes.)

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” Mike asks.

“No, you’re trying to get yourself drunk.” Harvey says, his hand on Mike’s waist disappearing so he can grab his own glass from a passing waiter’s tray. “I’m just speeding up the process for you.”

Harvey openly admitting that he’d used his magic for Mike is a new development, one that Mike isn’t going to let go. “You never use your magic in public.”

Harvey takes a delicate sip of his champagne, taking time to actually taste it as Mike gulps down half of his so quickly that he realises the room isn’t as clear as it was three minutes ago. “It’s been known to happen.”

See: never. Well, barely. And never so blatantly like this, hundreds of people around them chit chatting away about things way above Mike’s depth. Additionally, Harvey seems content in ignoring the obvious elephant in the room – Sandra and Charles thought they were a couple.

Mike has to hand it to them, he’s flattered. Flattered that they think he can land a guy like Harvey, who’s always dressed immaculately down to his socks which undoubtedly cost more money than Mike would ever dream of spending on socks. But that’s beside the point. If Harvey’s keen on ignoring the entire conversation that literally just took place, then so is Mike.

He'll fist bump about it later, though. And maybe get shit faced drunk, since he’s already half way there.

Harvey manhandles him into the back of a cab at the end of the night, not trusting him to cycle, squeezing his bike into the trunk. Mike can’t really argue, not when vertical is suddenly his horizontal.

“Sleep it off,” Harvey instructs, leaning down so he’s eye-level with Mike’s blown out pupils and growing, sloppy grin. “You did good tonight.”

“Did you just compliment me?” Mike says, because his mouth is apparently a separate entity from his brain right now. “Wow, dude. Maybe the Forsyth’s were right about that whole Cambodia trip.”

“Thailand,” Harvey corrects, a smirk on his face as he obviously realises just how blasted Mike really is and how terribly he handles his alcohol. “And don’t call me dude.”

“You didn’t deny it,” Mike sing-songs. “Harvey Specter cares about me.”

Harvey rolls his eyes, and fishes around in his breast pocket, handing money to the driver that Mike momentarily forgot existed. “Williamsburg. And make sure he gets his bike inside.”

The cab driver’s eyes become saucers upon counting the money, then nods emphatically. Harvey’s just got that effect on people, Mike guesses.

“Bribes are illegal, you know.”

“It’s our little secret,” Harvey winks at him, and Mike’s weakened brain short-circuits. From Harvey’s growing smile, Mike figures that was the idea all along. “Goodnight, Mike.”

He closes the car door and the cab starts moving, leaving Harvey behind on the sidewalk as Mike settles further into his seat and huffs out a breath. The cab driver eyes him in the rear-view mirror, raising an eyebrow at him.

“You must really like cinnamon,” he says.

Fuck.

Mike wakes up bundled in cheap, thin sheets, with a pounding headache and a mouth like death. He blinks wearily at his alarm and snoozes it, promptly going back to sleep with a groan and a reconsideration of his life choices, still dressed in his suit.

“What time do you call this?” Donna asks with a smirk on her face, peering up at him from her desk as he drags his feet along the carpeted floor. “Aw, puppy had a late night?”

“Don’t even,” Mike drawls out, eyes bloodshot and armpits sweating.

“How was the art gallery opening?” Donna asks even though Mike’s pretty sure she already knows the answer to that. Donna knows everything, and it kind of terrifies Mike and half of the other associates on this floor. “Harvey’s not in yet.”

“Really?” Mike gapes, glancing over at the suspiciously empty office to his right. “He didn’t even have as much to drink as I did.”

“Sweet, oblivious Mike.” Donna rises to her feet and reaches over her desk to pat him on the chest. “If Harvey is late, it means one of two things. One, he’s sick – and believe me, he hasn’t taken a sick day in the thirteen years I’ve known him. And two, well… he had a better night that you did.”

Mike blinks, then frowns, unable to keep his emotions off of his face with the headache pounding behind his eyes. Of course Harvey sent him home in a cab so he could pick up some hot waitress or something. Mike’s so stupid – and it’s not even his business, anyway, is it? Harvey’s entitled to do whatever he wants.

“So much for being his arm candy,” Mike mutters under his breath, sauntering away from Donna’s desk without another word. She doesn’t let that fly, of course, because she’s Donna and she desires information.

She also cares about him.

“Mike,” Donna keeps up with him easily as he walks to his cubicle, which isn’t exactly difficult considering he can’t seem to move very fast without feeling like he might bring up his breakfast – a greasy hot dog. “I think it’s time we address this.”

“Address what?” Mike asks blankly, readjusting his messenger bag over his shoulder as they pass Rachel’s office. She offers him a short smile, before seeing the expression on his face. She spies Donna next to him, decidedly figures she has it covered, and returns her eyes to her laptop. “There’s nothing to address, and even if there was, why would I tell you?”

Okay, he didn’t mean to say that. Definitely didn’t mean to say that.

He halts immediately, panic and regret in his eyes. “Shit, I’m sorry. I’m just…”

“You’re just?” Donna looks at him easily, seemingly undeterred by his little outburst like the asshole he is.

Mike doesn’t really know what to say, but he knows Donna is onto him. She’s good like that, but in times like these, it’s a bit of a hindrance. He’d prefer to remain in denial and bask in self-pity, thank you.

Whatever Donna sees on his face must be enough, because she gently takes his arm and all but drags him back to Rachel’s office. She pushes him in the door and closes it behind them, gaining a startled look from Rachel and her pretty face.

“What’s going on?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Mike says.

“Remember that day I bought those cinnamon rolls?” Donna addresses Rachel and Rachel only. They exchange a look – one that must only be decipherable by women, because Mike’s at a loss. Whatever it means, though, must be pretty serious because Rachel nods shortly with a frown.

“Right,” she breathes, then glances behind them at the workers parading the floor. Not a lot of privacy in an office with floor to ceiling glass surrounding every wall. “Drinks tonight? Capaldi’s?”

“Eight o’clock,” Donna agrees, then pats Mike on the back. “Smart casual.”

And with that she’s sashaying out of the office and meandering back towards her desk and Harvey’s empty office.

“What just happened?” Mike asks, clueless.

“You’re seeing friends outside of working hours. Nothing out of the ordinary.” Rachel rounds her desk and places a warm, caring and slim hand on his arm. It’s almost enough to rid Mike of his hangover entirely, ridiculously sobering. “Share a cab?”

Mike blinks at her but finds himself agreeing for lack of anything better to say. She smiles up at him with that blinding smile of hers, all straight and small teeth, creases at her eyes that makes him think of Harvey. Maybe Mike should cut his losses here and fall in love with her instead.

Woah, no. Nope. Not even going there. Not touching the L word again.

“You might want to cool it with the cinnamon, though,” Rachel interrupts his turmoil, still smiling.

“I’m trying,” Mike breathes.

“Cinnamon rolls again?” Louis. Mike feels like he’s in a play on Broadway or something, about to grit his teeth and say he’s right behind me, isn’t he?

“Just finished,” Rachel saves the day, using her hand on Mike’s arm to spin him until they’re both facing Pearson Hardman’s second most feared lawyer. (Harvey takes the cake on that one.)

Louis has always been cat-like in his movements and mannerisms, but every time Mike looks at him he always finds that just a little bit off-putting. See: a lot off-putting. “Finally. We need to up our catering game, I mean, seriously. What is this, 2003?”

“I don’t think pastries go out of style,” Mike says slowly, unsure.

“Did you need something, Louis?” Rachel asks politely.

Harvey decides that this particular moment is a great one to show up for work, an hour after he should. And this little impromptu team meeting inside of the paralegal’s office has caught his attention.

“Bullying our associates again, Louis?” He asks, chipper as ever, Blackberry in his hand and looking like he came straight from a photoshoot downtown. God damnit. “Aren’t you running out of ammunition?”

“Nice of you to finally show up,” Louis shoots back, cat-like. If Mike squints, he can almost see the way Louis’ hair (what’s left of it) starts puffing up the way cats’ do when they’re threatened.

“Did you have Donna order cinnamon rolls again?” Harvey asks suddenly, stepping further into Rachel’s office.

Maybe Mike could jump out of the window. It’d be a quick and relatively painless death, all things considered, and at the very least it would save him from the earth-shattering embarrassment that is this conversation.

Rachel squeezes his arm. It’s very little consolation, though he appreciates the thought. Harvey notices the microscopic movement, because of course he does, eyes briefly glancing to the woman’s grip on his arm before returning to Mike.

“Let’s go,” Harvey instructs, no arguments. “You got the Forsyth briefs?”

The what?

“Uh,” Mike croaks, revealing that he, indeed, does not have the Forsyth briefs.

He follows Harvey blindly, but not before Rachel pats his arm and says, “Eight o’clock.” He nods hurriedly and ignores Harvey’s pointed look, scurrying out of the office with his tail between his legs.

“Okay, either you just completely made that up,” Mike begins, falling into step with Harvey easily, hangover forgotten. “Or you somehow managed to convince Charles and Sandra Forsyth to sign with you.”

“Correction: you convinced them to sign with the firm,” Harvey says easily, looking at him whilst they walk.

“How the hell did I do that?”

“They’re suckers for tradition, and your little boast about being a barista when you were fifteen made them go soft.”

“Okay, first, I wasn’t fifteen. And second, that’s really all it took?” Mike gapes at him as they walk towards Harvey’s office. He can already see the fiery red of Donna’s hair poking out over her desk.

“They’re looking to expand their company; open more branches across Manhattan.” Harvey explains, thumbing at his phone like Mike is nothing but an afterthought. Fortunately, Mike is used to that.

Mike considers that as they walk. In a brief surge of courage, likely the effect of the alcohol still in his system, he grins and says, “Looks like bringing me as your arm candy actually worked out.”

“Don’t let the pretty paralegal hear you say that,” is Harvey’s response.

“First of all, her name is Rachel,” he drawls out the name like Harvey is an infant and incapable of learning people’s names outside of his inner circle. “And second of all, she’s so much more than a paralegal. She’s gonna own this city one day. And thirdly-”

“Don’t care,” Harvey waves him off once they approach Donna’s desk. She looks over at them expectedly, eyeing Mike gently. “Don’t let it affect your work or we’ll have a problem.”

“Don’t let what affect my work?”

“Donna, I need-” Harvey begins like Mike hasn’t spoken, but Donna is already handing him a steaming hot cup of coffee. “Thanks. And I didn’t have a chance to-”

“Organise a meeting with Charles Forsyth this afternoon?” Donna interrupts this time, because, as Mike continually points out, she’s Donna. “It’s at three o’clock. Also,” she opens her desk drawer and pulls out a stack of files, handing them over to Harvey’s waiting hand. “Possible locations for expansion of their coffee chain. I extended the search to Brooklyn.”

“Something tells me they won’t go for that,” Harvey muses, flipping open the file. “No one likes Brooklyn.”

“Hey, I live there.” Mike injects, but no one is listening.

“Can’t hurt to try,” Donna winks. “Besides, not everyone is afraid to go out of their comfort zone.”

What the hell does that mean? Was that directed at Mike?

Jesus Christ.

Harvey doesn’t pay her remark any mind, handing Mike the files. He takes them gingerly. “Have a draft written up by two thirty. I’m assuming Charles will want us both to be there.”

Aaaaaand Harvey’s disappearing to his office, a smile directed at Donna before he closes the door.

“Don’t forget to check your email!” Mike calls out to him, but Harvey completely ignores him. Oh well. Couldn’t hurt to try.

“The Thailand cruise?” Donna asks, evidently enjoying the way Mike fumbles the files in his hands and a few pieces of paper gently float to the ground at his feet. He’s in the middle of gathering them when Donna speaks again. “You realise that I read all of Harvey’s correspondence.”

“Must’ve slipped my mind,” Mike rises to his feet, clutching the files.

“Nothing slips your mind, puppy,” And, okay, she’s got him there. “We will discuss this, but I have work to do and so do you. So, Capaldi’s at eight o’clock.” It’s almost a threat, but then it definitely is when she lowers her voice and adds, “And if you even think about bailing, remember, I know where you live.”

“Oh my god,” Mike groans and scurries away to the safety of his cubicle. But it’s not before, for some reason Mike doesn’t know, a warm breeze courses through Donna’s hair and makes her smile. Okay, so, fine, Mike appreciates Donna and her way with words, but that’s just not cool. He really needs to start controlling himself and his magic or it’s going to get him in serious trouble. Or worse, discovered by Harvey.

He pointedly ignores Donna’s email when he retreats to his desk, containing nothing but a kissy face emoji and her traditional sign off, Secretary to Harvey Specter, Senior Partner, Pearson Hardman.

He spends most of the morning working on the draft for Charles Forsyth. Donna actually picked a location a couple of blocks away from where Mike lives, which he can only assume was intentional. He leaves it in the list because it couldn’t hurt to have a nice coffee place so close to his apartment.

He knocks on Harvey’s door at two o’clock, half an hour early, because, hello? Eidetic memory.

“Done already?” Harvey asks once he’s beckoned him inside. He’s typing away at his laptop, three piece suit pressed and stylish, not a hair out of place. Mike looks like he’s gotten caught in a hurricane on the way to work, hair askew and shirt crumpled, skinny tie around his neck.

Harvey’s way out of his league. That isn’t exactly news to him.

Even so, he puts the file on Harvey’s desk and moves over to the windows to admire the skyline. It also gives him a reason to avoid looking directly at the man his magic decided to fall in love with, cinnamon be damned.

“No boasting,” Harvey remarks from behind him, sounding surprised. “You must really be hungover.”

“I’m not immune to alcohol like you are, clearly,” Mike says, shooting a look over his shoulder that’s met with a shit-eating grin.

“With the exception of the empty lot in Williamsburg, this is pretty good.” Harvey says once he’s looked over Mike’s work. And, damn, Harvey’s complimented his work twice in two days now, but after a quick glance outside, there’s no pigs flying. Weird. “Is it safe to let you in a room with Charles, or are you going to vomit?”

“Ha ha,” Mike deadpans, turning from the window to fall into the chair across from Harvey’s desk, facing the music. “I’ll be fine. It’s better than it was earlier.”

“And you think doing it all over again tonight is the best way to go about it?”

Mike blinks. “What?”

“Eight o’clock?” Harvey presses with a raised brow, indicating that he’d heard Rachel’s hushed whisper this morning. Great. Just great.

“I thought you weren’t interested in my personal life.” See: Harvey Emotions Are Weak Specter.

“I’m not,” Harvey says easily, and Mike doesn’t detect a lie even if he wishes he could. “But if you look bad,” Harvey gestures to Mike’s dishevelled suit, “it reflects poorly on me. And I’m absolutely interested in me.”

Mike huffs like a child. “You know, it’s really your fault. You’re the one who dragged me to that art gallery last night.”

“I’m not the topic of conversation here.” God damn lawyers. “And I didn’t force you to drink your weight in champagne, which, by the way, was completely wasted on you.”

“Uh,” Mike corrects, leaning forward with a challenging brow. “Correct me if I’m wrong – and I wouldn’t, considering I never forget anything – but I seem to remember you refilling my glass without any complaints.”

“Hearsay,” Harvey challenges back, forcing Mike to scowl because, damn it, it would be hearsay if they were in court. “But that’s beside the point.”

“The point being?”

“If you’re planning on showing up with your suit looking like that tomorrow,” Harvey points again towards Mike’s body, and Mike has half a mind to grab his finger just for the hell of it. “Then don’t bother showing up at all.”

Mike rolls his eyes and offers him a cheeky salute, standing up and buttoning his suit jacket. If he has any hope, it might hide the fact that his shirt hasn’t been ironed. “Capaldi’s.”

Harvey looks up at him.

“That’s what’s at eight o’clock,” Mike offers, not like Harvey has actually asked. But maybe just to screw with him, just a little bit. “I’m going to drinks with Rachel,” he pauses, watching the way Harvey rolls his eyes. “Oh, and Donna.”

“Donna?” Harvey’s eyebrows shoot up.

“But since you don’t care about my personal life,” Mike continues like he hasn’t spoken. “I’ll see you in the conference room at three.”

Harvey’s eyes are on him as he leaves the office feeling like he actually won one of their battles of wits for once. Another thing to fist bump about tonight.

tbc