Work Text:
"Love consists in this: that two solitudes protect and touch and greet each other."
— Rainer Maria Rilke
Mike's phone buzzed against the desk at around 10:00, closer to 11:00, too tired to check the time even as it lit up in big font on his phone. Then it buzzed again, stacked, two notifications arriving like they'd been waiting for each other.
It was Harvey, weirdly. Harvey hadn't texted him since… 4 months ago, when that happened.
Look, when you have a job that takes up most of your life, your libido'll get weird too.
Harvey: Get those briefs ready by tomorrow or you're fired.
Jenny under it, three photos already sitting unread from twenty minutes ago, and now the one he'd been avoiding since morning:
Jenny: your turn
Mike had the picture. He'd taken it in his bathroom this morning, for her. He hated it and took another one, hated that one less, and then carried it around all day like a loaded gun he was to much of a coward to fire.
Jenny was supposed to be fine. She was hot and easy and believed his lies and couldn't quite read him like an open book the way Harvey could. Jenny didn't used to put a hand in his hair and tell him to be good. Jenny didn't end things in a kitchen. Jenny was supposed to make him stop staring through glass at a man who had already flat out rejected him.
He attached the photo, switched chats, and typed they're on your desk. Hit send on both without looking, because he was exhausted, and because Harvey was maybe ten yards away with the door open.
His phone buzzed against his palm with another notification. The photo was definitely not in Jenny's inbox.
And oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.
He'd laugh if his blood hadn't left his face all at once.
Harvey: Is my puppy feeling needy?
No. That was unfair, he couldn't just do that after pushing him away.
Mike sat down so hard the chair rolled away from his desk, as if inviting him to step out of it and go to Harvey. Ha, funny.
He read it again. He read it a third time, slower, like it was a contract and the word puppy was a clause he could invalidate if he just applied enough scrutiny. Harvey hadn't said anything Mike thought he'd say. Harvey hadn't even said you're fired, which, given the previous text, would have at least been thematically consistent.
Harvey had said a lot of things that wasn't… expected.
Mike looked through the glass, against every survival instinct he possessed. Harvey was at his desk, looking at his phone, not looking at Mike.
His ears were pink, a tiny, traitorous flush at the tips that anyone else would have missed and that Mike had been tucking away in his memory for four years.
His phone buzzed against and Mike prayed it was Jenny.
It was most definitely not.
Harvey: Come here.
Mike stood even if his legs felt foreign to himself. He smoothed his shirt anyway, because he was about to walk into Harvey Specter's fucking office with a shirtless picture of himself already entered into evidence, and he might as well be just a little dignified. Screw it.
Mike left his jacket and the dying work phone on the desk. He took the personal one because if Jenny texted ??? Again he needed to be able to throw the whole device into the Hudson from Harvey's fucking window.
Harvey's door was still open, of course. He didn't close his door after eight unless the building was on fire, and even then he'd probably just talk louder, flames be damned.
Mike stopped on the threshold.
Harvey didn't look up, pen in his hand. He looked perfect, Mike had to physically stop himself from dropping to his knees right then and there.
"Close it," Harvey said.
Mike closed it and the click was too loud. He didn't lock it, that'd be an invitation and he wasn't feeling whorish today. Plus, his brain hadn't arrived in the room yet.
"I can explain," Mike said.
"Can you."
"It was for someone else," He justified desperately.
Harvey's pen stopped and he looked up from the document on his desk.
The gold around his pupils were there, turned inward. He looked at Mike like Mike was a clause he already decided to gut.
"Someone else," Harvey repeated.
"Jenny, she's a… a paralegal. I mixed up the chats and answering you. The actual briefs are on your desk already, they were at eight. Please look at the desk and not your phone."
Harvey didn't look at the desk.
He loved to torture Mike, so he picked up his phone, thumbed it awake, and turned it so Mike could see. The photo was full screened, Mike's own body sitting in Harvey Specter's hand like Harvey had every right to it. Which, for a while, he had.
"That's not the briefs."
"No," Harvey agreed, mildly. "It isn't."
"Delete it."
"I could."
"You should. We stopped. You stopped it. You don't get to look at that and call me—" Mike's voice frayed on the word and he swallowed it. "You don't get to do this. That's not fair."
Harvey set the phone down face up, the photo glowing in the dark. He sat back, the chair whispering, and looked at Mike for a long time, the way he looked at a witness who already lost and didn't know it yet. Mike was about to lose, but he knew it all too well.
"Come here."
Mike didn't move. "You ended it."
"I know what I did."
"You said it was getting in the way of work. You said it in your kitchen at six the fucking morning. I said okay. I left and you didn't text. I didn't come to your door and I finally found a person so I would stop waiting for you to take it back. You don't get to sit there and pretend I'm still yours."
Harvey's jaw ticked and he looked displeased. Mike hated that he felt a little sick because of it.
"You sent it to me."
"By accident."
"The send was an accident." Harvey's eyes flicked to Mike's mouth, then the photo, then back. "The photo wasn't. I know you took it this morning, and when I told you to do your job you sent me a picture of your self posed like a needy little thing instead of the girl you're using to get over me."
Mike's face went hot and he wanted to turn away, but he knew Harvey wouldn't like that. "I'm not using her."
"Yes you are." Harvey said it like fact, Mike couldn't argue anyway. "I know what you look like when you're actually interested in someone. I've had it in my apartment. I've had it on my sheets. I've heard it with your mouth saying please like it was the only word you remembered. That is not what look like when you talk about Jenny."
"Harvey, don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't talk about it like you still—" Mike laughed shakily, a little mean with how much it hurt, because Harvey had always been accurate about him and it had always been the thing that wrecked him, even when it was supposed to be just benefits, even when it was supposed to be Mike needing somewhere to put the part of himself that wanted to be good and Harvey being willing to hold it.
"You don't get to analyze me after you pushed me away. I was good. I was sogood for you. That was the whole fucking point. And then you pushed me away and then you sent that and I'm not okay, Harvey. I'm not fucking okay, and you seem fine, and I hate you... a little bit."
Harvey stood and Mike had to look up a little and he hated that. The air went tight, Mike couldn't argue anyway smell his cologne, the same one from Harvey's sheets, Harvey's shower. Six weeks of not having it made the smell feel like a hand on him.
"I didn't push you away," Harvey said, low. "I pushed the arrangement away because I was starting to want it everywhere. I wanted it in the morning, and I panicked, and I used the work as a door, and that was cowardice, Mike. It wasn't you. It was me."
Mike's throat worked, not knowing what to say. He'd wanted Harvey to admit that for six weeks. He'd wanted it so badly he'd gone and found Jenny and taken a picture he couldn't even send to her, because every time he looked at it he saw Harvey in the reflection of the screen.
Mike could've walked out. He was good at talking, talked himself into this firm, into Harvey's bed, into four months of being good until the noise in his head went out like a light, and then into the ugly little exile of pretending Jenny was enough. He had been so careful not to come to Harvey's door, to be a person who could take a hint and live with it.
He didn't walk out. Because he was stupid.
"Lock the door," Mike said.
Harvey's breath went out of him, like he'd been holding it.
"Say it properly."
Mike's face burned. He knew what Harvey wanted, he had always known. That was the whole miserable gift of this thing: Mike needed to be told, and Harvey needed to tell him.
"Please lock the door," Mike said, smaller. "I'll be good. Just—don't push me away again, please. I can't do that tonight, I can't live with that."
Harvey locked the door and the sound of the bolt was worse than the click when he'd closed it. Harvey didn't tell him to do the blinds, he did them himself, once vicious yank at a time, until the office went dark other than the lamp on his desk. When he turned back, he was still too far.
Mike hated it, but Harvey saw right through him and fixed it. Mike trusted him to do that, to see him and know what Mike needed.
"Come here," Harvey said, and this time it was the old voice, the voice he used when they were alone, the one that used to drop Mike's shoulders before his brain caught up.
Mike went, stopping on the wrong side of the desk, but Harvey didn't tell him to go around, looking at him, down, then up.
"On your knees."
Mike's breath caught, so fucking relieved it made his eyes sting. He slid down slowly, the carpet the same. Harvey's shoes were the same and Mike's hands settled on his own thighs the way Harvey had taught him, palms up, waiting, and the quiet that used to arrive on command flickered at the edges of him like it had been waiting this whole time, patient, insulted at having been ignored.
Harvey's hands settled, landing in his hair, fingers sliding in like they'd never left, thumb at Mike's temple, a possessive little stroke that made Mike's eyes close without permission.
Six weeks. Six damn weeks of Jenny's texts and his own stupid photographs and Harvey avoiding him like the plague, like Mike was furniture, and all it took was a hand in his hair for the whole performance to collapse.
Way to be tough, Ross.
"There he is," harvey murmured, and Mike could've cried, which wasn't the brand, which he was going to ignore. "You took that picture for her, didn't you?"
"No. No, I took it so I didn't think of you. I—"
Harvey's hand tightened enough that Mike stopped talking. "Look at me."
Mike forcefully peeled open his eyes and looked up.
Harvey's pupils were dilated and there was a faint shake in the hand that was in Mike's hair. He looked like a man who wanted to swallow Mike whole, and Mike would thank him for it, maybe even say please.
"You don't send that to anyone else," Harvey said. "Not Jenny, nobody. If you need something, you come to me. That was never the arrangement, that was just us, and I shouldn't have pretended it was smaller than it was."
Mike's mouth opened. Nothing useful came out except a small whimper. Harvey's thumb stroked again, gentler, satisfied, and Mike leaned into it before he could stop himself.
"Use your words, puppy."
The nickname landed in Mike's stomach, in his thighs, his cock, in the stupid hopefully kick of his heart that had never actually stopped, that had been sitting there.
"Yes. Okay. Yes. I—Harvey, I wasn't with her like that. I didn't even send her anything. I couldn't. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'll be good, I swear. It wasn't anything."
Harvey's mouth twitched, almost a smile. "No?"
"No, I promise."
"Good boy." Mike whimpered again and Harvey's other hand came down, two fingers under Mike's chin, tipping his face up. "Open your eyes."
Mike leaned into his hand, his eyes fluttering open though he's not sure when they closed. "'M sorry."
"If this is too much, you say so now."
"It's not too much. No. Please, I want it. I was never going to be good at getting over you. I'm not built for it."
Harvey laughed like it was funny and kissed him.
Harvey bent down at a weird angle and made a sound into mike's mouth that he'd deny later, and Mike going up on his knees into like like he'd been waiting at a door. Harvey hauled him up by the arms, crowding him back into the desk until the edge bit Mike's thighs. Harvey stepped between his knees and the last inch of any professional boundary was gone.
Mike fisted his hands into Harvey's vest and Harvey's thigh slotted between his like even that much space wasn't okay. Mike moaned and shamelessly rutted into it.
"You're so impatient," Harvey panted into Mike's mouth.
"You deprived me of six weeks, what can I say?"
Harvey laughed, a little disbelieving, and kissed him again, deeper, one hand finally, finally on Mike's hip, gripping hard enough to get another sound out of him. His other hand went to Mike's jaw, thumb at the corner of his mouth, tliting him where Harvey wanted him.
Mike opened for it, had been open for it since the day Harvey looked at him like he wanted to eat him alive, and Mike had remembered all of it, every command, every night Harvey had let him just be.
Harvey's mouth dragged to his jaw, his throat, the place below his ears that made Mike moan and whimper, made Mike's cock leak. Harvey's teeth scraped, gentle, then not.
"You have no idea," Harvey muttered into his skin, "how tempting you are. I almost called you."
Mike's laugh came out more as a breathless huff. "You should have."
"I know." Harvey's thigh pressed into Mike, and Mike's hips answered it without a single thought passing through the part of his brain that passed the bar. He felt Harvey smile against his neck. "Needy. You like being good for me, don't you?"
Mike's face burned red all over again. "Harvey."
"That's my name, not an answer," Harvey teased, his mouth at his ear. "Use your words, puppy, answer my question or I'll stop and you can go home and think about this until you hate me for real."
"I already hate you."
"Liar." Harvey's hand slid from his hip to the front of Mike's trousers, not shy, palming him through the fabric like he had a right. He did. Mike's head dropped to Harvey's shoulder. "Christ. You really are—"
"Don't narrate."
"I'll narrate whatever I want. This is my office." Harvey's hand worked him, maddening, too much cloth, not enough skin, his mouth open against Mike's temple. "Are you feeling needy, puppy?"
Mike whined and shut his eyes again, letting out another breathless moan. "Yes. Okay. Yes. I'm— Harvey, please, I can't talk if you're going to—"
"You can. If I ask you to, you will, won't you?" Harvey popped the button and pulled down the zipper, the heat of his palm sliding in, skin, finally, and Mike's whole body jerked. Harvey groaned, the sound punched out of him. "Fuck. That's—up. On the desk."
Harvey lifted him onto the desk, the files scattered and the pen rolled off. Mike landed on the desk with his trousers open and Harvey between his knees like he couldn't waste another second. Harvey looked at him like that, spread on the desk, mouth wet, waiting without being told to wait.
"If anyone knocks," Harvey said, pulling Mike's trousers down far enough he could do anything he wanted to, "you don't make a sound unless I say you can."
"That's not realistic."
"You'll be good for me."
Yeah. Yep. He would. He nodded once and Harvey's smirked, the smug bastard. Harvey got his mouth on Mike's throat and his hand on Mike's cock at the same time, and Mike's attempt to silence lasted about four seconds. He bit his own wrist, but Harvey pulled his wrist away, kissing the inside of it, so intimately Mike's heart hurt. "No. I want to hear you. I just said that to tease you. I'm not a good person."
"I know you're not." Mike's fingers were in Harvey's hair, ruining the forty-five minutes Harvey spent on it every morning. "Harvey—ngh—you can't just—"
Harvey stroked him, unhurried, watching Mike's face like it was the only thing that mattered. He still looked perfectly put together, other than his hair, which Mike ruined. Mike reached for his belt and Harvey caught his wrist again, pinned it to the desk, and shook his head disapprovingly.
"Not yet. Wait."
Mike put his hands down, palms finding the edge of the desk and staying there, white-knuckled. Harvey made a sound that sounded like praise, the one that Mike really liked.
"Good. That's it. That's my boy." Harvey's thumb swiped, and Mike's hips buckled upward. Harvey leaned in, forehead to Mike's, breathing him in. "Has she seen you like this?"
"No."
"Has she seen the photo?"
"I didn't send it to her. That's the whole— Harvey, keep up."
Harvey's smile was small and terrible. "Good boy." He kissed him, slow, while his hand didn't slow at all. "You can tell her you died. You're not sending her anything, get rid of her. I don't care how you do it, as long as the next one comes to me, and as long as you remember who you get on your knees for."
Mike laughed, sounding wrecked. "Possessive."
"And?" Harvey finally let go of Mike's wrist so he could get his own belt open, and Mike watched, dazed, thoughts going fuzzy. He didn't tell Mike he could touch yet so Mike didn't. "I can finish you like this, and then I can take you home and do it properly. Or you can stay still while I get you ready and I can fuck you here, it's a bad idea, which is why you'll want it."
Mike did want it.
"Here," he said, immediately, stupidly, no dignity left. "I'm not going to make it home."
"That's what I thought. Turn around, hands on the desk, don't knock over the lamp."
Mike turned, the wood cool under his palms. he could see, in the dark glass of the window behind the blinds, a faint smear of them. Harvey's hands smoothed up his sides, pushing his shirt up, not off. Harvey's mouth landed on the back of his neck.
"Breathe," Harvey said.
Mike breathed, letting himself settle into that space that felt so good.
Harvey was careful in the way that was not gentle so much as competent. His fingers were thick and slick, patient and a little mean when Mike pushed back into it.
Mike's mouth opened against his own forearm, the first finger had been a stretch hew knew, a presure that lit up the base of his spine and made his thighs shake against the edge of the desk. The second made him go quiet. Not silent—he couldn't have managed silent if Harvey had put a gun to his head—but the words left. What came out instead was a whimper, high in his throat, and his forehead dropped to the desk like his neck had given up the job of holding him.
Harvey's other hand stroked up and down the sharp bon ethere, in slow, even passes.
"That's it," Harvey said, breath warm on the back of Mike's neck, it felt good. "I've got you."
Mike believed it, breathing. It came in wrong, too fast, then Harvey's palm slid up his spine under the rucked shirt and pressed, firm between his shoulder blades, and the next breath went where it was supposed to. Mike's thoughts, which had been doing their usual frantic little circuit—Jenny, the photo, work, the brief—slowed, then thinned, then went somewhere he didn't have to follow them.
What was left was Harvey's fingers inside him, Harvey's hand on his back, Harvey's voice, and the ache of wanting more of all three at once.
He made a noise that wasn't a word and reached back blindly, fingers catching on Harvey's vest, on the expensive wool, tugging without any plan except closer.
Harvey made a sound of his own, almost surprised, and stepped in until his thighs were flush to the back of Mike's. The third finger went in on the next slow push and Mike's whole body tried to fold around it. His knees knocked the drawers. His cock hugn heavy and neglected, leaking onto a page that had already been through enough tonight, and he didn't care, he couldn't care, he just pushed back and whined when Harvey's hand on his hip stopped him from taking more than he was being given.
"I know," Harvey murmured, no longer teasing. "I know, puppy. You're alright, doing so well. You're not going to take me like this if I rush you, and I'm not rushing you. I've waited six weeks, I can wait until you're ready."
Mike shook his head, or thought he did. What came out was, "Please— Harvey, please, I— I need-" and the nothing useful, just another moan as Harvey's fingers curled and found the place that made Mike's vision white out at the edges. His arms trembled. He tried to push back again and Harvey let him, just a little, enough that Mike could feel the stretch and the unbearable fact of being full and still not full enough.
"What do you need." It wasn't quite a question, but Mike couldn't overthink it because Harvey's mouth was on his shoulder now, pressing open mouthed kisses, not quite biting yet. "Use what you've got. But I need you to tell me if this is good or if you need something else or if you need me to stop talking. That's all."
Mike's brain, which had been so good at talking him into this firm, and this office, offered him almost nothing. He turned his face toward the sound of Harvey's voice, cheek against the desk. The lamp made a little gold smear of Harvey's cuff, Harvey's watch, his wrist working between his legs.
"You," Mike got out. It came out wet and he felt like crying for some reason. "Just, don't stop. Don't go. Please don't go, I'll be good, I'll be so good, just stay. Harvey, please stay—"
Harvey's breath caught. Mike felt it against his spine.
"I'm not going anywhere." Harvey's fingers kept moving, slower now, thorough, scissoring just enough that Mike's mouth fell open on a silent 'o'. The hand on his back never left, thankfully, stroking soothingly up and down. "I promise. Do you understand?"
Mike nodded frantically, the movement scraping his cheek on the wood. "Yes. Yes. I—"
"Good." Harvey cut him off and kissed the back of his neck, right at the hairline, softer than anything else. It was so soft. "Just let me take care of you, hm? Can you let me do that?"
Another nod. Mike's fingers had fisted in Harvey's vest hard enough that the fabric wrinkled. He couldn't make himself let go. Harvey didn't ask him to, just worked him open curling, pressing, easing off when Mike's thighs started to shake too hard, coming back when Mike made that thin desperate whine that meant more.
Drool had started at the corner of Mike's mouth. He could feel it but he couldn't care. His cock twitched against the desk every time Harvey's fingers dragged over his prostate, a wet smear spreading under him, and he was making these little soft moans on every exhale that he would've been mortified if there had been anyone left in his head to be mortified.
There wasn't. There was Harvey.
"Look at you," Harvey said, and it wasn't the way it had been before. he seemed almost awed. "Christ, Mike. You're soaking my desk. You have no idea how perfect you are, you always go down so fast. I used to look at you across a table and think about how little it would take until you would wait for me to tell you you were good."
Mike whimpered. The sound seemed to pull something out of Harvey; his fingers pressed deeper, and his free hand finally slid around Mike's hip and wrapped around his cock. Mike cried it, too much and not enough and exactly what he'd been aching for since Harvey's palm had been over fabric instead of his skin. Harvey stroked him once, slow, from base to tip, thumb smearing the wetness there, and Mike's whole body arched like a bow.
"Harvey," Mike slurred, no reason but to say his name. "I need you, I need you in me. I can't— fingers aren't—"
"I know." Harvey's hand left his cock and Mike sobbed at the loss, a wet sound, chasing Harvey's wrist with his hips like an animal. Harvey shushed him, not unkind, and the sound of a belt, a zipper, the click of a bottle, should've been embarrasing on so many different levels and instead it made Mike's stomach clench with relief so sharp it felt like pain."Hands stay on the desk. Say yes."
"Yes." It came out wrecked, automatic, the best word Mike had ever learned. "Yes. Yes."
Harvey's hand came back, gripping his hip, and then the thick blunt press of him, hotter than his fingers, heavier, and Mike's mouth opened on a sound that would've carried through the glass if the blinds hadn't been down.
Harvey went slow, agonizingly slow. One long push that filled Mike in increments, and he felt every inch of it, the stretch burning sweet, the pressure so deep it knocked the air out of him in little punched gasps. His arms shook and his knees would have gone if the desk hadn't been there to hold him up. Harvey's forehead dropped between his shoulder blades, and for a second Harvey just breathed, fully gone.
"Fuck," Harvey said, into Mike's shirt. "Fuck, Mike. You take me so well. You always—"
Mike's cock throbbed against the wood, untouched now, leaking in fat drops, and he wanted to push back and take the rest, but he didn't, because Harvey had told him to let it be given, and the part of him that had been screaming for so long finally had somewhere to put itself. He made a small broken noise and Harvey kissed his spine through cotton and pushed the rest of the way in until his hips were flush to Mike's ass and Mike was so full he couldn't think around it.
Mike could see their hands side by side on the desk, Harvey's watch catching the lamp while Mike's fingers were white. He turned his face and nosed at Harvey's wrist, mindless, and licked the skin there because it was close enough and he needed his mouth on something that belonged to him as much as he belonged to Harvey.
Harvey shuddered.
"Needy little thing," Harvey said, and it came out fond, wrecked, nothing like a joke. "You can have it. I can't believe I kept away for so goddamn long."
He started to move, deep, rolling thrusts that dragged over Mike's prostate on every stroke. Harvey's hips started to snap in when Mike made sounds that meant harder, easing when Mike's arms started to collapse, reading him the way he'd always read him.
Mike drooled on the desk, moans unguarded, the kinds of noises he'd never made for Jenny because Jenny had never been this. Never the hand on his stomach and the voice in his ear and the particular thick stretch fucking him like he'd been thinking about it every hour of every day.
"Fuck, Mike, you're so fucking good for me." Harvey's hand left the desk and wrapped around Mike's cock again and Mike shouted, the sound cracking in the middle. Harvey stroked him in time, his hand tight, and mike's brain went from quiet to white. Oh god.
"You can come whenever you want. You take what I give you and you come on my cock like you were made for it, because you were, weren't you. Weren't you, puppy."
"Yes—" Mike couldn't get more than that out. He was shaking apart, his thighs were burning, the wet filthy sound of Harvey fucking him filling the office, the lamp rattling in earnest now. He reached back again, desperate, and this time Harvey caught his hand and laced their fingers together on the desk, gripping hard.
Mike came with a broken cry, spilling over Harvey's fist and the papers and his own shirt, clenching down so hard Harvey swore and followed him, burying himself to the hilt, hips stuttering, his mouth opened on Mike's neck.
Mike was gone.
He felt like he was in warm water without needing to breath. He made a small sound, not even a whimper, just a breath, and turned his face toward Harvey's without opening his eyes.
"Shh," Harvey whispered, softer now, the words pressed into Mike's hair. He sounded wrecked. "You're okay, you're safe. You did so well. Such a good boy."
Mike warmed all over and made another small sound, nuzzling into Harvey's jaw, clumsy, seeking. Harvey turned enough to kiss the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then his temple, over and over, little unhurried presses while he carefully pulled out.
Mike whined at the empty feeling, high and unhappy, and Harvey shushed him and gathered him in before Mike's knees could remember they worked. He sat in the desk chair and pulled Mike down into his lap. Mike went boneless against his chest and settled.
Harvey's arms wrapped around him tight immediately. One hand in Mike's hair, stroking, the other splayed on his bare back under his shirt, moving in slow circles. Mike tucked his face into Harvey's throat and breathedh im, the cologne and sweat and Harvey. His hands fisted in the open vest and stayed there.
He couldn't talk but he didn't try. He made little noises when Harvey's hand paused, and Harvey, who had always been able to read him, started again without being asked. Occasional kisses dropped on the top of his head, his eyebrow, whatever Harvey could reach.
Mike's eyes were wet with both unshed and shed tears. He didn't notice them until Harvey's thumb brushed under one of them, and then he noticed all at once and made a wounded sound and pressed closer, like he could climb into Harvey's robs and live there.
Harvey let him, even adjusted him, and got Mike's legs on either side of his hips so they were chest to chest, and Mike clung, the way he only ever got when he was this far under.
Thankfully, Harvey's hand kept moving in his hair.
Mike came up in pieces, in what could've been hours or minutes, the way he always did: first the awareness of his own body, sore, sticky; then the desk lamp; then the fact that he was in Harvey's lap in Harvey's office with come leaking out of him onto Harvey's very expensive trousers.
Harvey kissed his hair. "You were so good for me, Mike. You always are. I should've said that before I used my job as a door. I should've said a lot of things. You don't have to answer. I just need you to hear it."
Mike heard it, tucking it somewhere he'd remember, next to all the other things Harvey had said to him. His mouth found words before the rest of him did, small and slurred into Harvey's skin.
"Don't go."
"I'm not."
"Stay. Please stay. Don't leave again."
Harvey's arms tightened until it almost hurt, which was exactly what Mike needed. "I won't push you away. That was a mistake and it's done."
Mike made a sound that might have been a laugh if it hadn't been so wet. He nuzzled under Harvey's jaw, still not all the way back, and Harvey just held him and stroked his hair and let him have it.
Eventually, Mike could lift his head.
Harvey was looking at him, his mouth red and hair ruined. Eyes dark and a little too bright.
"Hi," Mike rasped.
Harvey's mouth twitched. "Hi."
"I got come on your briefs."
"I'll reprint them."
"Donna's going to know."
"She already knows." Harvey's hand was still in his hair. "Can you stand, or do you need another minute."
Mike considered it honestly. His thighs were jelly and his head was still floaty, the edges of the room not quite solid. He shook his head, small, and Harvey didn't look disappointed. He smiled like Mike had said the right answer.
"All right. Come here." He said it as if Mike wasn't already in his lap, and then he shifted, reached into a drawer without dumping Mike on the floor—of course he had wipes in a drawer—and cleaned Mike up with the same unnerving competence he'd used to open him.
Mike sat there and let himself be handled, watching Harvey's focused face. Gentle in the places that were sore. He tugged Mike's trousers back up, zipped him, buttoned him, smoothed the shirt down over the mess they hadn't fully gotten out of the fabric. Then he fixed his own clothes, leaving his tie messed up. There was no saving the tie.
Mike reached out, clumsy, and hooked two fingers in Harvey's collar.
Harvey went still, then covered Mike's hand with his own.
"Let's go home," Harvey said. "Ray's downstairs. Don't argue with me."
Mike's mouth twitched. The fuzz was receding, slow, leaving him sore and sticky and so stupidly in love it made his chest hurt. "Not arguing."
"Good boy."
The words landed so warm in his chest, a pulse in his stomach, and Mike leaned forward until his forehead was on Harvey's shoulder and stayed there while Harvey called Ray and gathered his files, stood and took Mike with him.
Harvey unlocked the door and the hallway was empty, though the firm past eleven looked like a place where nothing had happened. Harvey didn't let go of Mike's waist until they reached the elevator, and even then it was only so he could put his hand on the back of Mike's neck instead, thumb pressing in, hidden from cameras that probably didn't care.
"For the record," Harvey said quietly as the floors ticked down, "i'm never sharing you again."