Archive of Our Own

Oliver’s first thought is that this dude is handsome as hell. His second thought is that he’s going to need to job hunt, again, because this guy is for sure going to sue their clinic into the ground.

Listen, the legal clinic is pretty far from Manhattan. Far away from the big suits and the sleek black cars and the nauseating skyscrapers and the infinite Michelin star restaurants in every corner. Where they are, the only place to really get your lunch is a bodega where you’ll find a rat skittering around in aisle four and pretend you didn’t see it. It’s not as if altruistic clinics like theirs ever manifest itself anywhere other than the wrong part of town. They don’t get a whole lot of visitors from the right part of town.

And when they do, it’s never for a good reason.

Oliver grips the paper bag in his hand, probably crushing his yam fries in the process. He just popped out to get some food before the all-hands in a few minutes when he rounded the corner and came face-to-face with Mr. Big Shot leaning against the clinic's staircase. This guy doesn’t even need to open his mouth for Oliver to know the type. Nice watch, nicer haircut. His suit alone can probably pay Oliver’s rent for the next six months. But it’s the look in his eyes that cements it. Sharp and dark as flint. The look of a hunter. Slice him open and see how he bleeds Big Law.

And now, Oliver’s a little bit fucked. Because there’s a shark out here, probably looking to shake down their pathetic legal clinic that can barely prevent a woman from getting evicted. But there’s also a shark in there, waiting impatiently for Oliver to return for the all-hands because he stupidly insisted he’d pass out if he didn’t eat something in the next hour.

Mike Ross, in all his niceties and run-down messenger bags, is his boss and a threat that shouldn’t be messed with. He’ll just have to take his chances by trying to circumvent the stranger. Gritting his teeth, Oliver takes an apprehensive step forward.

He makes it all but five steps, sweaty hand reaching for the door knob when he hears throat clearing. “Hey,” the man says. It’s friendly enough but it doesn’t hold back Oliver’s infinitesimal flinch. “Do you work here?”

“Uh—” Oliver starts, stuck between turning to face the man or feigning ignorance and just heading in so he can call for back up. I won’t speak without my lawyer, which, ha, Mike isn’t even a real lawyer and Oliver’s the one who actually went to law school but what he wouldn’t do to sic Mike on this guy and shit, this guy’s still waiting for me to answer. “Yeah. Yeah, I, uh. I work here.”

“Great.” He takes the stairs up, calm and unhurried. Oliver has to twist his body uncomfortably, one hand still latching on to the handle like a lifeline. “Is Mike in there?”

His stomach sinks. “Mike,” he coughs to hide the shake in his voice. They’re going to sue. They’re sniffing out the real competition and they found him. “Mike, um, Michael Ross?”

The stranger smiles like he said something funny. “Is there another Mike here that I don’t know about?”

Oliver bubbles out a laugh, high-pitched and awkward. “Do you mind if I—” Twisting the handle, he all but tumbles through the door, paper bag still in his arms. “Let me check to see if there’s a Mike Ross.” Without looking back, he slams the door shut behind him.

The bullpen is empty, and he can just make out the blur of silhouettes behind the frosted glass in the conference room. At the sound of the door closing, black curls pop out of the threshold. “Mike’s going to kill you,” Marissa greets, cheerful. “Hope your shitty fries are worth it.”

There’s something of a pissing contest going on between them, both clambering for Mike’s hard-earned approval that stems beyond impressing the New Boss. Because it doesn’t matter if Mike Ross is a fraud, or a liar, or whatever nonsense The Journal had spouted before. License or not, Mike is the real deal. Armed to the teeth with legal prestige, he holds every inch of himself like a Midtown lawyer and treats each case as if it’s a hundred million dollar merger. Working in big time corporate law isn’t something that Marissa nor Oliver ever sought after, but seeing this level of skill, in the flesh, feels like brushing against a myth. You can’t help but be in awe of it.

Oliver waves her over, urgent. “Get over here,” he hisses.

“What? And stoop myself to your level? In your dreams.”

“I’m serious.” He takes a step closer to her, imploring. “There’s some guy outside who’s looking for Mike, and I think he might be trouble.”

She frowns and he has to hold back a groan at the sight. “We never turn away a client that needs our help, no matter what stage of life they’re in—”

“Not that kind of trouble, Ms. Politically Correct.” His voice drops, conspiratorial. “I’m talking corporate.”

Her expression shifts and she’s suddenly scrambling past him, peeking past the curtain to take a look. Immediately, he looks over her shoulder, fighting over the slim view of the outside. “Why didn’t you say anything?” she accuses, slapping his shoulder. Ow! “This guy’s hot.”

“Whatever about his attractive, expensive face.” He gives her a shove, squinting against the sunlight peering through the window pane. The guy is still out there, frowning at the legal clinic in a way that has Oliver hating him immediately. “Obviously he wants to bully us out of here, threaten our families, lowball us, and then build a condo right where we’re standing right now.”

“So why would he go for Mike? He’d go to Nathan if he wanted to extort us.”

“And who do you think Nathan would go to afterwards?” he deadpans. “Okay, here’s the move. We wait until after the all-hands. If the guy is still there, we warn Mike, and then—“

“Oh, good,” a voice behind them rings out and they both jump away from the window as if burned. “So you did remember that there’s a meeting. I was worried you forgot, because you never even bothered to show up.”

They turn around slowly. Mike is leaning against a file cabinet, eyebrow raised. His posture is relaxed, easy, but they know better by now. Mike is pretty lenient on some things—he doesn't care if you take a long lunch, doesn't care if you sleep in a little longer. He's a chill supervisor, someone Oliver would love to grab a beer with after six o'clock. But when Mike asks for a formal meeting, or he needs paperwork on his desk by noon, you better damn well show up two minutes early. During crunch time, he runs the associates like a well-oiled brigade.

The worst part is that Mike isn't a yeller. It would be easier if he was. Instead, he'll hold the silence until everyone's choking on it, hunching over themselves like the weight is suffocating them.

Oliver winces. "I—"

He holds up a finger. "Think twice before finishing that. Everybody in this clinic is in the room behind me, waiting on you. If you really think it's important enough that you're wasting all of our time, then continue. If not—" he jerks his head to the conference room. "Then sit your ass down."

His brownie points are sliding down the drain in real time. "There's a man outside," he blurts out.

Mike frowns, disapproving. “We never turn away a client that needs our help, no matter what stage of life they’re in—"

"Manattanite," he cuts in as politely as he can manage. "Big shot. Looks important. He was looking for you. I—" he tightens his grip around the paper bag. "He might sue us. Maybe."

The look Marissa shoots him is bewildered. Are you dumb? He refuses to look at her, focusing instead on Mike's reaction.

Instead of the chastising expression he was ready to see, Mike looks intrigued. "Asked for me, huh? Guy looks like a lawyer?"

"Tried and true stereotype," he says, swallowing. "Probably has enough cash in his back pocket to buy out my car."

"Did he look like a bit of an asshole?"

Oliver blinks, thrown. "Now that you mention it—"

Mike waves him off. "I'll deal with him. Did you even get food?" Oliver lifts the bag pathetically. The fries are probably mashed by now. Given the cavity that's irritating his gums, it's probably a blessing in disguise. "Good. Now stop messing around and sit down. I'll be back in a second."

Shouldering past them, Mike moves to open the door when Marissa speaks up. "Do you want us to be there? We can show, like, a united front."

"Strength in numbers," Oliver adds.

"We can scare this guy off."

"I appreciate it," Mike says. "But I don't need back up to take care of him."

With a final, pointed look from him, they both scurry into the conference room, curiosity burning in their chest as Mike steps out to meet with the mystery man.

It takes Oliver a handful of run-ins to learn that Mystery Man is not the enemy.

He’s bumped into him a few times over the next month, all in brief instances. Usually in some exorbitant suit, occasionally in more casual clothes. Always looking for Mike.

Sometimes he’s waiting just outside the front door again, leaning against the ivy that grows alongside the clinic’s fading, dirty brick. Sometimes he and Mike are already talking outside. Other than the occasional heated discussion—Mike’s mouth tightening in annoyance, which only seems to please Mr. Big Shot—they look pretty friendly with each other.

Once, he catches them as they’re parting ways, Mike throwing a haphazard See you later over his shoulder as Harvey walks away when Oliver musters up courage he didn’t know he had.

He sticks his hand out, only trembling slightly. “I’m Oliver.”

The man blinks, before giving him a small smile in return. It looks genuine. “Harvey,” he says, grip firm. A handshake carved for business. “Mike told me about you.”

Every mistake he’s made in the past two weeks slams into the forefront of his mind and he prays to god his hand doesn’t turn clammy. “Good things I hope?” he asks, dropping the shake and surreptitiously wiping it on his pants.

“Very good. Nice work on the Rock dispute last week.”

It takes a second for Oliver to catch up. The Rock is a mom-and-pop sandwich shop that’s down on West 27. They were being swindled by their contractor, refusing to finish the remodelling of their kitchen until they paid triple what they initially agreed on. It took a few weeks, but Oliver eventually tore open the contract and drafted a countersuit against the company. He’s proud of the case, but it’s one case over the dozens that Mike personally oversees. “Mike told you about that?”

“Mike tells me about everything.” His eyes flicker with humour. “Don’t worry. I’m not interested in building condos in your legal clinic.”

He feels his face warm. “About that—”

“No need. Nothing I wouldn’t have done in the past.” Harvey walks away, angling his comment back to Oliver. “And some friendly advice? Relax. Mike won’t bite your head off. Guy’s a softie. He’ll let you live.”

He holds his tongue, watching as Harvey’s back gets smaller. Mike Ross? A softie? Yeah, right.

It’s not until he’s neck-deep in a brief an hour later when he realized Harvey never gave him a last name.

Mike is private. It’s hard to get a read on him on a normal day, and Oliver can’t really imagine that the whole fraud story on the front page of the newspaper helped him ease up on trusting people around him. Whatever he finds out about Mike comes in tidbits. Fractions. Snippets.

He bikes into work. He likes Pad Thai. He watches a lot of movies, going by the references that he keeps sliding into day-to-day conversations in complete seriousness (and impressively consistent relevance to said conversation). Whenever Marissa—a known-legend for getting someone to warm up to the clinic, a socialite in a different lifetime—tries to break into Mike’s personal life, she’s met with a frustratingly unyielding wall.

This is because Mike is a master in small talk. It’s become clear that he’s long separated his life into two distinct categories: professional and private. He’s empathetic and involved, but he toes the line with an impressive ease that leaves his conversational partners discombobulated. Whenever anyone tries to pry anything out of him, they always end up walking away telling Mike about their childhood, or their favorite pastime, spotlight redirected seamlessly.

Which is why Harvey has now become the hot topic of the clinic.

He’s not sure how it happened, but Oliver and Marissa have become faux-private investigators, an obligation thrusted upon them by the rest of the office. You’ve got to do it, says their beloved coworkers, nosy and well-meaning. Mike’s just shy! This is the push he needs to open up to us! And he’s not really sure how the logic of that works out, but Oliver’s no saint. He wants to know more about Mike, too.

The minute Mike leaves to meet with a client, Marissa swivels her desk chair next to Oliver, notebook and pen in hand. “Okay, what do we have?”

“Harvey came over again yesterday.”

“Time?”

“Five in the afternoon.”

She jots it down, adding another X to her chart. “That’s late.”

“It doesn’t mean anything, because we haven’t really gotten a motive,” he reasons, gnawing on the tip of his pen. “Maybe he’s a real estate agent.”

“What kind of real estate agent comes this often?” she mutters, sounding like she’s about to tack on a dumbass at the end. “Husband?”

“No ring.”

“Boyfriend?”

Oliver rolls that around his head, humming. “But Mike’s just so…”

“Serious,” she finishes.

It’s not that Mike’s actually serious in a traditional sense. He cracks jokes, knows how to lighten up the room the minute things get too weighty, and has real relationships with everyone in the clinic. But they see how he works. He gives his entire soul into every case, every contract and dispute. He’s terrifyingly intense about getting things done to the point that everyone has to work just a little bit harder to meet his standards. Mike knows precedents so well that he’s single-handedly cut down research time by half, if you’re brave enough to knock on his door and ask.

His entire life is the law. He’s weaponized the brutality of it for the good of society. It's hard to imagine anyone who can keep up with that.

Marissa’s landline rings. She kicks herself off Oliver’s desk—to which he brushes off the specks of dirt from her sneakers—and picks up with a cheerful, “Hello this is—” Her face drops, before turning red. “Sorry. No, yeah. Okay, we’re on it.”

She hangs up. He winces. “Mike?”

“Asked us to start working on the Fraser discrimination case.”

“And?”

“And to stop looking into Harvey.” There’s a long bout of silence before the corner of her mouth turns up, eyes sparkling. “He’s protective.”

“Another point to boyfriend.”

They high-five, grinning wide with stinging palms.

The Fraser Discrimination case sucks. Definitively.

A clinic like theirs doesn’t have the manpower or the funding to take on a monstrosity of a discrimination case. What they do is individual complaints, or at most, feed into systemic issues that are associated with larger class proceedings. Sort of acting as a stepping stone for the average person experiencing this particular brand of grievances. But Brenda—the kind paralegal who managed to snag the corner desk before Oliver had a chance—had flagged that this would be able to tie the Fraser case as a class act. One, behemoth of a case. Still difficult, undoubtedly a handful of sleepless nights plaguing their office, but manageable.

It doesn’t help that the timing was working against their favor. When she brought it to the team’s attention, Mike had stepped out, which meant that Nathan had been the one to sign off on it. Eagerly. A case like this could net them next month’s rent and then some. It’s the kind of opportunity that they can’t pass up, lest they want to take out another loan just to keep the lights on.

When he returned, one look at the contract had Mike’s expression turning into stone. “We took it on?” he asks quietly.

The tone had Oliver hesitating, smile shrinking. “Yeah. Nathan approved. Signed. Sent it off.”

Setting down his coffee, Mike takes a deep breath. “Excuse me for a second.”

The walls are thin and Nathan’s office is more for performance rather than any actual privacy. This means the next twenty minutes had filled the clinic with the sound of Nathan’s panicked, high-pitched voice and Mike’s resigned explanation that Every plaintiff had signed an NDA. We have to take this on as a series of individual cases rather than a class act.

That’s over eighty fucking cases!

Over eighty fucking cases that you signed off on.

Eventually, Mike stepped out, rubbing his face tiredly. “Hey, can I get your attention for a bit?” He doesn’t even need to raise his voice; everyone quiets down immediately. Mike tells everyone that he’ll find a way to bust the NDAs, but if he doesn’t, he’s going to need all hands on the Fraser case until they work this out.

“Marissa, Oliver,” he beckons, walking into the conference room. They follow without question. Already, there’s dozens of boxes filled to the brim with past paperwork and any trail about the Fraser case, including past precedents that can point them in the right direction.

Marissa swipes at her extra large coffee before joining, shutting the door behind them. “What’s the move, boss?”

“We need to find a way to turn this into a class action.”

“But you just said we can’t.”

“I said we’ll try.” Mike sits, chair creaking, scrutinizing the paperwork in front of him. “We need to find a precedent that helps us rescind.”

“On it,” Oliver says, straightening up. Mike called them, specifically, over. He’s not going to mess this up. “How long do we have?”

Marissa takes a seat, putting her hair up. “Yeah, is it going to be a clinic deadline or a Pearson Specter Litt deadline?”

Even Mike has to crack a smile at that. It’s a running joke, except there’s nothing funny about it. The productivity of the clinic has gone up about 40% since Mike stepped into his supervisor role. Some changes that he’s made were minimal, mostly about organization and boring bureaucracy. But a huge part of it is his hard deadlines—if Mike sets a date, then the date is set. No ifs, ands, or buts. If you have to move heaven and earth to make it happen, so be it. Finish it a day before, then you get a free day. If your luck is particularly bad, then you’re expected to stick around until sunrise to get it done. Not that they were lazy before, but they were a ship without a captain, floating and praying to find shore. Mike gripped the wheel and steered them on course with an iron fist. Some folks in the office might hate him for it, if they didn’t see that Mike worked twice as hard as everyone else did. Oliver shudders at who could have instilled the rigor that Mike carries now.

“Guess,” Mike replies, opening up the first box.

It’s been hours and they’ve been running mental circles around this case.

He and Marissa are completely wiped, both having taken turns grabbing coffee refills to the point that the little stubborn tremors just won’t leave their fingertips. Oliver has to rest his eyes and stare out the window in an attempt to stop seeing double, and Marissa has taken to sitting on the floor for a change of perspective.

Mike on the other hand, hasn’t so much as moved an inch, focused eyes never straying far from pages and pages of legal precedents. It’s scary how disciplined his attention span can be.

But every statue crumbles with abrasion. Another hour passes. Sunset is streaming through two layers of windows, shining light through even the deepest window of the clinic. Oliver resists the urge to close his eyes against it. How he misses the outdoors.

Mike leans back into his chair, blowing out a sharp breath. “Marissa,” he says, and she jumps from her spot on the carpet. Mike hasn’t spoken in at least two hours. “Can you hand me my phone?”

She slides it over, and Oliver shuts the folder in his hand shut. This is as good a break as any. “Calling for food?”

“Calling for an SOS, more like it.” Mike hits speed dial one and it’s a true testament to his exhaustion that he places it on the table, speakerphone on, privacy be damned. Marissa and Oliver glance at each other, suddenly reinvigorated. We’ve entered the inner circle of Mike Ross, holy shit.

It only rings once. “Late.” The voice is familiar, but Oliver can’t quite place it. He cranes his neck, and at Marissa’s frown, he knows she can’t tell either.

“Working.” Mike scrubs his eyes, turning his gaze up to the ceiling, frustration lining his form. “I’m sending out a smoke signal. Pizza. Make one veggie lover.”

“Ugh. Can’t believe you work with a vegan.”

The line clicks, and Mike stretches his arms over his head, joints clicking into place. “Brenda’s not even vegan,” he mutters to himself.

“Who was that?” Oliver hedges, trying to be casual.

“In-house council.” Then he turns back to the case file in his hands. A clear dismissal. Marissa opens her mouth, about to press, but Oliver shoots her a warning glare. They’re already pushing their privilege farther than they ever have.

The caller makes himself present a mere thirty minutes later. There’s clambering just outside the window panel, excited voices carrying over. Marissa and Oliver get on their feet, curious, but Mike doesn’t move. “Tell him to bring me a pepperoni, please,” he says, continuing to rifle through a box of case files.

Much to Oliver’s shock and Marissa’s joy, Harvey’s standing in the middle of their shitty, messy little office, holding half a dozen pizza boxes and crowded by their curious, well-intentioned coworkers who’ve all forgotten what spatial awareness is.

“Hello, sir, are you a client?”

“What’s someone like you doing in a place like this?”

“Are you here for Mike?”

“If you’re here for Mike, are you Harvey? Oh my god, please tell me you’re Harvey.”

“I mean, he does fit the description that Oliver and Marissa wrote up.”

“Shh! Keep it down about that!”

“You know, my daughter has been looking for a husband…”

“Mike’s going to kill you for offering his husband to your daughter.”

“Listen, sir, we don’t need another condo in this area, so I suggest you back off—!”

Oliver elbows his way through the wall of bodies, arms outstretched. “Hey, let me—” Harvey all but dumps the boxes onto him, warm and the smell mouth-wateringly delicious. It’s good pizza, too, from Brooklyn.

“Thanks for the save.” To Harvey’s credit, he looks mostly bemused as they maneuver out of the still-chittering mob. “Where is he?”

“Conference room. He wanted—”

“I got it.” Harvey maneuvers around everyone, sending off polite smiles as he does. With a quick glance around the room, he heads straight into the kitchen, Oliver and Marissa in tow. “Fun place. You’ve got a good culture of people out there.”

“Fun is one word for it,” he says, watching as Harvey rifles around the cupboards until he finds a glass and a plate. “Thanks for taking it easy on them. Everyone here just wants to know more about Mike, so they’re a bit overzealous right now.”

“Speaking of overzealous,” Marissa cuts in, wiggling her fingers as she waves. “Hi. Marissa. Quick question, are you unemployed?”

"Marissa," Oliver hisses, horrified.

Harvey just huffs out a laugh. He pokes into the fridge, grabbing the pitcher of water. "Do I look unemployed to you?"

"You're here all the time," she points out. "And when we do see you, you're hanging outside the legal clinic like you're some kind of bouncer. Mike calls and you're here half an hour later. This is unemployed behaviour."

With a glance at Harvey's mortgage-costing watch and his perfectly-tailored suit, Oliver sends a quick prayer for Marissa.

But all Harvey does is shrug, unperturbed. "I make my own hours," he says, nudging the door closed. "And I set my own priorities."

Half the pizza slices disappeared from thin air, the scent of oil and cheese wafting temptingly in the office. Brenda’s all smiles as she enjoys her veggie lover. Good for Brenda. Harvey peels a pepperoni out of the box, snags a bite for himself before dropping it on the plate. This is the longest conversation he’s had with Harvey since he met him, and he finds himself listening closely when he speaks. There’s a certain lull to his voice, deceivingly laid-back but it echoes prolifically against the brick and mortar of their office, like even the walls can’t absorb the authority of Harvey.

Freelance lawyer, he thinks, but Marissa focuses on something else. "So, Mike, you mean?"

Harvey tilts his head, chewing. "What else would it be?"

In the conference room, Mike doesn’t even look up when they enter. Oliver is tempted to announce their presence, like a herald, but there’s no need. Harvey slides the slice and drink towards him. “I saw the Bat Signal and came as soon as I could,” he greets, leaning against the wall. “What, no hello from my Robin?”

Finally, Mike looks up, jaw set and humorless. “I need your eyes on this.”

They stare each other down, lightning crackling between them, and Oliver fights the urge to run away to safety. Harvey’s mouth quirks up. “Well, aren’t you professional today?”

Then Harvey clears his throat and something in the room shifts. The transition is delicate, but undeniable. Any levity that surrounded Harvey vanishes, a cutting expression left in its wake. Unconsciously, he and Marissa sobers up in response. He snaps at them. “Door and brief. Keep it high-level. I’ll ask if I need more details. And you—“ he points at Mike. “Eat. The minute I’m caught up, we’re hitting the ground running. You have people out there working on the back up?”

“Of course.”

“Good.” Harvey unbuttons his lapel and takes a seat, gesturing at Oliver.

It takes them less than an hour to bust the NDAs. While on paper it seemed as if every plaintiff had signed, there was one hold out who was slow to send up the paperwork. It took a good amount of called-in favors from Harvey’s end to actually find that information, but things moved fast once it did.

That was impressive. The kind of legal backflipping that’s so out of Oliver’s league that he’s scratching down notes every time Harvey opens his mouth. But what was more impressive to Oliver was Harvey's presence on Mike.

It didn’t take long for Mike to start loosening up once Harvey showed up. Détentes breaking through the once-tense conference room just by being in close proximity to one another. Not that Mike needs any help; he knows he’s good, but Harvey makes him better. They loosen each other up until the jokes start flying, so frequent and natural that it’s practically an established conversational tic, akin to a thoughtful pause, and Oliver feels like he got a puzzle piece he didn’t know was missing—so this is where the quoting originated. Watching the two of them bulldoze through an issue is a bit awe-inspiring. Springboarding off of one another, not afraid to shoot down bad ideas and uplift good ones. It’s like there was a game between the two of them that nobody else knows about, a hot potato of strategies and proposals until something calcifies in their hands.

Mike is explaining an appeals case from two decades ago, pointing at his laptop screen while he talks. Harvey sets his coffee down and leans over his shoulder, nodding. They fit together so naturally that Oliver feels like a voyeur.

There’s a hollowness in Oliver’s chest watching them work, and blinks in surprise when he’s able to pin it to envy. Nobody in this clinic has been able to pry Mike away from his withdrawn tendencies. Harvey does it like it’s second nature.

Later, Mike has to run out to meet with a client, throwing out a quick thank you for everyone’s hard work. Uneceremoniously, he just gives Harvey the universal hand signal for a phone call, mouthing talk to you later, before walking out the door. Not even a thanks. Or maybe they’re the kind of pair that doesn’t don’t do thanks.

“So,” Oliver ventures, tidying up the now-empty pizza boxes as Harvey waits for his cab. “You’re not a normal lawyer.”

Harvey doesn’t look up from his phone. “Is there a special lawyer I haven’t heard about?”

“In my time with him here, Mike has never, not once, let someone else lead. He’s never needed to. But the minute he calls you in,” he gestures at Harvey. “Shit gets solved in an hour. I don’t know if there’s special lawyers out there, but you’re making me think otherwise.”

There’s a honk outside their building. “See you around, Oliver,” Harvey says with a bright grin. Oliver wonders why he was ever scared of this guy.

With the strength of a thousand men, Oliver just manages not to slam his head into his front door.

It’s a whole thing. After work, he’s usually pretty diligent about packing up his stuff, but then someone in the office announced that they were giving out buy one get ones for movie tickets down the street and it’s limited quantity, you snooze, you lose. Marissa obviously dragged him down, they saw an awful modern retelling of The Tell-Tale Heart which, yeah, makes sense why they’re basically giving out tickets to this. You couldn’t pay him to rewatch it. Then they got dinner at the mediocre sushi place down the road, participated in an egregious amount of shit talking, before they finally parted ways well into the night and Oliver patted his pockets only to come up empty.

His phone and keys were still in the office.

Oliver rests his head against the intercom of his low rise, eyes closed, listening to the pitter-patter of the rain behind him. He can’t even buzz himself in. And he’s never been good at befriending neighbours, skipping past the whole introducing-yourself-to-the-floor thing when he moved in under the guise of independence.

It’s a bit of a gamble. The office locks up once everyone leaves, but there’s a good chance Mike is still puttering around in there, drafting briefs and looking over their cases, even though he has people to do that for him. It’s as if Mike doesn’t realize that he doesn’t need to give his entire soul into the work anymore, choosing to still grind it out like there’s a billion-dollars worth of stock that he needs to bust by the morning. Or maybe this is just how Mike operates.

Either way, Oliver swallows his pride and starts the long walk back to the clinic. At least he has his umbrella.

The office is unlocked. Small mercies.

Oliver lets himself in, shaking off the droplets sticking to his jacket. He opens his mouth—Hey, boss, I forgot my freaking keys, can you believe that?—when he hears voices coming from Mike’s office, low light illuminating the bullpen.

It takes him a few seconds to realize that one of them is Mike. Because even though it’s certainly his voice, it simultaneously can’t be his voice. The Mike he knows is compassionate, but distant. Cool and competent and carries himself with an unshakable dignity. This sounds too young, so overwhelmingly light and jovial that it has Oliver stilling at the sound.

“Jesus,” he hears Mike groan, laced with thick layers of endearment and disbelief. “Shut up. You cannot be serious.”

“Dead serious.” This voice, he can’t place. But it’s somehow familiar all the same. “You finally have your own office—”

“I had an office. You gave me that office.”

“This is different. We’re working in two different buildings now, and I’m noticing that, even though it’s been a few months, I’m not seeing what I want to see.”

“There is no way in hell I’m going to put a picture of you on my desk. Are you insane?”

“Oh, because you’re embarrassed of me.”

“Deeply ashamed, exactly.”

This is a date. It’s so clearly a date that Oliver has to think that Mike has no game, because who the hell would bring their date into a legal clinic?

Tiptoeing, he silently makes his way to his desk, slowly opening the top drawer to take his phone, sliding it into his pocket. Then, teeth grit, he carefully picks up his keys. Despite his best efforts, it jingles.

Immediately, the voices cut out. Shit.

Mike’s head pokes into the bullpen. There’s ink on his cheek, tie thrown over his shoulder. Working. “Oliver?”

“Mike!” he greets, going for surprised and overshooting by a mile so he looks short of manic. “I didn’t know you’d be here, gosh—”

“You forgot your keys.” Professionalism back in full force, Mike crosses his arms, amused.

Oliver’s shoulders sag. “Yeah. Didn’t mean to interrupt your date.”

He scoffs. “This would be a pretty sad date.”

“See?” The voice joins in, and then, to Oliver’s startlement, Harvey’s head pops out from behind Mike. “Embarrassed.”

Mike shoves him back, though he’s smiling slightly. “Harvey’s helping me out with the Johnson case.”

“Family law,” Oliver recalls. That’s one hell of a case. Shrouded in so much paperwork that he got cross-eyed just trying to keep up with it. “Helping us out again?”

“Not even billed,” Harvey sighs out, fond and not bothering to hide it. “I’ll have you know that I’m a grand an hour, and this guy had me running pizzas.”

Oliver laughs, because a thousand an hour has to be a joke. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

“Ignore him.” Mike closes the door to his office, a muffled Hey! getting drowned out. “Sorry you had to come in here. Just text me next time. I don’t mind dropping your keys off.”

He blinks, touched. “I really appreciate that.” He hikes his jacket higher, apologizing silently for the puddle that’s slowly pooling at his feet. “But I’m not going to ask you to do that for me. That’s definitely not a boss type of task. I’ll make Marissa help out next time.”

Mike lifts a shoulder, nonpulsed. “I used to be a bike messenger. At least for this one, I actually like who I’m delivering to.”

“You used to be a bike messenger?” he asks, unable to hold in his bewilderment. It isn’t very PC of him, but Oliver looks over Mike, in the barely-lit office. He isn’t wearing anything fancy, but it’s the way he holds himself. Too much dignity and brilliance there to be anything other than anything that he is now. “I’m sort of struggling to see that.”

“I used to be a lot of things,” he says, surprisingly vulnerable. For once, he doesn’t have his game face on. There isn’t the glass wall that’s always present, and Oliver’s not sure if it’s the hour or the man in his office that’s softening him. “Will you be okay getting home? We can get you a cab.”

“I’ll be fine.” His lips twitch at the consolidating we. “But, hey, if you need help on the case—?”

Mike is already shaking his head. “Get out of here. We’ve got this.”

Oliver nods, hesitating briefly. “Harvey seems really nice,” he tells him, hoping he’s not overstepping some unknown boundary.

This, of all things, throws off Mike. “Harvey is?”

It, in turn, throws off Oliver. “You don’t think so?” It’s hard not to come to that conclusion after everything. Nice is probably too mild a word.

“Well, it’s not that.” Mike’s brows are furrowed together. This might be the most confused he’s ever seen him. “You were scared of him before, though.”

“He gives a scary vibe, at first,” he explains. “But he’s cool now.”

Mike is still staring at him. “But you’re still scared of me,” he says, mystified. The young tone from before has returned. “You’re not telling me that I’m scarier than Harvey, right? Please tell me you don’t think I’m scarier than Harvey.”

Okay, he definitely overstepped some unknown boundary, because Mike looks like his entire universe got knocked off its axis. “I think I’m gonna—” Oliver jerks a thumb at the door, eager to bow out of whatever the hell is going on. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Still in a daze, Mike just gives him a mild, “Bye, Oliver.”

Harvey calls out, muffled. “Don’t be a dumbass and forget your keys again.”

See? So nice.

Things get kind of weird after that.

Marissa comes in and Oliver immediately puts his brief down. “What’s wrong?”

She looks fine, her usual brand of sleepiness stuck to her complexion the way it always does on a Monday morning, especially on a rainy autumn day like this. But the lack of boundless energy and immediate onslaught of gossip spewing out of her mouth may as well be waving a huge red flag. “I think someone followed me.”

“What?” He stands, eyes skimming over her quickly. She didn’t look hurt. “Who? What did they look like? For how long? Are you okay?”

If anything, she looks more confused than worried. “I’m fine. I didn’t really get a good look at him, but he’s definitely not a professional. He was bumping into light posts, knocking over trash cans. Kept yelling at people who got in his way. Honestly, he might just be—” she clears her throat. “Off.”

He frowns. “What?”

“He followed me down a couple of blocks. Got my usual coffee on the corner of Alberni.” She waves her to-go cup at him, frazzled. “He went in there too. Cut the line so he could be right behind me. Walked out when I walked out, followed me until I came in here. He had these huge sunglasses on. Like, stupid big. Had a trench coat on even though he was sweating buckets. And whenever I looked over in his direction, he’d pull up a newspaper to cover his face like some kind of bad movie.”

“Not like a bad movie.” Oliver turns at the sound of Mike’s voice. He’s leaning against the door frame, listening with an irked expression. “The Pink Panther.”

“How do you know it’s not Indiana Jones?” she asks. “Or any of the hundreds of movies with that trope?”

“Because I have a feeling I know who it is,” Mike says, flat. “Marissa, I’m really sorry about that. I’ll take care of it. Just know that there’s no real danger. You didn’t kick a cat on your way in or anything, right?”

Marissa and Oliver share a look. “Of course not.”

“Then you’re good.” Mike turns back to his office. “Draft depo on my desk in an hour, please and thank you.”

There’s a hot dog stand across the street from their clinic. The hot dogs are terrible, but their coffee is good as long as you put enough sugar in it.

When Marissa grabs him with a gasp, he spills approximately half of it onto the ground. “Do you mind?” he asks, irritated.

“That’s him,” she whispers, eyes darting pointedly somewhere behind him.

“The stalker?” he says, trying to turn but she squeezes his arm in warning.

“Don’t be obvious. You’ll scare him off.”

“Scare him off? What is he, a racoon? Mike already said he’ll take care of it. Let me get a look at this guy.”

Clansestinely, he kneels, pretending to tie his shoelace, glancing over. Short, balding, and, as foretold, holding a newspaper upside down. But Oliver recognizes the look on his face, the type of shoes he’s wearing.

“This guy’s in law, too,” he mutters, getting on his feet. “Rich with beady little eyes.”

“Why would a guy like that want to follow me?” She plucks the coffee from his hand, taking a sip and grimacing. She’s always disapproved of his sugar consumption. “Unless he’s interested in the clinic.”

“God, don’t tell me that the condo threat is real this time,” he deflates. “The job market is really hard right now.” Then her eyes light up, which immediately has him guarded. “Whatever you’re thinking, no.”

“We should follow him.”

“Hell no.”

“You are so spineless,” she hisses, which feels unnecessary. “You just said he’s in law. Let’s follow him back to whatever firm he’s in and tell Mike.”

He reels back. “We can’t tell Mike after he just told us to let him handle it. He’s going to kill us.”

“Or we’re going to make his life easier.” She puts her hands on her hips. “Look, the guy’s already slinking away. I’m doing this with or without you, so you might as well come.”

Oliver groans, loud. He really is spineless.

After Scooby-Dooing their way across New York City (a combination of an on-foot chase, a taxi, and no less than six arguments) they, unsurprisingly, end up in Manhattan.

It’s high noon and they’re surrounded by an onslaught of the same genre of expensive cufflinks and tall heels and Oliver can’t help but make a face. It’s one of the few things that struck him about big city law, Manhattan in particular—just how many people you see wearing suits. In their realm, business casual is the general rule of thumb. The work is punishing enough; no need to subject yourself to a fashionable noose while you’re at it. It seems people here are gluttons for punishment.

Balding Suit hustles around the corner, Oliver and Marissa hot on his trail. But by the time they skirt around, he disappeared. They look around wildly, only to receive scathing looks from the people around them. Charming folks.

“Oh shit,” she breathes. “Where’d he go?”

Oliver looks around desperately. They can’t lose him. The sunk-cost fallacy of this ridiculous mission is too great to let this slide. “Did he go in somewhere?”

“The only building here is—” she takes a step back, shielding her eyes from the sun as she reads the sign. “Whoa. Look.”

He joins her, blinking. In big, bold, gold lettering, etched on the side of the building like an effigy: PEARSON SPECTER LITT.

“How much of this is a coincidence?” he asks timidly.

A voice sounds behind them, slightly nasal and full of rage. “None of it, thief.” They whirl around to see the man in front of them, face red. He’s a full head shorter than Oliver, but his presence looms regardless. “You.”

Oliver throws his hands up, exasperated. “You were the one following her, you creep, you have no right—”

“You want to talk about rights?” He takes a step forward. “How about you tell me how you took one of ours? Huh? Let’s talk about that instead.”

Marissa shoves an arm between both of them, perplexed. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You pillaging scoundrels took Mike Ross from my firm!”

They were stunned into silence, all three of them gaping at each other with some combination of fury and bewilderment. “What,” Oliver starts, with all the credulity that statement deserves. “The fuck are you talking about?”

He points vaguely above them. “Pearson. Specter.” Then he points to himself. “Litt. You stole from my firm. My people. And now I want him back.”

“Wait a second,” Marissa pinches the bridge of her nose. “There’s no way you’re Louis Litt.”

It’s a hard name to avoid. The Finance Wizard. The Money Mole. He’s torn down enough precedents to leave a hole in the judicial system only to build it up with precedents of his own. Not to mention, being a named partner in what’s heavily considered the Big Three of firms.

“You better believe it, princess,” Louis spits. “Because I’m about to rain so much legal torture on your shitty little legal clinic that you’re going to need another shitty legal clinic to get your ass out of it.”

Marissa looks like she’s a split second away from knocking Louis off his feet or launching a rock through the firm’s glass door, when Oliver’s phone rings loud and shrill. Somehow, he knew who’s calling before he even checked the ID. “Uh,” he breaks in, receiving twin glares for his interruption. “I’m gonna need to take this.”

“Oh no you don’t.” In a practiced move, Louis snatches the phone from his hand. Hey! “You’ll give me your full attention when I’m yelling at you.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Oliver pleads. He reaches to take it back, but Louis is shockingly wily, twisting this way and that. “It’s Mike! He’s going to chew me out for leaving.”

Louis’ jaw drops, face becoming impossibly more red. “Chew you out?” he asks, incredulous. The phone rings on while his free palm pushes against Oliver’s face. “Get off me. What’s that kid going to do? Quote movies at you? Shut up.”

Marissa raises an eyebrow and he can’t even blame her for not helping. “Clearly you’ve never met Mike Ross.”

“Clearly, you’ve never met Mike Ross.” When the ringing finally stops, Louis tosses the phone back to Oliver. “Now. What did you say to Mike that made him go to your dogshit clinic and not to my firm?”

They stare each other down, and Oliver takes in Louis’ expression. Hunched in on himself, beady eyes piercing. Angry. Defensive. Despite himself, Oliver sighs in understanding. There’s something about Mike Ross that inspires people to feel protective. From their tiny legal clinic to the high-rises of Manhattan, there’s something about him that makes people want to keep him safe from general malintent.

“What the hell is going on here?”

“Oh boy,” Marissa mutters as Harvey shows up, suited to the nines, parting through the crowd with ease. “Harvey, what are you doing here?”

“I’m meeting with Mike,” Harvey shoots back, catching OIiver’s eye. “There’s about a minute until he shows up and you better have a good excuse for why you’re not in the clinic.”

“He’s here?”

“What are you doing here?” Marissa repeats. Behind them, horns blow. The grating noise of downtown traffic sounding over. “Do you know the stalker?”

“The stalker—” Louis scoffs.

“Louis,” Harvey grits out. “I swear to god, if you were messing with the clinic—”

“Hey, it’s okay man.” Oliver pats Harvey’s shoulder, consolidating. “Thanks for stepping in, but we got this. It’s nice of you to stop by, though.”

Louis looks like his eyes are about to fall out of their sockets. “He’s not your bro,” he retorts. “Who are you and why are you acting so chummy with Harvey?”

“What?” Was he being chummy with Harvey? He thinks back to his now-frequent friendly banter with everyone at the clinic, the semi-regular food deliveries for the bullpen when he stops by for Mike. If anything, Harvey acts as Mike’s eternally supportive albeit scary-looking partner that they all benefit from. “Are you not?”

“Nobody is.”

“Mike is.”

“And the sky is fucking blue.”

“Harvey,” Marissa cuts in sharply. “Do you know Louis Litt?”

“Unfortunately,” he mutters, checking his watch before glancing around.

Louis rolls his eyes. “Hiding me away like some kind of mistress. We’re both—”

“So this is why you didn’t pick up my call.”

Oliver and Marissa flinch as Mike appears, taking in their group huddle in the middle of a busy street. His expression is just short of thunderous. “Mike—”

He shakes his head and Oliver shrinks. “Let’s talk about this inside.”

“Finally, some answers,” she says eagerly. “There’s a cafe down the street.”

“Harvey’s office is fine,” Mike says, glancing at Harvey, who gives him a nod. With an irascible spin, Mike pushes through the heavy glass door, entering Pearson Specter Litt. “A screaming match between you two and Louis. Fucking absurd.”

“Hard being a boss, isn’t it?” Harvey replies, looking delighted at Mike’s irritation. “Fancy office doesn’t look so appealing now.”

Oliver stays planted outside, brows furrowed. “Harvey works here?”

Louis gives him a look that screams that he’s the biggest idiot in the world. “Are you the biggest idiot in the world?” he asks. “Obviously Harvey Specter works here. It’s his damn firm.”

Holy shit.

This is the biggest gotcha! moment in Oliver’s entire life. There could be a camera in the corner of the room and he wouldn’t feel any less punk’d.

He and Marissa can do nothing but look around, dumbfounded, as Mike takes them through Pearson Specter Litt with an undoubtable sense of familiarity. Chatting with Harvey—Harvey Specter, of Pearson Specter Litt, are you kidding—about some case that they’re both working on. It has to be one of Harvey’s, because Oliver isn’t familiar with the proceedings. Because just like how Harvey drops by to unravel Mike’s complicated cases, Mike apparently drops by to detangle Harvey’s complicated cases. Apparently.

His mind is spinning. There’s way too much to unpack. His brain supplies him with the memory of him assuming that Harvey’s unemployed and wonders about the odds of someone sniping him out of mercy.

Marissa leans next to him as they wait for the elevator. “Do you still think they’re together?” she whispers. “Romantically?”

“Duh,” he mumbles back. “Are you forgetting that time he dropped Mike off last week because it was raining?”

“But then why wouldn’t they work together?”

“Some people don’t like working together. Separation of church and state kind of thing.”

“Or lover’s spat.”

“I thought it’s because you offered something lucrative,” Louis pipes in, leaning way too close to their personal space. “Or maybe he’s over corporate law and this is some way of Mike saving his damned soul or something.”

Oliver shakes his head. “I wouldn’t call thirty five thousand a year anything lucrative. Also, respectfully, go away.”

Harvey whistles. “Thirty five. Christ, that’s abusive. Is that even breaking minimum wage?”

Mike, the only one who’s still pretending not to listen in, elevator dinging as the doors slide open. “Can we all just mind our own business?”

“At this point, this is actually everyone’s business,” Marissa says, ooing at the sleek elevator as they all pile in. “When you asked Mr. Specter here to keep dropping by the legal clinic.”

“I didn’t ask. He just did it.”

“That’s so romantic.”

“And unprofessional.” Louis smacks Harvey’s shoulder, who continues scrolling on his phone. “This is where you’re going during work hours? Do you understand how much work you’re leaving to me?”

A thought pops into his head. “Wait,” Oliver cuts in. “If you’re Specter, and you’re Litt, then where’s—?”

Mike catches his eye before shaking his head sharply. Don’t bring it up.

But Harvey takes it in stride. “Jessica Pearson has relocated to Chicago indefinitely.” Like many of his smiles, it seems practised. “Louis and I are taking over.”

“Managing partner,” Marissa sums up. “Very cool.”

“Very cool,” Mike agrees, a brief look of pride shining through. Just the mention of Harvey’s successes has him defrosting, and Oliver lets out a sigh of relief. His job is probably safe for now.

Harvey’s office is a castle in the clouds.

It’s about the size of the bullpen back in the clinic, wall-to-ceiling windows that tower over New York City like a looming titan watching idly over its people. There’s sofas, art, a bar cart (wow), and an entire wall of records (wow). It’s all impressive, giving off the vibe of an immaculate studio apartment until Oliver realized that the hours here are probably nutty enough to consider that his office might as well be an apartment.

“Any Backstreet Boys in here?” Marissa asks, snooping already.

“No,” Harvey scowls, the same time Mike says, “Third row from the left. Number twenty three.”

They never really get a chance to talk about the confrontation on the street. Harvey gets pulled away by a beautiful, incredibly intimidating looking red-head woman—Today’s your lucky day, you get to meet Donna—and is promptly whisked away to a meeting. It took nothing but a flick of his wrist and Mike is on his feet, a step behind Harvey like it’s a form of stasis. Oliver’s not sure if he has it in him to point out that they don’t even work together anymore.

“It’ll be quick,” Mike promised, as if that was the issue, and then he’s gone.

Oliver shifts on his feet, itching to keep going through the vinyls because he’s sure he spotted a limited edition Miles Davis when Louis speaks from his spot against the windowsill. His tone is kinder, seemingly letting go of his baseless grudge. “You really didn’t know that he’s Harvey Specter?”

Oliver figures it’s probably as close as they’ll get to an apology. “I’ve heard of Harvey Specter, of course.”

The name haunts even the farthest corners of the law. Harvey Specter is a living legend, the kind that would make even the most seasoned attorneys close their eyes in defeat once they read who they’re up against. With a winning streak that spans his entire career, there’s a begrudging rumor going around that maybe Harvey Specter is infallible. Not a chink in his armor, no weakness to latch on to.

“But,” Marissa says, wandering eyes roaming across Harvey’s desk before picking up a baseball. “That’s Harvey Specter. We only knew Harvey.”

Louis just watches her. “The fact that you’re playing with his stuff tells me everything I need to know,” he says. “I just can’t imagine a guy as arrogant as Harvey keeping something like that to himself. And a rookie like Mike running a clinic like yours. When did the world get turned on its head?”

Marissa gives him a look. “Arrogant?” she asks, at the same time Oliver says, “Rookie?”

“Don’t tell me you guys don’t agree with my description.” Louis rolls his eyes. “I mean, that’s their whole thing.”

Oliver stares at Mike and Harvey, trying to see what Louis sees. Trying to conjure up this image of Mike with beguiled eyes, easy to joke with and boyish in every way. A Harvey who’s an asshole, who doesn’t care about anyone except himself. Fragments of that description try to stick together and fall apart like a handful of sand between his fingers.

“I can’t really see it,” Marissa admits.

Louis huffs. “Maybe you had to be there to see it.”

Hand on his heart, Oliver just wanted to find the bathroom.

After a bad explanation from Louis, he threw caution to the wind, because it can’t be that hard to find. The firm’s hallways are long and dizzying—how he keeps accidentally finding the library is beyond him—after his fourth loop, he finds something much more interesting than a bathroom.

It stood to reason that it didn’t click for Oliver that Harvey’s actually a managing partner. All he knows from him is his relationship with Mike. His ceaseless support, his easy attitude, the fun times.

Through the glass of their grand, looming conference rooms, Harvey is deposing someone. That’s the nicest way to put it. Harvey’s towering over this poor man, movements calm but Oliver can tell he’s throwing down verbal knives, the impact of it colliding handsomely into the deposee. There’s fear etched in every crevice of the guy’s face, as if seeing the devil in the middle of a bright room instead of Harvey. As if they were one in the same.

It’s a bloodbath, the man is clearly outmatched, but Oliver can’t find it in himself to look away, enthralled by the devastating car crash before him. Eventually, the man gives a shaky nod, reluctantly waving a white flag. When Harvey shakes his hands, he only looks a little smug. Winning is easy. Expected.

Then Harvey’s eyes flit over, meeting Oliver’s. With a jolt, he scrambles away.

Just his luck, he can’t find his way back to Harvey’s office, stuck wandering down the halls like a lost phantom. He just needs to beat Harvey to the office, act dumb, pretend he never left.

Behind him, unshakable footsteps follow him, dogged and crisp. “Leaving so soon?”

“I am so sorry,” Oliver blurts out, spinning around to address Harvey. “I didn’t mean to barge in when you’re working and do reconnaissance and interrupt—”

“Relax,” Harvey rolls his eyes. “Unless you forgot, we’re the ones who dragged you up here.”

“Still.” He swallows, eyeing Harvey. He seems back to normal Harvey, instead of whatever terrifying monstrosity Harvey Specter was. “You, uh. You really tore into that guy.”

“Eh.” Turning left, Oliver helplessly follows Harvey into the kitchen. “Just a standard deposition. Had to show him what’ll happen on the stand if he doesn’t settle.”

“Mike didn’t join you?”

“Not this time, though he normally would.” Harvey pokes into the cabinet, pulling out a box of granola bars marked with red marker: PROPERTY OF LOUIS LITT! HARVEY KEEP OUT!!!! “We usually do good cop, bad cop. Peanut butter or chocolate?”

“Uh, chocolate,” he replies, rewarded with a double chocolate chip bar. He watches as Harvey hips the door closed, tearing into his own peanut butter bar with a vigor. “If you don’t mind me asking, who does bad cop?”

Harvey’s eyes light up, swallowing. “You have no idea how much you made my day by asking that.” He leans against the counter. “Mike Ross, scary superior. Doesn’t that just pack a punch?”

It's as if everyone in this firm lives in a time capsule. Separated from the reality of life, stuck in a passage of time, never moving on. A dissonance between their memory and the reality of the situation.

Oliver arches a brow. “Is present Mike really that different now?”

Harvey polishes off the bar, wrapper tossed into the garbage. “It’s Mike,” he answers simply. “It’s all just Mike.”

The cushions back in the clinic aren’t so much plush as they are flat to the point of injury if you sit too hard. Pearson Specter Litt, however, has the most comfortable chairs Oliver may have ever sat in. It sinks when Mike joins him.

“So you didn’t tell me you’re dating Harvey Specter,” Oliver says. He wants to come off as accusatory, but it falls short, landing squarely in embarrassingly curious.

Mike scoffs. His legs are crossed, arms splayed across the backing of the sofa. He looks comfortable here. “Dating.”

“Are we wrong?”

He tilts his head, this way and that. “It’s just very juvenile,” he explains. It isn’t a denial. “Dating makes it look clean. Simple.”

From across the room, Harvey glances at them. At Mike. Gives him a questioning look. Mike just nods slightly. Appeased, Harvey turns back to Louis. Watching them interact doesn’t feel like fireworks. It feels like porch light.

“Lots of history?” Oliver hedges.

Mike glances at him. “What makes you say that?”

Maybe if this whole situation wasn’t so batshit crazy, Oliver would’ve held his tongue. But as it stands, he lets himself speak openly. “The way Louis was describing you two,” he says, slowly. “It doesn’t match you guys. Anymore, at least. It got me thinking that a lot of shit probably went down. That kind that changes people. Hence, the history.” He stamps down a smile. “Louis called you a rookie.”

A silence falls over them, Mike’s expression blank. “I still feel like a rookie, you know.” It sounds like a confession. “God, I’m aging like a dog. Fifteen years in the span of five,” he laughs, but Oliver’s not sure what the punchline was. “I’m not really sure when that changed. I’m not really sure when we changed.”

“It’s not a bad thing,” Oliver rushes. “I mean, you’re a great boss. And I’m sure you and Harvey went through a lot to get to this point. Change isn’t a bad thing.”

“But it’s a thing.” His gaze trails back to Harvey like he can’t help himself.

Oliver wonders if there was a correlation with Mike’s austerity and Harvey’s kindness. Wonders just how much of an overlap they affected each other to stay within each other’s orbit. Like invasive ivy, they refuse to let go of the foundation, shoving its roots into brickwork and mortar, choosing to keep growing and evolving despite all odds.

“It’s a thing.”

They finish the day off at a Vietnamese place down the street. Even with the restaurant being run-down and every seat looking like it’s a gust of wind away from the hinges collapsing in on itself, Oliver can’t help but balk at the pricing. The city is egregious.

Mike waves his alarmed expression away. “Between two managing partners, you don't have to worry about it.”

The place is rowdy, packed to the brim and they barely managed to squeeze into a corner booth. Somehow, an argument had erupted—something about pet tenancy policies in the Bronx—and Oliver and Marissa watched, amused, as the other three tore into each other like they’re in trial.

Any of Mike’s usual poise and professionalism are thrown out the window. With his collar popped open, sleeves rolled up and complexion beet-red, he’s half-yelling at Louis over something that doesn’t matter at all. But his eyes are crinkled, gesticulations wild. For a moment, Oliver sees what Louis was on about. A glimpse into Mike’s former self, the oldest parts of his personality breaking through.

Harvey, too, joins in. Playing Devil’s Advocate to both, winking at Oliver whenever he makes a rebuttal and squarely rebukes it later. He just likes to watch a dog fight. Or maybe he just likes to watch Mike.

As the argument slowly shifts to being about New Jersey’s borders, Marissa orders another coffee, sensing that it’s going to be a long day. When Mike’s eyes linger when her order comes, Harvey doesn’t hesitate to tell the waiter to bring another.

“I just don’t get it,” Marissa sighs to Oliver, tapping the glass impatiently so it drips faster. “What’s the deal with going back and forth between here and the clinic? Why can’t they just work together?”

There’s an excess of ways Oliver could’ve answered that. Maybe it’s a moral thing. Maybe they did actually have a lovers spat. Maybe it’s something else. Even now, he still hasn’t unearthed who Mike Ross really is, much less the weird, perplexing dynamic he has going on with Harvey. But if there’s one thing that’s certain is that he’s different now. And so is Harvey Specter. He’s not sure who shifted first, but it’s undeniable that one triggered the other.

In front of them, Mike’s hums, pleased, when his own coffee arrives. He nudges it to Harvey, who grimaces. It’ll be too sweet. But their fingers brush when he takes the mug from him anyway.

Oliver shrugs. “I don’t think they ever stopped.”

It comes to no surprise at all when Mike hands in his resignation letter.

And if both he and Marissa squeal when they’re offered a place in Pearson Specter Litt, then maybe he has to rescind some of what he said about Big Law. He’s been wrong about first impressions before.