there were days mike would’ve given anything (like, seriously, man. anything. save for gram and that recording of the 2004 world series) to see harvey in a t-shirt, feet bare, sweatpants just a smidge too baggy, his hair sticking up in careless tufts, but this? this is wrong. know it deep in your bones, gut-churning wrong. and he must’ve been staring for a long time because harvey makes an impatient noise and crosses his arms and it sounds so much like his ‘where the hell is my smoking gun’ impatient noise that mike snaps to immediately. because it’s what he does.
except.
except harvey’s penthouse is a jumble of half-packed boxes. except mike’s not here to hand him trades this time, flushed with success and alcohol, and the way harvey slouches against the door makes mike feel painfully, painfully tired.
except harvey’s not a lawyer anymore and it’s mike’s damn fault.