Chapter Text
"Hey, this is Mike Ross, associate of Harvey Specter. Either I'm in court or my phone's dead, but I can't get to you right now. Show. Me. The... Message after the beep!"
[Beep]
"It's Jessica. Change your voicemail. My clients will no longer be getting a Jerry Maguire quote every time they try to reach you. I called because I heard through the wire that you used to be a bike messenger. Get on your trike and wheel down to the address I texted you. I’ll find you in the morning. Have a lovely evening."
By the time you get to this specific floor in this specific building, you know you've earned it. Or so all the associates say.
Mike jogs out of the elevator, messenger bag slung over his shoulder and still dripping from when he used it in a futile attempt to stay dry in flash torrential autumn rain. With no small amount of stomping around the lobby, he's fairly confident that he's not squelching puddles into the carpet. There's no point in looking around for an ally—everyone else has dry socks and perfect hair, getting to work with some variant of a driver, or at least doesn't have to resort to biking into Manhattan from Brooklyn.
It didn't take much eavesdropping to figure out that everyone here came away from some semblance of nepotism and old money. Everyone has the advantage. Everyone owes them a favor, quid pro quo being the main form of currency. Everyone knows a friend-of-a-friend who can hook them up with an opportunity. But it all means nothing unless you have the grit to back it up. The real work starts when you claw your way up, floor-by-floor, brute forcing your way until you get here. The bottom of the heap. The lowest rung on the ladder that you've spent most of your twenties desperately climbing. It's soul sucking. Nobody's denying that.
Harvard was the easy part. Not that he'd know.
Donna doesn't even look up from her computer, simply raising a hand for Mike to slap with a high-five. "Morning, boy toy."
"Good morning to you, Ms. Paulsen," he greets cheerily, shaking out the remnants of the droplets sticking to his hair just to see her grimace. "Anything blowing up?"
"Not unless you haven't read up on the Sanders suit."
"January 2006, retaliation suit that followed the harassment suit from '04. Southern District of the Bronx,” he says. "I'd appreciate a curve ball next time."
“You know what they say.” Picking up the phone, she starts dialing into the landline, foreboding. "Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear."
Maybe there's one advantage that can’t be taken from Mike. He actually doesn't care that he's on this specific floor in this specific building. That’s trivial to him. Bottom of the heap? Lowest rung on the ladder? Fantastic. He wouldn’t change any of it.
Mike pushes the glass door open with ease. No, what he cares about is that he gets to enter this specific office, to be with this specific—
"Nice of you to arrive," Harvey greets. It’s only eight in the morning but he’s already halfway through a brief and there’s stains on the rim of his mug. Shoulders pushed back and a smallest furrow of his brow, Mike knows that he's doing something related to family law. “Tell me you didn't get flooded out on your bike.”
“Just barely saved by search and rescue and they helicoptered me straight to you.” Mike tosses his bag on the ground and heads to the windowsill, propping himself up on the ledge. “What's on our plate?"
"I'm sending you to Harlem for the day."
Mike wrinkles his nose. "You want me to take Anderson in?"
"Bastard needs to know what happens when he tries ignoring our subpoenas." After a final read through, Harvey glances at Mike and gives him a once-over. His mouth quirks up. "Jeez, kid. You took the storm in here with you?"
"It's shockingly hard to hold an umbrella while you're pedalling."
Harvey rolls his eyes. "Take Ray and get Anderson to come in."
"Car privileges today," he preens, hopping off to swipe at Harvey's coffee. "Lucky me."
"It's because I want you to stop by your place and change your suit." Harvey leans back against his chair, appraising Mike. He raises the mug in a mock toast. "With that on, you have a better chance of closing him for the Salvation Army than a lawsuit."
Mike takes a sip and makes a face. Black. Tastes like pretentious. “Aye aye, captain.”
"Bold of you to make a boat joke, when you're, you know—"
“Yup, no, the joke isn’t getting old at all. One more, Harvey, please.”
“And you know I love it when you ask nicely,” Harvey croons, flicking something in Mike’s direction.
Mike catches it without thinking. Credit card. “I’m getting extra fries this time.”
Placing a hand on his chest, Harvey’s voice turns somber. “Anything you want, I love helping the needy.”
“I am so telling Jessica on you—“ Mike calls back, opening the door and stopping in his tracks.
Jessica stands in front of him, eyes sharp and not a hair out of place. “What are we telling Jessica?”
“That Mike is single-handedly going to give our firm a tax break,” Harvey tells her. “Told you he’s a great investment.”
Mike stands aside and holds the door open for her. “Good morning.”
“Hi, Mike,” she returns, warm, patting his shoulder. Ever since the mock, Jessica has been nothing if not kind to him. But Mike had been in the game long enough to know that while it is genuine, Jessica’s also the master of holding cards close to her chest. Still, it’s nice, and Mike will take it where he can get it.
“Open or closed?” he asks.
“Closed,” she says, entering. “With you in it.”
Mike instinctively locks eyes with Harvey, who looks intrigued. It’s not often Mike is privy to their conversation. That means something has gone terribly wrong or incredibly right.
Mike widens his eyes and blinks repeatedly. What did I do?
Harvey gives an infinitesimal shrug. Hell if I know. He clears his throat. “Unfortunately, Mike has a prior commitment with the Anderson contract dispute. He’s been running from our subpoenas for the past week.”
“I had Donna cancel on Anderson.” Jessica crosses her legs, serene.
Immediately, Mike and Harvey whirl around only to find Donna already looking at them through the glass, phone to her ear and listening in. She gives them a little wave.
Harvey's expression sours. "And what the hell," he says stiffly. "Could you have possibly done that for?"
Mike silently migrates back to the windowsill, scurrying out of the line of fire. Harvey and Jessica are staring each other down and he prays nobody notices that his ankles are still wet.
Jessica takes a deep breath. The stock of terribly wrong skyrockets. “Vincent Sanders' wife passed away over the weekend."
Vincent Sanders. Long time international litigation lawyer at Pearson Hardman. Most of what he does is maintain European relationships under the guise of strategic counselling overseas. While their firm is strictly based in the state of New York—due to both Jessica and Harvey's insistence, with New York being the epicenter of the known universe—it's good to leave a backdoor open to international affairs. Eggs in a basket and all.
"I'm sorry to hear that," Mike says, because he has to, and also because he's not exactly sure what that has to do with them.
Harvey's eyes narrow, comprehension flooding in droves. "No."
"Harvey—" Jessica sighs.
"No," he repeats, standing up with an intensity that even throws Mike off. "No. Nope. Not happening."
"You don't even know what I'm about to say."
"I don't need to. I know perfectly well what you're going to say. Send Louis. Send fucking Kyle for all I care." Harvey rubs his face roughly. "I'm not going."
"Yes," Jessica gets on her feet, voice stern. "You are."
"You gave me your word I wouldn't go."
"The man's wife is dead, Harvey. And you know damn well that I don't trust anybody else to go."
The look in Harvey's eyes is drenched in betrayal. "Jess."
Her tone softens. "Harvey." Jessica glances at Mike, and back to Harvey. "You didn't tell him."
"Because I thought I wouldn't need to," he grits out. "Because I wouldn't be going."
This wouldn’t be the first time that Harvey’s kept something from Mike. It’s the very nature of being his associate. Shoot first and ask questions later. Mike listens neutrally, silently, poker face slid on. But Harvey takes one look at him and groans. “Come on, Mike.”
Mike holds both hands up. “I didn’t say anything.”
“And apparently,” Jessica pipes in. “Neither did Harvey.”
“Enough,” Harvey warns.
“You want me to tell him or should I?”
Again, Harvey looks to Mike. Mike responds by giving him a perfunctory smile.
Then Harvey blows out a sharp breath. “London Conference on International Law. Vincent Sanders was supposed to be our spokesperson.”
“London,” Mike repeats. “England.”
“It better be, because I’m not sure I remember doing business in Ontario,” Jessica says.
“We’re not doing business anywhere but right here.” Harvey raps his knuckles against his desk. “Condolences to Vinny’s wife. Really. But I am not leaving the Big Apple for the Big Smoke. I mean it, Jessica.”
Mike watches Harvey with interest. Harvey’s a stubborn asshole, for sure, and if it were just his pride on the line then Mike would understand where this obstinacy is stemming from. But he knows Harvey loathes arguing against Jessica’s requests, and there’s a desperation in the way he’s doing it. He’s not fighting like he’s in court. This is too messy, too emotional. There isn’t the finesse that Mike is used to seeing. This is personal.
And only one person comes to mind when he thinks of London.
There’s a knock at the door and Donna comes in. She takes in Harvey’s expression and stifles a smile. “Told you to tell Mike.”
“Donna,” he mutters, jaw clenched. “Not now.”
“Oh, you think I’m here for you?” She walks straight to Jessica and hands her a folder. “Updated line-up.”
Jessica nods in thanks, opening it up and sifting through its contents. Donna catches Mike’s gaze as she walks out and shoots him a wink. He gives her a weak wave in return.
Humming, Jessica nods. “Here. Take a look at this and tell me you still won’t go.”
Harvey glares at the folder before snatching it from her, flipping through it aggressively. Then he blinks. “Oh.”
“Oh, is right,” she agrees. “So?”
This has officially entered the territory of frustrating. Mike is boring a hole in the side of Harvey’s head, trying to telepathically convince him to explain what’s going on.
It seems his wishes were heard. “Just because Darby International is in Beijing during the conference, doesn’t mean I’m just going to up and go to Europe.”
“It’s only a week,” she tells him. “Besides, I hear that autumn there is wonderful.”
Lightning flashes outside the window. Rain continues to pelt the glass. “Almost as wonderful as autumn here?” Harvey scoffs. There’s a different tone now, less intense and more contemplative. Mike can sense the beginnings of a bargain coming on. “On one condition.”
“I’m listening.”
“Mike comes with me.”
Mike can’t say that he’s particularly surprised at the stipulation, nor is he displeased. But he clears his throat. “I, uh,” he coughs. “I don’t have a passport.”
Harvey knows this. Mike knows Harvey knows this, because he wanted to take Mike to Tokyo once at three a.m. during a heated argument about the quality of sake and they were halfway to JFK before Mike had to fess up that, legally, he could not leave the United States. They settled for a snazzy bar in the West Village instead.
Harvey clicks his tongue, fake grieving. “Oh no,” he says, forlorn. “My one condition can’t be met. This is so unfortunate. Tell Louis to pack a suitcase and put the flight on his card. I’m sure he’ll appreciate the frequent flyer points.”
Jessica tilts her head. “Mike,” she calls out. “Where’s that package I asked you to get me?”
Slowly, Harvey turns to Mike, a look of realization dawning on his face. Tell me she’s bluffing.
Mike grimaces as he reaches into his messenger bag and pulls out the bright manila folder. It’s only slightly damp from the downpour. He gives Harvey a helpless head shake. I swear I don’t know what’s in here.
Opening it with a deep sense of trepidation, Mike feels something small and plastic-esque fall into his hands. He lets out an incredulous laugh when he sees the passport in his hand. Jessica fucking Pearson.
“It’s not that you don’t have a passport,” she tells him, sugar sweet. “It’s that you haven’t renewed it since you went to Mexico in the first grade. All it takes is some expedited paperwork and a called-in favor.”
Mike winces. Sorry.
Harvey waves his hand, defeated. It’s Jessica. We lost before we even started.
Jessica takes a deep breath, satisfied. “Flight’s tomorrow. Hotel’s booked. Mike?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t work too hard over there. Enjoy your first time out of the Americas. And, Harvey?”
He doesn’t even grace her with a response, simply crossing his arms petulantly and giving her a dead glare.
She reaches over and nudges his coffee closer to him. “You can stand to work a little harder.”
Harvey’s been staring out the window all the way to the airport. And during security. Up until now, where they’re both waiting at their gate. And, throughout it all, Mike is staring at Harvey.
He knows that Harvey’s hoping that the storm from yesterday will manifest itself today and bring about a flight cancellation—Sorry Jessica, we tried, we really did—but blue skies and bright sun seem to mock him, dashing any chance of delays. Nothing but smooth flying today.
Mike bumps his knee to Harvey’s, who’s gaze flickers to him.
“You’re quiet.” Mike shakes a bag of almonds at him. Seven dollars from the vending machine. Bullshit pricing but it makes a great peace offering.
“I’m thinking.”
“You usually think pretty loud.”
“I do not.” He takes the bag and shakes some onto his hand. “I think the perfect volume.”
Mike plucks some from his palm, the way a bird would. Harvey lets him. “What’s in London?” Mike asks, curious.
“Nothing. Which is why I don’t want to go.”
“London is basically New York with an accent.”
“That’s propaganda getting to you.”
“Doesn’t change the fact that something is getting to you.”
He watches Harvey chew on an almond, agitated, heightened by the fact that he knows that Harvey doesn’t even like almonds and is only eating it to have something to do. Mike had pulled Donna aside before they left, running a few security checks so he knows what he’s getting into. She hadn’t said much. All she did was pat his cheek and tell him Don’t overthink it. Be yourself. It’ll come naturally.
Mike had no idea how to interpret that.
And now Mike is about to go on his first international trip with a distracted Harvey Specter. That’s no good. So he decides to just go for it. “Is it about the obvious?”
Whenever Mike throws Harvey off, something interesting happens. The briefest flash of an internal struggle surfaces—irritation, ridicule, denial, before finally landing on resignation. “Not completely,” Harvey finally says.
“She won’t be there.” It’s supposed to comfort Harvey, but Mike takes solace in his own words, too. “It’s just us.”
If he was just a bit younger, a bit more green, he might have regretted those words. Because it would expose him too much. The fact that, now, there’s no city to hide behind, no urgent case that they need to wrap up by midnight. No Jessica to interrupt them, no Donna listening in. All Harvey has is Mike. All Mike has is Harvey. And that would have terrified him, before. But now, Mike gingerly scoots closer to Harvey, pressing his knee against his. Hi.
Harvey huffs, rueful, and presses back. Hi, yourself. “Oh, and that’s supposed to comfort me?”
“Is it working?”
“Keep trying,” he says, smiling. Dimples and all. “I’m almost comforted.”
Harvey stops looking out the window after that.
Mike’s only been on a handful of flights, most of which are domestic, all of which are under five hours. After an hour of trying to peer past Harvey to see out the window, Harvey had huffed and made them switch seats. You’ll hurt your neck and then you’ll be useless to me for the rest of the trip.
It was a long flight, and despite his best efforts to stay awake and beat jet lag, he had fallen asleep around halfway through, only to wake up when the plane jolted, tires pounding into the tarmac. He promptly sits upright, checking to make sure that he wasn't caught using Harvey as a pillow. Thankfully, Harvey’s eyes are still closed.
Stumbling around Heathrow, red-eyed and yawning, he was more alert than he thought he would be. Everywhere he looks, there’s something new that he’s never seen before, different accents sweeping over him like an international tidal wave. He swears the air here is more crisp than in New York.
“It’s called AC,” Harvey points out, frowning at Mike’s duffle bag. It’s fraying at the seams and the strap had to be knotted together from when it split apart back in senior year.
“It’s called having fun,” Mike shoots back, twisting the bag so it’s out of Harvey’s sight line. “Mind your own business.”
“You are my business.”
By the time they’re clearing customs, Mike is nursing a headache, the fluorescent light of the airport brutal, his temples throbbing with an intensity that even his excitement couldn’t tamp down. Harvey, infuriatingly, looks as composed as he always does. He even seems to hold his passport in a manner refined enough to make him look like he just walked out of Rimowa ad. All Mike can do is follow the green indicators plastered on the ground in a daze.
When they get to the front of the line, he feels a push against the small of his back, Harvey urging them to the booth. An officer in a sharp blue uniform regards them over the rim of his glasses, looking like he was born bored and raised irritable. The usual border control dialogue is exchanged—Where are you travelling from? How long will you be staying? Do you have anything to declare?—and Harvey’s voice is smooth, easy, friendly. It’s the tone he’d normally take when he’s schmoozing someone into taking a shit deal. Maybe it’s the chaos of the airport, or maybe it’s the familiarity of the voice, but Mike wants to curl in it.
“What’s the purpose of your visit?” The officer grunts out, eager to wash his hands of them and move onto the next sucker in line.
“My partner and I are here for a conference,” Harvey tells him, and the officers stamped both of their passports and shoos them out of the way.
“Christ. Couldn’t you have warned me that you don’t fly well?” Harvey asks, amused, once they finally break out of the confines of the airport and Mike can breathe in fresh, uncanned air.
“Never had a real chance to test it out,” Mike mummers, readjusting the strap on his shoulder. The taxis here are black instead of yellow, and for some reason that’s making him a little more nauseous.
A sleek, private car seems to manifest in front of them, the driver holding up a sign that reads HARVEY SPECTER AND CO against the glass, no doubt thanks to Donna’s impeccable planning. They waste no time hopping into the back before they’re off, the outskirts of the London highway making itself known to Mike if he had the strength to open his eyes.
Jet lag won. Definitively.
When Mike regains consciousness, slow and discombobulated, he can tell even through the lush curtains that it’s night outside, street lights peeping through the fabric and the faint noise of traffic far below onto the street. With a valiant effort, he tries raising his head before letting it plop back onto the pillow. Five more minutes.
Eventually, he musters the courage to roll up onto his feet, movement lethargic enough that he almost faceplants into the carpet, limbs still heavy with sleep. His suite, because technically it’s not a room, this is most definitely something more than a room, is about the size of his entire apartment back in Brooklyn. All eggshell white and expensive sheets, walls plastered with wainscoting that looks straight out of a home renovation show. Too many throw pillows and about a dozen small lights bedazzle the room into something that Mike might find in a period piece he’d fall asleep to. He feels almost sad when he fumbles through his pathetic duffle in search of his toothbrush and a change of clothes, fishing around until he finds a thick jacket and the blue scarf his grandmother knit for him.
Arms full of clothes and eager to scrub the airport grime off himself, he pads across the room, only to pause at the bathroom door.
The asterisk to this place is that their hotel rooms are adjoined.
Even through his exhaustion, he remembers Harvey raising hell with the very polite and very English hotel staff about the state of their rooms and how they can’t possibly be expected to slum it out like they’re in summer camp before the manager had to gently point out that Mr. Specter, your request specifies an adjoined room.
Donna. Of course. And at that point, Harvey could do nothing but lick his wounds and accept the key card like an omen.
After a quick shower—he’s definitely stealing the soap from here, holy shit—and a change of clothes, he’s more than ready to conquer the city of London. Bathroom still steaming, Mike raps his fist against the opposing door. “Harvey? You there?”
Silence. He shrugs and heads down to the lobby, marvelling at the architecture of something as simple as a hallway. There’s even an honest to god elevator attendant who takes him to the lobby and firmly ignores Mike when he gawks at him. It didn’t help when Mike’s jaw dropped when he saw the lobby. It’s exactly the kind of place that Mike would have been priced out from about three zeroes ago. The place is so gobsmackingly ostentatious that it’s like walking straight into a fresco, all gold and tiles and over-the-top that he has to laugh. Isn’t this all just so Harvey Specter?
Someone clears their throat behind Mike and he turns, a cordial bellhop with an extended hand holding a note. Mike thanks him with too much enthusiasm and reads, fancy cardstock smooth against his fingertips and the scrawl as familiar as the back of his hand:
In a meeting. Entertain yourself. Speaking notes in my room by tomorrow morning. H.S.
That pulls ginormous eyeroll out of Mike. The sign off was ridiculously pretentious and completely unnecessary.
The nice thing about working for the most meticulous man in Manhattan is that Mike has learned early on to maneuver around his last minute demands, having had the foresight to draft up the speaking notes before they left. This leaves him with a clear evening to explore the city to his heart’s content.
He catches a glimpse of the ritzy hotel bar on his way out, sees Harvey dressed in a fresh suit that somehow makes it look like he entirely belongs there, bending the will of the hotel’s exorbitance until it fits him rather than the other way around. He has his game face on with his weapon of choice: top-shelf scotch. He’s in the middle of charming what looks like a potential client, a big fish given the absurd amount of bling on her wrist, neck, fingers. The type who’ll only listen to someone with a gun bigger than her own. It’s a solo mission if he’s ever seen one.
On instinct, Mike steps into the bar, ready to stand next to him, when Harvey catches his eye. With an infinitesimal head shake, he looks to the door and then back at Mike, raising an eyebrow. I said not this time. Get out of here.
Mentally, he promises to draft the contract when Harvey inevitably closes her.
The second Mike steps out onto the sidewalk, he almost gets hit by a biker who’s swearing at him in the most posh tone he’s ever heard in his life. He already knows that he’s going to love this place.
Buildings, all of them ornate and intricate. It looks ripped from a film or a history book while being interwoven with the vibrancy and the flashing lights that come with any major city. Everywhere he goes, there’s a bustling crowd, lining up for a show, a drink, or something else that he hasn’t had a chance to look into. Their hotel, he realizes, is right in the eye of the city without it being incredibly touristy.
Everything is pulling his attention, but not quite as much as the cold is. It’s not quite freezing, but it bites at his skin all the same, and he tugs his scarf up as high as he can. It’s loud and exciting and Mike has been bumped into more times than he can count while taking pictures on his shitty flip phone before giving up. It’s not as though he’ll forget any of this anyway.
After walking around and getting almost-hit one too many times—this other side of the road thing is messing him up—his hunger starts winning out. The last meal he had was carbonara on the flight and some mint that was sitting on the pillow of his hotel room.
It also hits him that he has no money.
Mike frowns, annoyed. It didn’t even occur to him to take out pounds before flying out, too preoccupied with the concept of prepping Harvey’s presentation and you know, mentally preparing for an impromptu international trip.
Instinctively, he weighs out his options:
INFORMATION AND CONSENT FORM (ICF)
Attorney: Michael James Ross
Client: Michael James Ross
Description: Under the terms of this Release and sufficiency of which outlines the Cost / Benefit Analysis of any and all further choices for tonight’s meal, granting client’s agreement.
The following options include, but are not limited to:
1) Go back to the hotel
Outlined rewards: The coffee and tea should be enough to last him until morning. There’s a good chance that there’ll be snacks there. Maybe even some peanuts. If he’s lucky, he can swipe the mint off Harvey’s pillow.
Outlined risks: It would suck to have sleep for dinner.
2) Ask Harvey for money
Outlined rewards: Guaranteed meal and he can try some of the fish and chips he passed by.
Outlined risks: The verbal ribbing he’s going to get would be catastrophic and he’s not sure he can recover from that.
Then, he sees something from the corner of his eye. A pub—brick-walled and so typically English—is setting up what looks to be a trivia night. Think you know everything about everything? PROVE IT! Beat out the smartest and wittiest in London to take home the grand prize!
3) Play for it
Outlined rewards: Everything.
Outlined risks: Nothing.
With a grin, he looks both ways before jogging across the street, laughing when he barely manages to angle himself out of the way of a speeding car in time.
Signed and approved by: Michael James Ross.
The King’s Court is at about half-capacity when he enters and he immediately wishes he wore less layers. It’s hot, loud, and filled with exactly the kind of people he’d expect to be present for competitive trivia night.
After no small amount of pushing and apologies tumbling past his lips, he manages to squeeze into a seat at the bar where the gruff bartender who’s a full foot taller than Mike shoves a clipboard into his hands to sign in. Unhesitatingly, he pens down Rick Sorkin and passes it back. The tables stick under his palms and no matter where he looks, someone’s talking to someone who isn’t him and he’s hungry, both for a challenge and for some dinner after this.
People are encouraged to form teams of five, but Mike sits on his hands, at ease, letting the host explain the rules. It’s all stuff he’s heard before. He tunes them out, more interested in the shiny bottles behind the bar, squinting at labels he’s never seen before. Despite being in an entirely new country, this scene is familiar to him. He’s not a stranger to using his brain to make some bank.
The first round was a wash. General knowledge—
What is the only sea on Earth that does not have any land coastlines? “The Sargasso Sea.”
—and the Roman Empire—
Which emperor is historically recognized as the final ruler of the Pax Romana? “Marcus Aurelius.”
Mike thoroughly dominates, building a comfortable lead early on and watches in amusement as the bottom two teams duke it out in a lightning round. KEEP CALM AND HURRY UP are knocked out. Unfortunate.
The second round wasn’t much harder, and Mike starts doing so well that a handful of people start patting him on the back, a couple hoots and a few friendly jabs float are thrown his way. After a particularly niche question—
The 'Dream Team' won Olympic gold in what year’s games? “1992.”
—the bartender slides a shot of something clear towards him. “Here. In case your throat gets parched from answering so much.”
Mike hums, pleased. “Thanks, but do you have some fries, or, uh, chips back there?” His stomach grumbles. “If I drink this now, it’s not going to end well.” The look he got was pitiful, but at least now he’s chewing on sausage rolls.
Things start to ramp up in the third round. A huge crowd has steadily cultivated in the bar as it always does during the halfway point of trivia nights, eager to see the last handful standing. What he’s not used to is the attention that he’s getting. When he sweeps through round four—effectively striking out TRIVIAGO and DAVID KNOWIE—a huge cheer erupts, and a flood of shots, pints, and a random assortment of finger foods regularly appear in front of him.
“This is awesome,” he mutters, grinning wide. His scarf is haphazardly tied around his waist, leaving him with a simple shirt that he’s kind of worried he’s sweating through, but he doesn't even care because he’s on top of his game and having the time of his life. It’s a douchey move but he blames it on being buzzed when he raises his glass, whooping, just to get the group behind him to do the same.
Someone squeezes next to him, and for a moment, Mike is expecting to see Tom Ford loafers and a perfectly tailored suit.
“Quite a brain you’ve got there,” the stranger says, his lilting Scottish accent acting like a soothing balm against the rough noise of the crowd. He’s tall, looks to be around Mike’s age, and most noticeably, he’s fucking hot. “Is there anyone accompanying it tonight?”
He’s north on the side of buzzed when he answers. “Not at the moment, no.”
Mike learns that his name is Caleb, and it’s not just his looks that are pulling at Mike. He has a magnetic presence about him and a way with words that would even give Sober Mike a run for his money. He has bright green eyes and is halfway through his doctorate in Cambridge and is genuinely good company.
And halfway through round four, a tech issue causes one of the mics to go haywire and they pause the game to investigate. Caleb inches towards Mike, eyes sparkling. “What do you think about getting out of here?”
Mike can’t deny that he’s flattered. An incredibly hot European man wanting to take him home is a nice ego boost. There’s no real reason for him to stick around. He’s stuffed with bar food at this point, the prize becoming less and less enticing, and he’s teetering into being properly drunk. Not to mention, it’s been awhile since he got laid and he’ll probably be doing himself a favor by showing up to the conference tomorrow, loose-limbed and clear-eyed.
“I appreciate it, but—” Mike jerks his thumb at the scoreboard, where Rick Sorkin is winning by a landslide. “I have to see this thing through.”
Caleb squints with knowing confidence. “But you thought about it, right?”
Mike laughs. “Good night, Caleb.”
Round four wraps up and Caleb slinks away, Mike watching him go with a sense of wistfulness, loneliness lingering for a fleeting moment. It was nice to have company for a bit, but Caleb isn’t what he wants. At this point, the pub patrons are spilling out onto the sidewalk, the throng of people loud and only getting louder. The host clears his throat before speaking into the microphone.
“And for our fifth and final round, we will have our top player choose the topic from the Top Hat of Mystery!” Applause and whistles sound out. The host shakes a beat up ballcap with folded pieces of paper in front of Mike. Just before Mike reaches out, the host pauses. “Well, clearly Mr. Sorkin here has quite a lead. Even if you answer each one of these questions incorrectly, you’d still win. What’s the fun in a final without some tension?”
Mike tilts his head. This guy is clearly a bit of a showman and he respects the want for a performance. “What did you have in mind?”
“A wager!” He turns to the rest of the pub, voice big and inviting as he milks the moment. “Double or nothing. Let’s open up the floor to anyone here who would like to participate. Whoever can beat you, takes the pot. If you win, you double it.”
That’s a lot of fish and chips. “Done.”
“Excellent. So, who here would like to take on Mr. Sorkin for twice the pot?”
A few coughs sound out. Someone orders for a refill. The silence is enormously gratifying. Then, a voice rings out and, like a siren’s song, Mike instantly whips his head to the sound, a slow grin already spreading.
“I'll give it a go.”
As if something from a Bond film, Harvey emerges from the crowd. Or, rather, it parts for him. The crowd moves out of his way, a few whistles sounding, allowing Harvey to approach Mike with a confident stride and a quirked up mouth. Something like a hush falls over the group and Mike can’t blame them. Harvey Specter has that effect on people. He searches for any indication of Harvey’s mood with him and all he finds is that familiar gaze, challenging and playful.
“I was wondering how long it would take for you to find me,” Mike says, pleased as punch. Maybe it’s the shock of seeing Harvey in front of him, maybe it’s the joy of finally having someone he knows in this packed pub in the middle of London, or maybe it’s just the adrenaline and liquor getting to him, but Mike can’t stop smiling. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Around the time you started kicking ass about tennis players.”
Who defeated tennis player Bobby Riggs in the famous Battle of the Sexes? “Figured I’d get you with the Billie Jean King facts.”
“What can I say? I’m a sports guy at heart.”
Harvey reaches out, and Mike goes completely still, until his reach extends past Mike to steal one of his shots still sitting on the counter. Without breaking eye contact, he downs it. It might be the cheapest thing he’s ever seen Harvey drink. “So,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Mike following the movement. “Something about double or nothing?”
And there’s nothing Harvey loves more than a wager. “Maybe just focus on the nothing aspect,” he retorts, cocky.
Harvey’s expression flickers with bemusement. “You’re drunk.”
“I’m winning.”
“Not for long.” And like a bad sitcom, the crowd oohs, and the ballcap manifests itself between him and Harvey.
With a—slightly sloppy—flourish, Mike plucks and unfolds. Then, he lets out a quiet noise of disbelief. Fate always did play funny games on them. “Law precedents.”
Harvey’s eyes light up and Mike is still smiling.
It’s a typical lightning round format. Fast-paced timed segments where they’re each to answer as many rapid-fire questions as possible within thirty seconds. Harvey, who’s been destroying the judicial system for the better part of two decades, orders a whiskey. Mike, who has single-handedly carried failing students through countless LSAT exams, asks the bartender to make it two.
After a quick coin flip, Mike goes first.
“No pressure, Mr. Sorkin,” Harvey drawls, rolling his sleeves up. Despite the cramped pub and the general sweaty atmosphere, he looks infuriatingly put together. He could walk onto court right now and nobody would blink an eye. “Just know that your job is on the line.”
“And your pride is on yours,” Mike replies, straightening up.
He cranks out a whopping 24 answers, and he’s irrationally annoyed that the host wasn’t asking the questions fast enough. It was a breeze of a round, but the only thing that made Mike hesitate was his knowledge on European precedents, especially the ones that predate the 1920s.
“You’re telling me that you didn’t read up on pre-World War 1 precedents during the flight?” Harvey tsked.
“I’m sure you’ll have no problem,” Mike tells him. “Given that you were born around that time.” Harvey ruffles his hair, rough enough that it makes Mike wonder just how much Harvey’s had to drink before this.
As soon as Harvey started, Mike knew he was screwed.
Glass in hand, Harvey wasn’t even letting the host finish the question before answering. He was firing off precedents fast enough that even Mike was leaning forward, both in horror and in awe. Harvey had rolled through European, American, and Asian precedents like they were discussing the weather. For the first time in Mike’s life, he considers the possibility that it’s worth it to go to Harvard after all.
Then on the 23rd question, with just barely two seconds left on the clock, Mike props his chin on the counter, already resigned to his fate that he will once again lose to Harvey. At least this time, he can properly enjoy the show of seeing him in his element. At his lax confidence and focused expression. The whole bar seems to be hanging on to his every word, but Mike’s too busy marveling at Harvey. Marvelling at the ridiculous situation. Marvelling at everything.
Mike’s not sure what kind of expression he’s making, but it’s enough that when Harvey’s gaze flicks towards him, his final answer peters off.
And just like that, the timer runs out. Rick Sorkin wins.
When the pub erupts into deafening cheers, Harvey just raises a brow, completely unperturbed at losing. What’s that look for? Mike gives a helpless shrug. Harvey’s eyes crinkle like he gets it.
Once the wad of pounds is in Mike’s hand—the host grumbling about game rigging—Harvey sets down his empty glass. “What do you say we get out of here?” This time, Mike doesn’t hesitate to leave.
As they’re walking home, both buzzed and enjoying the night, Mike asks, “So how’d you find me, weirdo?”
“Heard the shouts from down the block. You’re the only one I can think of who can rile up a random pub over some trivia.”
“I’ll have you know that trivia can get very heated.”
“Which brings me to my next point,” he says, and Mike can already feel the lecture coming. “While I appreciate that you took the American-made route of making your own cash, couldn’t you have just asked me for your stipend?”
He gives Harvey a sideways glance. “I get a stipend?”
“Courtesy of Jessica.” His tone is flat. “You don’t need to go busking for your next dinner on a work trip.”
Mike flashes him the stack of bills in his hand. “Are you just jealous that I made more in that game than I would for an evening of billables? After conversion.”
Harvey gives him a look that says stop fucking around.
Mike holds his gaze for a moment, before putting the cash away. “I didn’t mind,” he shrugs, sobering. “It’s been awhile since I got to play.”
“Bar trivia?”
“New York doesn’t let me in anymore.”
Harvey raises a brow. “The entirety of New York?”
“Most of the boroughs put my name on the restricted list,” Mike tells him, hiking his scarf up higher. It’s even colder now, the wind chilly against his skin. “Had to make rent somehow and it was an easy win.”
This is a topic he tries not to breach too often. The money thing. The memory thing. It’s hard enough knowing that he’s a fraud. It doesn’t help to have the reminder that he doesn’t quite belong either. Doesn’t have the right type of presence, the old money attitude. He, quite literally, can’t forget that there will always be a gap between him and the society he wants to be a part of. The society that Harvey is a part of.
He feels Harvey’s gaze boring into the side of his skull. It always feels too much when he has Harvey’s full attention. Withering. Flourishing. “Alone?”
Mike shrugs again. “I made it work.” A silence lapses between them.
“You’ll tell me when you need someone on your side,” Harvey says, surprisingly serious. “I don’t care if you can do it by yourself. You’ll tell me. And, frankly, I’m sick of being on the opposing team when it comes to you.”
The admission is unexpected, and it takes a second for Mike to respond. “Banned, remember?” he manages. “Unless you want to start playing outside of New York.”
Harvey huffs. “Since when was I talking about trivia?”
When they’re back in their respective hotel suites, Mike hears the shower turn on in the bathroom. Thinks about shared shots and rolled sleeves and You’ll tell me.
He flicks the light switch off and engulfs himself in darkness.