76th & lexington
part 1
The next morning when Mike comes in Harvey has made a decision, and that decision is as follows: Harvey is good at delegation and also hates appraising just a little bit, and Mike is good at appraising and faster than anyone has any right to be, so he, Harvey, will delegate the appraising to Mike.
Mike blinks at him momentarily.
“Okay,” he says. He looks both pleased and surprised, which is pleasing and surprising.
By the time Donna gets in, Mike is already installed at the table in the stockroom, and Harvey is in the front (where he belongs) working with the small trickle of early, elderly customers.
“Wonder boy come in this morning?” Donna asks, depositing three coffee cups on the counter. “I brought him a cup.”
“He’s in the back,” Harvey says, jabbing a thumb towards the stockroom door. Surprise flashes across Donna’s face, but then she schools her expression into something else.
“So you trust him?” she asks.
“I’ll check his work,” Harvey says, which is not an answer to the question, precisely. “And do the final pricing.”
“Of course you will,” Donna says.
And Harvey does, when Mike emerges from the stockroom looking a little ruffled and bleary.
“They’re ready for final prices, Harvey,” he says. “And I’m ready for lunch.”
“I think Schnitzel & Things is coming our way today,” Donna says.
“She knows, because she stalks them on twitter,” Harvey corrects.
“Good for you not calling it ‘the twitter,’ old man,” Donna mutters, then turns to Mike. “You want some meat that’s been breaded and fried?”
“Yes,” he breathes. “But I can--ah--stay here.”
Harvey looks at him strangely for a moment before he realizes what’s going on. Mike shows up most mornings early, with sunglasses at the very least; he knows Harvey didn’t want star stalkers, and he’s trying not to attract attention.
“Any allergies?” Donna asks. “Anything you don’t like?”
“No, I’m easy,” Mike says. He says it like--he says it like he knows there’s a joke there, and he wants someone to make it. Harvey looks up at him, and Mike catches his eye and grins.
It’s uncomfortable. Harvey knows a come on when he sees one, but it doesn’t seem right that this is--now, here, from Mike. He’s fairly certain it must be something else.
Mike, he reminds himself, is an actor.
“The veal for me,” Harvey says. “And fries and beet salad.”
And then Harvey goes to the stockroom to price the books. Mike has stacked the new ones neatly, and they all have post-its on the cover with a price scrawled in handwriting that manages to skirt the edge of legible. It’s not until the eighth book that Harvey needs to fetch Mike, who’s sitting in the shelves chatting with a customer.
Harvey can’t help it.
He spies.
And he finds out that Mike is not just good at appraising.
The customer is an elderly woman, and Mike is talking to her about her grandchildren, initially, and Harvey wants to cut in and tell him to close the damn sale already, but then Mike is talking to her about her grandchildren and what books they might like, and suddenly he’s selling her some comics and a box set of the Chronicles of Narnia, which--it’s a box set. It happens so circuitously that Harvey doesn’t quite see what happens, but when he reviews it in his head he can see: Mike is bright and honest and straightforward, and that’s how he sells. He just puts something out there, suggests it, has a conversation, lets the customer mull. Lets the customer trust him.
It’s not Harvey’s style by a long shot, because Harvey’s always been prone to strong arming customers into things rather than relying on them to reach the right conclusion on their own, but what Mike’s doing works.
Harvey wonders why Mike even thought he needed training, and then, when the books are safely ensconced in brown paper in the woman’s bag, goes to get Mike to tell him whether that’s a seven or a four, there.
When Donna comes back they’re still in the backroom, and Mike’s interrogating Harvey about his pricing philosophy.
“It’s about the whole book,” Harvey is saying. “The entirety of it. Some books have a certain mystique. And you can sell them for above market value, because people will just want them, even if they’re foxed or not quite right. You just need to wait for the right person, then.”
“And other books?” Mike asks.
“Other books can be the same,” he says. “But you have to wait longer. It’s about weighing how long you’ll have to wait against everything else.”
“Harvey,” Donna says. “There’s no one up front.”
“Oh, shit,” Mike mutters. “I should’ve--”
Harvey tries not to look too uncomfortable, but it makes him feel uncomfortable. He should probably be angrier than he is, but he did realize that bringing Mike to the stockroom would mean that no one was in the front of the shop, and he hadn’t heard anyone come in, so--
“I know,” he says after a moment.
Donna arches an eyebrow, then hands him a box.
“Here’s your schnitzel,” she says. “Mike, I got the same for you.”
Mike eats up front with Donna while Harvey finishes pricing the books, trying to balance everything against everything else. He suspects he’s being too nice. He is pretty sure he was meaner than this as recently as yesterday. It makes him feel soft and uncertain. Mike Ross, he reminds himself, is an actor. And he could be any number of things in addition to that, but it’s not like Harvey knows what those are.
That maybe explains why Harvey finds a RedBox and rents ‘The Catcher in the Rye’ even though Donna claims he’s already seen it. He probably has, he vaguely remembers seeing it and hating it, but he just doesn’t always pay much attention to movies.
This time he pays attention. Holden Caulfield is Mike, or maybe it’s the other way around. The internet claims it was Mike Ross’s breakout role, and he is the throbbing center of the movie: present in every scene, only slightly obscured by the character he’s playing. He was younger, then, than he is now: young and soft-faced with eyes that are sometimes hooded and sometimes flashing intelligence.
It’s fascinating.
It’s strange, because it is such a different Mike from the one Harvey has interacted with, even though they share something, and, furthermore, it’s strange to have Mike’s face sprawled across the television while Harvey unselfconsciously watches it--him. He moves differently as Holden Caulfield, but not quite differently enough.
It doesn’t really answer any of Harvey questions, and once the DVD is back in its case, Harvey doesn’t know what to do with it--with the experience as a whole. He returns the DVD the next morning, goes to the store and tries not to think too hard about anything, really. Except about Mike’s clothes.
“Seriously, though,” he says, because this is the third day Mike has shown up in a different, ill-fitting suit. “Where do you get these? Can you not see the difference between what I’m wearing and what you’re wearing?”
Mike looks down at his body like he’d forgotten it was attached to his head.
“I think it’s Prada,” he says, then looks at Harvey. “Your suits wouldn’t fit me, either.”
“No,” Harvey says. “They fit me, which is the point. A suit should fit the man it belongs to.”
“I don’t see what the big deal is,” Mike says. “It’s just clothes.”
“The clothes,” Harvey breathes. “Make the man. And I can’t believe you’re making Prada look like that.”
“It might not be,” Mike says. “I’m not sure.”
Harvey is not even going to dignify that with a reply, which is why it’s a good thing that that’s when Donna appears, with coffee.
“Donna,” he says. “Thank you.”
“I only bring you coffee because you’re so grateful,” she says. “It’s sweet.”
“I don’t care why, as long as you do,” Harvey mutters as Donna passes another cup to Mike. “One cup in the morning is not enough.”
“Harvey likes to pretend I get to work late but we actually space out our arrival so that he can have his coffee fix at the appropriate interval,” Donna says to Mike. “He’s like a child.”
“That explains some of his behaviour,” Mike says speculatively.
“Get thee to the stock room,” Harvey mutters, and Mike laughs and goes, bringing his coffee with him.
Donna sidles over to Harvey’s side as Mike disappears, and there’s a moment where they’re both watching him like--something.
“You know someone’s going to figure out that Mike Ross is working here sooner or later,” she says. “And probably sooner.”
“Our clientele doesn’t overlap with the sort of person who sells gossip to tabloids,” Harvey says.
“I’m just saying,” Donna says. “You can’t keep him in the stockroom forever, and some shutterbug is going to follow him here, or see him coming in, and then it’s going to be news, at least for Page Six. They already caught him at one of the food carts a few blocks away.”
“You read Page Six,” Harvey says.
“Of course I read Page Six,” Donna says.
“You get the Post and you read Page Six,” Harvey says, just to clarify.
“And they had a picture of Mike Ross buying coffee from the cart that Priya’s new boyfriend runs, and I really have to tell him not to go there.”
“You need to stop being intimately involved in the lives of street vendors,” Harvey says, finally.
“You need to remember that your new pet appraiser is a movie star,” Donna says, and that’s the end of that, really.
Harvey goes out on the floor to sell some people some fucking books, because that’s his job, really.
It is not his fault when Rachel spills her orange juice on Mike twenty-three minutes later, but he has to say that if it ruins that suit he doesn’t really mind. Mike doesn’t look like he minds terribly, either. Rachel is as close as she gets to apologetic, and Mike keeps telling her it doesn’t matter, it’s just a stupid suit that he’s pretty sure isn’t Prada.
“It’s Prada?” Rachel says, shooting a glance in Harvey’s direction.
“It’s awful,” he mouths at her, and she nods incrementally.
“It’s probably not,” Mike says. “I don’t know. Harvey says it doesn’t fit.”
“It doesn’t,” Harvey and Rachel say simultaneously.
“You can’t wear that for the rest of the day,” Harvey says, finally.
“I can just--I’m renting a place in Red Hook.”
“In Brooklyn?” Harvey says.
“It’s where I got my start,” Mike says, shrugging slightly. “In a theater there.”
Harvey studies Mike for a moment, because Harvey’s pretty sure Brooklyn wasn’t cool when Mike got his start.
“Okay,” he says. “Come with me. Rachel, you and Donna can take care of the store?”
Rachel salutes him, and it’s only about forty-five percent sarcastic, which isn’t half bad.
“We’ll be back soon,” Harvey says. “Or soon enough. Donna, call Rene. And Ray.”
“Rene,” Mike echoes, sounding a little dazed. Harvey realizes that he’s holding Mike by the elbow like he expects him to collapse, and drops his elbow, mostly in surprise.
“We’re going to get you a clean shirt,” Harvey says. “And then we’re going to get you at least one suit that fits.”
“It’s like you planned this,” Mike says.
“This is part of your training,” Harvey says.
“Since when?”
“Since now,” Harvey concludes, and he dares Mike to contradict him.
Which Mike doesn’t.
Harvey’s apartment is close, and he feels like he’s smuggling Mike in, even though no one looks twice at them in the street. It is, after all, New York, and they’re north of the most touristed areas. Even if someone recognized Mike, it wouldn’t do to show it.
“You live here?” Mike asks, when they get to the foyer. Harvey would say it’s only a little intimidating, but he doesn’t actually look around that often.
“Rent controlled,” Harvey says, and Mike mutters something that sounds like ‘lucky bastard.’ Harvey resist the urge to remind Mike how much money the imdb forums claim he was paid for his last movie, the one where he was a cross-dressing alien.
But only just. Only because telling Mike would mean letting Mike know he looked him up on, not just Wikipedia, but also imdb. In the forums, which are a cesspool of humanity if there wever was one.
Harvey’s apartment isn’t large, but it has the Window, which is--large. It’s in the bedroom, almost an entire wall of glass, and while Harvey rifles through the closet Mike goes up and puts his hands to it, peering out.
“Fingerprints,” Harvey says, and Mike pulls back.
“People can’t see you?” he asks.
“Do you remember how long we were in the elevator?” Harvey asks. He knows he was something from Harvard here, and he was smaller, then.
“Speaking of, I can just wear whatever,” Mike says. “So we can get back.”
“We aren’t going back, we’re going to Rene’s,” Harvey says, and throws a wadded up Harvard Law t-shirt across the room. “Put that on.”
Mike ducks and catches it neatly, then peels off his own shirt right there. It’s not a big deal. Harvey’s seen another man’s chest before, at the gym and here. But it’s somehow worse because they are here, Mike’s in Harvey’s bedroom, and usually if Harvey sees another man’s chest there they are going to have sex. If Harvey sees anyone’s chest there they are going to have sex, really.
It’s just a fact.
Mike doesn’t seem to notice, and Harvey tries to look past his chest to the window, or at least to look like he’s looking past Mike’s chest to the window. Mike is lean, but his chest is defined, and he looks--flexible.
His pants are too big, and sit low on his hips. There’s a sharp jut of bones pointing down, and that’s what catches Harvey’s eye now: the angle of the bones, the sprinkling of hair between. It’s--nice. It’s something. Harvey suspects that there are shirtless scenes in Mike Ross’s more recent movies.
The movie thing is what stops Harvey from thinking about it any more. Mike Ross probably has legions of teenage fans. Harvey is pretty sure he does have legions of teenage fans, and they run a website and draw Mike’s face in hearts. Mike Ross is the kind of person people lust after, and Harvey Specter is too old to have a crush on a movie star.
He’s too old to have a crush, period, end of discussion.
“I guess it fits,” Mike says, and that interrupts Harvey’s thoughts further.
Mike Ross in Harvey’s shirt is, in many ways, worse than Mike Ross in no shirt at all. The shirt belongs to Harvey. It’s something he’s had for ages, thin from Harvey sleeping in it and just tight enough--
“Harvard Law?” Mike asks.
“Yeah,” Harvey says, and if his voice is a little husky, it’s not. “I went there.”
“I wanted to study law, once,” Mike says mildly.
“What happened?” Harvey asks, fixing his eyes on Mike’s face.
“Life,” Mike says in a way that discourages further questioning, and Harvey realizes there are a lot of things about Mike that he doesn’t know. They only met a few days ago. This shouldn’t be as surprising as it it; as it is, it serves as a reminder that Harvey doesn’t know Mike well enough to have a crush on him, either.
“Come on,” he says, and they take the elevator down in silence, and when they get outside Ray is waiting for them.
“Ray, this is--”
“Mike Ross,” Ray interrupts. “I know. Pleasure to meet you, wife’s a big fan.”
Mike takes it well, and offers to sign something, an offer Ray refuses.
“She’ll be happy just to know you were in the cab,” he says. “Besides, what would we do with a piece of paper with your name on it?”
“I don’t actually know,” Mike says, and then laughs in surprise. “I wouldn’t be surprised if a lot of people put them in some drawer until they forget about it and then throw it out. Except when I sign boobs--”
He laughs uncomfortably and shifts a little on the bench. Harvey remembers that Mike’s probably straight--though, honestly, around Harvey is anyone really straight?--and even if he isn’t, he probably plays straight for Hollywood. That’s what you do, isn’t it? Unless you’re Neil Patrick Harris. But if you’re Neil Patrick Harris you’re married and have two children.
But that entire line of reasoning began with something Harvey is not supposed to think about.
By then they’re at Rene’s, anyway, and Mike is looking at Harvey skeptically.
“I can’t believe you’ve never been to a tailor,” Harvey says. “Seriously.”
Harvey looks at ties while Rene takes Mike’s measurements, and when Mike comes out he distinctly uncomfortable.
“That was--an experience,” he says.
“Now you can do a movie about properly fitting clothes,” Harvey replies. “Doesn’t the costume department measure you?”
“Not quite so--intimately,” Mike says. “Also without such a large price tag.”
“I’ll pay for it, if you don’t want to,” Harvey says. “But you need to buy something.”
“In case you haven't heard, I'm in the talkies,” Mike says. “I make a little money. I can afford some new togs.”
“Okay, historically inaccurate Jay Gatsby,” Harvey says, and Mike laughs.
“Keep me away from girls named Daisy, and swimming pools,” he says, then glances at Harvey. “Nothing will actually be ready until tomorrow, you know.”
“Sure,” Harvey says, because that’s about what he expected, and then Ray drives them back uptown, and they slip into the bookstore and Donna takes one look at Mike’s shirt and gives Harvey a look, and that's how they finish the day.
“Where’d you get that?” Rachel asks when she sees him, but she’s looking at Harvey.
“Harvey lent it to me,” Mike says. “Thanks, by the way.”
“You can keep it,” Harvey replies without thinking. He probably shouldn’t offer--this whole thing is a bundle of things he shouldn’t be doing, though.
‘Thanks,” Mike says after a moment, looking at Harvey with a strange expression on his face.
The rest of the day passes uneventfully, and Mike mostly sticks to the backroom, and after everyone leaves Harvey locks the shop and walks home, whistling.
And that’s how Harvey Specter winds up on Page Six. Not the whistling. Before that.
Page Six: Mike Ross was seen emerging from an uptown apartment building with a dapperly dressed older man--was Holden Caulfield slipping out for a nooner with a New York City businessman? More on this story as it develops. - The New York Post
At least they called him a ‘dapperly dressed.’
And you can’t see his face.
It’s only after Donna calls Harvey, and Harvey goes to the kiosk three blocks south of his apartment and picks up a copy of the Post that Harvey realizes he doesn’t have Mike’s number. There’s no way to contact him, to ask if this is going to be a problem, if he has some sort of publicity person managing this. Mike’s never given any indication of having a celebrity entourage--he clearly doesn’t have a stylist--but this is the sort of thing that Harvey suspects might matter. Mike’s career hasn’t yet reached its zenith. It might not. Harvey doesn’t know enough about Hollywood to know what matters and what doesn’t, but, well, it’s a pretty big picture. Bigger than the one of Mike buying coffee, anyway. Harvey went to Donna’s to check the back issues of the Post, for comparison. In exchange, he had told her what happened, which was nothing, really.
He figures all he has to do is go to the shop the next morning and wait to see what happens, but that means--waiting. It’s not something Harvey’s good at.
Donna comes in and hands him a cup of coffee.
“Nothing happened,” he says. “That should make it easier to spin.”
“You’re right,” Donna says. “It should. But not if it’s already spun.”
“Are they going to figure out who I am?” Harvey asks.
“I’m not telling them,” Donna replies, sipping her coffee. “And Mike’s not, either. It wasn’t a good picture of you.”
“I looked a little paunchy, I think,” Harvey says, and Donna gives him a glare.
“That’s what you’re going to worry about, now?” she asks. “You liked the kid.”
It might be an understatement, but Harvey doesn’t want to delve into that.
“Was there anyone outside your building?” Donna asks suddenly. “This morning. Photographers or anything.”
Harvey looks at her, now.
“Fuck,” he whispers. “I hope not. I should’ve thought of that.”
“You probably should have,” Donna agrees, and Harvey pushes his fingers up to his forehead, rubbing his temples like that will resolve the issue.
“A lot of people live in that building,” he says. “A lot of them dress like me. As long as Mike’s not there--”
“Probably,” Donna says, but she sounds more like she’s trying to placate Harvey than like she’s entirely certain.
Mike doesn’t come in that day. Harvey might not be a surprised, but--it still feels a little like he’s sleepwalking through the day, waiting to wake up.
What surprises him more is how quickly Mike had come to seem important, maybe even vital. Without him it feels like something’s missing from the entire operation, when nothing felt like it was missing before. Now the store is too quiet, and appraising is too slow (“It’s not like he was going to be your permanent appraiser, you dumbass,” Donna mutters. “Don’t look so depressed.”) and everything’s a bit empty.
They get a call from Mike’s agent, a woman named Jennifer Griffiths, but not until the next day. She calls immediately after Harvey opens the door, and Harvey almost wonders if Mike told her the precise time to call to catch Harvey before anyone else arrived.
Harvey’s not sure why Mike would do that, though.
“Mr. Specter,” she begins. “My client would just like to apologize--”
“I’m not going to tell anyone anything,” Harvey interjects. “You can spin it any way you want.”
“Mike just wanted to apologize,” Jennifer continues, her voice a little strained. “If the recent press brought your establishment any unwanted attention.”
“No,” Harvey says. “Thank you.”
And then he hangs up. He doesn’t know what there’s left to say.
“You hung up,” Donna says when she gets in.
Harvey turns to look at her.
“You hung up,” she repeats. “You didn’t ask to talk to Mike.”
“You think Mike was there?”
“Harvey,” she says. “Harvey.”
“I hadn’t had my second coffee yet. If Mike was there he would’ve known that.”
“That’s what you’re going to go with?” Donna says. “I hate to break it to you, but I don’t think you would’ve cut it as a lawyer.”
“I would’ve if I had coffee in an IV,” Harvey mumbles, clutching at his cup and swallowing two hot gulps.
“I’m going to star sixty-nine it,” she says.
“And say what?” Harvey asks.
“That Mike can come back if he wants to,” Donna says. “Which is what you should’ve said.”
“He obviously doesn’t want to come back.”
“Obviously,” Donna says. “Whatever intelligence you had has fled. Aren’t you supposed to be suave and confident?”
“Would you like me to go out and seduce someone?” Harvey asks. “I’ve been trying to cut back on liquor expenditures.”
“Of course you have, dear,” Donna says, and then she takes the phone off the hook and jabs quickly at the three keys.
“Hello,” she says. “Is this--? I’m calling from Spectre Books, and we’d just like to say--Mike’s welcome back any time.”
“And Rene’s wondering when he’ll pick up his suits,” Harvey adds.
“And Rene’s wondering when he’ll pick up his suits,” Donna adds. “If you could pass that along. Thank you.”
And then Donna hangs up, shrugs a little.
“At least that’s taken care now,” she says, looking at Harvey. “Good job putting your foot in it, there. He probably thought you were pissed about your getting caught Candid camera.”
“They didn’t even name me,” Harvey says.
“But they might, eventually,” Donna says. “If he keeps coming. And you told him that you didn’t want any paparazzi, didn’t you?”
“I don’t want any paparazzi,” Harvey says.
“They’ll come,” Donna says. “Build it, and they will come. Is that okay? Are you going to be okay with that, if he comes back?”
Harvey looks at her.
“Weigh it,” Donna says. “I know you like him, at least a little. This is part and parcel.”
Harvey looks at her, and Donna just looks back. She knows everything.
“I have an auction to get to,” Harvey says, and goes.
When he gets back he retreats again to the stockroom, goes through his own, slow, appraisal process while simultaneously trying to appraise the situation at hand, or maybe not at hand. Maybe it will all slip away.
It’s about the whole of the book, he thinks, flipping through a small volume with a soft brown cover. The story, the sentimental value, the stains. The way everything fits together.
Maybe Mike will come back, maybe he won’t, but Harvey will cross that bridge when he comes to it. If they come to it.
Mike is there the next morning.
“I’m afraid I did some appraising while you were gone,” Harvey says, and Mike grins until Harvey thinks his face is going to break.
“Rene says hello,” Mike says, doing a little twirl on the sidewalk. Harvey stops and looks at him, then.
His suit fits. His ass is perfect.
Harvey doesn’t look at it.
“Your suit fits,” Harvey says. “But your tie is still too damn skinny.”
It has been some time since Harvey had sex.
“Look, sorry I disappeared,” Mike says. “I just thought--I know you didn’t want the paps lurking around here.”
Harvey should tell Mike that it’s okay, that it doesn’t matter, that Mike’s been good for the store and he can stay as long as he likes. It’s just a little much, right now.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, instead.
And just like that, Mike’s back.
“You can do a press release, if you want,” Donna tells Mike when she arrives. Mike glances at Harvey.
“We wouldn’t need to release the particular store,” he says. “Though the intrepid would still find it.”
“Would that be good?” Harvey asks, looking at Mike. “I mean--was the first picture a scandal?”
“Minor,” Mike says, grinning a little. “They weren’t exactly the first pictures if you know what I mean.”
“They weren’t--” Harvey starts.
“The others were a little more scandalous.”
“I think I remember that,” Donna says suddenly. “Were they the ones--”
“With my friend Trevor,” Mike says. “Someone got them off Myspace, we were about sixteen. It was a shitty thing, all around, but the facts were there from the start. And then I dated Jen for a little, and--we don’t need to lay my dating history out, here. Let’s talk about Harvey’s.”
“Harvey doesn’t date,” Donna says. “So much as he--you know.”
“I have dated,” Harvey protests. “But that was a graceless segue, Mike, and I’m not going to humor you.”
“Can I come with you to a sale?” Mike asks suddenly.
And Harvey says: “Sure.”
There’s an estate sale two days later. Ray picks them up and glances at Mike for about half a second before reverting to normal.
“So what do we do, at estate sales?” Mike asks.
“We hope Louis isn’t there,” Harvey replies. “And we find something good.”
Louis is there.
They find something good. It’s part of a lot--Harvey sees it first, and he elbows Mike, and then Louis appears, peering between them.
“Who is this, Harvey?”
“New appraiser, we’re working with,” Harvey says, nodding between them. “Mike, Louis.”
Mike offers a hand, and Louis takes it and holds it for a moment too long, studying his face.
“I’ve seen you somewhere,” he says.
“Have you?” Mike asks.
“New York’s a big city,” Harvey says, and they move on.
They’re halfway through the sale before someone else says it.
“Mike Ross,” says a middle-aged woman. “My granddaughter loves you. Can I--may I--?”
“Yes,” Mike says, producing a pen and paper himself. “Of course. And what’s her name?”
Louis is staring. He must have heard--he was stalking Harvey, as he does, and now his eyes are narrowed.
“Mike Ross,” he echoes, but he’s looking at Harvey, not Mike.
They get the lot, and take the subway home, which is the way of it.
“You going to carry that box all the way back?” Mike asks, when they’re on the sidewalk. He slides sideways a little, and bumps his shoulder into Harvey’s.
“So you put out for little old women,” Harvey says, and Mike laughs a little, halfway between light and strained.
“Oh, you know,” he says. “For a while, it was just my gram and me.”
“For a while?” Harvey asks.
“Still, really,” Mike says. “The dictionary was for her.”
“Oh,” Harvey says, and he’s not sure what else to ask. There was a time when he would’ve said something, just to keep the conversation moving. He’s not sure why that time isn’t now.
They walk the rest of the block to the subway in silence. It’s midday and empty, so they find two seats, shoulder to shoulder, with space for the box by Harvey’s side.
It’s Mike, on his other side, that makes Harvey feel a little stiff and uncomfortable. Travelling with a box of books he’s used to, even though every box might--may--could--contain gold. Travelling with Mike, who slowly falls into a slump of sleep against Harvey’s shoulder--that’s something unusual.
Mike already contains gold.
Harvey jostles Mike awake when they get to their stop, and Mike blinks up at him blearily.
“Sorry,” he says.
“I’ll carry the box,” Mike adds.
Harvey lets Mike carry the box for half a block before he takes it.
Page Six: An anonymous tip tells us that Mike Ross has been working as an appraiser with a certain bookseller at the corner of 76th & Lexington. Is the actor trying to become the next James Franco? - The New York Post
The world doesn’t end, surprisingly, though Donna makes Harvey call Mike’s agent and get his number, so he can tell him that.
“You can come in today, if you want,” is what Harvey ends up telling Mike, and Mike says, “Okay.”
The bookstore does get busier, and Harvey has to call in Rachel even though it’s technically her day off, but it’s New York. No one salivates--nothing breaks. There are the obvious lurkers, and Mike handles most of those himself, and the rest seem to be more along the lines of--curious bystanders. Who can be persuaded to buy books. It’s really, stupidly, not a big deal. Sometime around lunch Mike catches Harvey’s eye from across the store, looking uncomfortable, and nods quickly at him. He hopes it conveys what he wants it to convey--that this is okay, that they’re okay, that Louis is a shithead who got them more customers.
It looks like Mike gets it. And so they move forward, into another day.
“Meeting with a seller today,” Harvey says the next morning, once the coffee is downed and the world is beginning to look a bit more manageable, even with their increased customer base.
“You going to get me something good?” Mike asks, and something about the way he says it--it startles Harvey.
It startles him a lot, actually. It makes his stomach drop like a promise, more overt than anything that’s come before.
“Of course,” Harvey says, because that’s the only thing there is to say.
The object--the book--is an autographed first edition of ‘Infinite Jest.’ It’s the sort of thing you take risks for; something everyone knows is worth something, but also with the potential to increase in value dramatically. It is, after all, David Foster Wallace. Harvey tries not to salivate. The situation is as complex and delicate as one of Wallace’s sentences.
The woman selling the book is a graduate student who looks like she would rather not. What Harvey has going for him, more than anything, is that he’s a reputable bookseller--the sort of person who will care for the book, treat it kindly, and sell it to a good home. He tells the girl as much, puts a little purr in his words, leans forward and sets a hand on his knee. It’s been a long time since he’s had the chance to do this; to seduce a seller, really.
She sees right through him.
“Mr. Specter,” she says. “Not that I don’t appreciate the attention, but I have a girlfriend.”
“She’s a lucky woman,” Harvey says, because that’s what you say when you’re trying to seduce someone who has a significant other. You don’t say: “But it’s okay, because I just want the book.”
Which is what Harvey addends, this time.
“Do you?” the woman--Elizabeth, her name is Elizabeth, and she doesn’t like nicknames--says. “And why is that?”
She’s not stupid--even if she weren’t doing grad studies at Columbia, that would be apparent. But Harvey’s not stupid, either, despite appearances to the contrary, so he just shrugs slightly.
“I promised someone,” he says, shunting his eyes away from Elizabeth’s. “I’d rather not say.”
She looks interested, but not entirely trusting, like she knows a liar when she sees one.
“Is that so?” she says, instead of something else.
Harvey sighs.
“I promised my appraiser I’d bring back something good,” he says, and Elizabeth peers at him. She wears plain, wire-rimmed glasses, and after a moment there’s something in her grey eyes.
“And this appraiser, what’s she like?” she asks.
“He--” Harvey corrects, and she peers at him again.
“You’re the one--” she says. “You’re the one with the movie star appraiser.”
That is--
“True,” Harvey says.
“I’m sure he could pay,” Elizabeth says, glancing at the book. It’s pristine, laid out on the coffee table in front of Harvey like it’s waiting for him.
“You let your girlfriend pay for her presents?” Harvey asks, and Elizabeth laughs.
The sale is his.
The rest of it isn’t, yet.
Harvey goes back to the shop and puts the book of the stockroom table, even though he’s not entirely sure how they’ll price it--if they’ll price it at all. Mike is there, perched on one of the stools.
“Oh,” he says. “Get me anything good?”
And Harvey says, “Yes. Though I’m not sure if it’s appraisable, exactly.”
“Seven hundred,” Mike says, looking at the autographed cover plate and then up at Harvey. The stockroom is still and quiet. “Seven twenty-five, maybe.”
“But it will appreciate value,” Harvey says. “It’s the sort of thing you keep around.”
“So what are you going to do with it?” Mike asks.
“Keep it around,” Harvey says. “If you’ll let me.”
Mike blinks at him, slow and liquid.
“You--” Harvey says. “You told me to get you something good. It’s yours.”
“Harvey,” Mike says. “How much did you pay for this? I can’t--”
“You can,” Harvey says. “It’s already yours.”
And then Harvey leaves. It was just five hundred dollars. He’s spent more on people he liked less, but he’s not sure how to say that, because while Harvey’s always been good at quick, easy seductions, this both complex and delicate. Mike could dissolve at any moment, back to Hollywood and movies and a life that’s well outside of Harvey’s realm of dusty books and estate sales. Harvey likes his life, but he knows its bounds. Sometimes it seems like they were drawn around him the day he got into fisticuffs outside Hardman & Associates and convinced the law firms of New York and himself that Harvey Specter didn’t play well with others. Now he’s a big fish in a pond that’s small and shrinking.
Harvey shakes it off, though, goes up to the front counter. Donna looks up at him.
“You look like someone just kicked your puppy,” she says. “Or your balls.”
“I’m just thinking,” Harvey says, and Donna pulls a face.
“You think?” she asks. “And here I thought you ran on blood and instinct.”
“I do that, too,” Harvey says.
“You got the book,” Donna says.
“I gave it to Mike,” Harvey replies, and Donna’s mouth forms a silent ‘O.’ There’s a sound from the back that could only be Mike leaving the stockroom, and then they get a customer.
“Hello--” Harvey says, and then Donna jumps up. “Can I help you?”
Donna rarely helps the customers with anything beyond ringing them up, and Harvey twists to look at her. She stares pointedly to the stacks, where Mike is standing, holding ‘Infinite Jest’ and looking--looking--
“Donna will help you,” Harvey tells the customer, staring at Mike. He doesn’t know--he doesn’t know. He goes to him.
“So,” Mike says. “I, shit, look--I think I know where you were going with the whole book thing, but, you know, apologies if I misinterpreted. It might be pretty awkward, but I just wanted to try something.”
And then Mike grabs Harvey’s tie, reels him in, and kisses him.
Mike kisses--Mike kisses like he’s been lost in the desert without water and Harvey is not an oasis but a mirage, something on the edge of hope. Mike kisses like he doesn’t know what he wants and also knows it exactly, sloppy around the edges and also completely focused.
Mike kisses perfectly, and too soon Harvey’s pressing him up against the shelves and rutting against him like a teenager, which is something Harvey hasn’t been in a long time. But Mike--Mike.
“Oh, good,” Mike says when they pull apart. “I was right.”
He sounds so cavalier that Harvey has to make a rebuttal, dipping his mouth to Mike’s jawline, to the soft spot where his neck meets his ear, and sucking until the only sounds coming out of Mike’s mouth are pleased whimperings. Mike’s grip on Harvey’s hips tightens and his breath shudders a little and--
“Well,” Donna says. “This will be good for publicity.”
Harvey would turn to look at her, but Mike’s cheeks are pink and his pupils are blown, and there’s a pink spot on his jaw that almost--almost--means he belongs to Harvey, and that’s something that needs to be finish.
“Donna,” Harvey says, trying to school his voice into something that doesn’t sound like what he’s thinking about. “Can you mind the store?”
“You owe me, Specter,” she says.
And then Harvey and Mike slip out for an actual nooner, and the Post can say whatever the hell it wants.
epilogue: 6801 hollywood boulevard
Harvey is preening in the limo, and Mike’s not sure if it’s hot or insufferable. It’s probably some combination of the two that is uniquely Harvey, who is kind of a ridiculous peacock.
“You do realize they want to see me, right?” Mike says. “I’m the movie star. You’re the one who didn’t want any press.”
“That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t look good if I get it,” Harvey says. “I’m the one who taught you that, plebe.”
His eyes do an admiring trawl up Mike’s body, and then he reaches for Mike’s tie. Mike probably should be paying Rene better.
“Mmm,” Mike says. “Not right now. We’re almost there.”
“I’m just fixing it,” Harvey says, and Mike lets him. Harvey’s fingers against his neck are familiar, scuffed with the fine lines of papercuts.
“Now, are you sure you’re ready for this?” Mike asks.
“Ready?” Harvey scoffs. “You’re the one who’s going to win or lose an Oscar.”
“There will be flashbulbs,” he says.
Harvey had, once, punched a paparazzo who followed them through Chinatown in the face.
“And I will be on my best behavior,” Harvey says. “Because I know after you win I’ll be the one debauching you. And only me.”
“You don’t think we could get Brad and Angie in on this action?” Mike asks. “Or--ah--who’s someone hot? Clooney? Zoe Saldana? I think Knightley has a nom.”
“Only if Brad shaves his face,” Harvey says, leaning forward a little. “But really, I don’t like sharing.”
His voice is low and husky and sends a small thrill running up Mike’s spine. Because, really, this is his, he’ll be the one debauching Harvey Specter tonight, whether as an Oscar winner or not.
“You really think I’ll win?” he asks, because they don’t really do the thing where they talk about what they mean to one another or whatever. Mostly they just leave hickeys on patches of exposed skin.
“You’re playing a bookseller,” Harvey says. “And you learned from the best. If you don’t win the Academy has their collective heads up their collective asses.”
“Which they might,” Mike says, and Harvey hushes him with a glance, and then with his mouth.
“We’re almost there,” Ray calls from the front. “We actually are there.”
And Mike holds up one hand, like that will do any good at all, but he wants to acknowledge that he heard, and it will just be a moment until he disentangles himself from Harvey. Or maybe the other way around. Harvey tastes like himself, and smells faintly of the cologne Donna told Mike to get him for Christmas, and really, this is good, this is right, this is what Mike needs to tumble out of the limo and not feel like an upstart or a freak, but like a person who deserves to be here and does, after all, have the best bookseller in New York (possibly the world) on his arm. And afterwards, they’ll go home together, no questions asked. The media already had that frenzy.
Harvey pulls away, and then reaches forward to adjust Mike’s tie again.
“There,” he says. “Perfect.”
They stumble out. There are flashbulbs and people with microphones, but mostly there’s Harvey’s hand on the small of Mike’s back, guiding him forward.
The next morning when Mike comes in Harvey has made a decision, and that decision is as follows: Harvey is good at delegation and also hates appraising just a little bit, and Mike is good at appraising and faster than anyone has any right to be, so he, Harvey, will delegate the appraising to Mike.
Mike blinks at him momentarily.
“Okay,” he says. He looks both pleased and surprised, which is pleasing and surprising.
By the time Donna gets in, Mike is already installed at the table in the stockroom, and Harvey is in the front (where he belongs) working with the small trickle of early, elderly customers.
“Wonder boy come in this morning?” Donna asks, depositing three coffee cups on the counter. “I brought him a cup.”
“He’s in the back,” Harvey says, jabbing a thumb towards the stockroom door. Surprise flashes across Donna’s face, but then she schools her expression into something else.
“So you trust him?” she asks.
“I’ll check his work,” Harvey says, which is not an answer to the question, precisely. “And do the final pricing.”
“Of course you will,” Donna says.
And Harvey does, when Mike emerges from the stockroom looking a little ruffled and bleary.
“They’re ready for final prices, Harvey,” he says. “And I’m ready for lunch.”
“I think Schnitzel & Things is coming our way today,” Donna says.
“She knows, because she stalks them on twitter,” Harvey corrects.
“Good for you not calling it ‘the twitter,’ old man,” Donna mutters, then turns to Mike. “You want some meat that’s been breaded and fried?”
“Yes,” he breathes. “But I can--ah--stay here.”
Harvey looks at him strangely for a moment before he realizes what’s going on. Mike shows up most mornings early, with sunglasses at the very least; he knows Harvey didn’t want star stalkers, and he’s trying not to attract attention.
“Any allergies?” Donna asks. “Anything you don’t like?”
“No, I’m easy,” Mike says. He says it like--he says it like he knows there’s a joke there, and he wants someone to make it. Harvey looks up at him, and Mike catches his eye and grins.
It’s uncomfortable. Harvey knows a come on when he sees one, but it doesn’t seem right that this is--now, here, from Mike. He’s fairly certain it must be something else.
Mike, he reminds himself, is an actor.
“The veal for me,” Harvey says. “And fries and beet salad.”
And then Harvey goes to the stockroom to price the books. Mike has stacked the new ones neatly, and they all have post-its on the cover with a price scrawled in handwriting that manages to skirt the edge of legible. It’s not until the eighth book that Harvey needs to fetch Mike, who’s sitting in the shelves chatting with a customer.
Harvey can’t help it.
He spies.
And he finds out that Mike is not just good at appraising.
The customer is an elderly woman, and Mike is talking to her about her grandchildren, initially, and Harvey wants to cut in and tell him to close the damn sale already, but then Mike is talking to her about her grandchildren and what books they might like, and suddenly he’s selling her some comics and a box set of the Chronicles of Narnia, which--it’s a box set. It happens so circuitously that Harvey doesn’t quite see what happens, but when he reviews it in his head he can see: Mike is bright and honest and straightforward, and that’s how he sells. He just puts something out there, suggests it, has a conversation, lets the customer mull. Lets the customer trust him.
It’s not Harvey’s style by a long shot, because Harvey’s always been prone to strong arming customers into things rather than relying on them to reach the right conclusion on their own, but what Mike’s doing works.
Harvey wonders why Mike even thought he needed training, and then, when the books are safely ensconced in brown paper in the woman’s bag, goes to get Mike to tell him whether that’s a seven or a four, there.
When Donna comes back they’re still in the backroom, and Mike’s interrogating Harvey about his pricing philosophy.
“It’s about the whole book,” Harvey is saying. “The entirety of it. Some books have a certain mystique. And you can sell them for above market value, because people will just want them, even if they’re foxed or not quite right. You just need to wait for the right person, then.”
“And other books?” Mike asks.
“Other books can be the same,” he says. “But you have to wait longer. It’s about weighing how long you’ll have to wait against everything else.”
“Harvey,” Donna says. “There’s no one up front.”
“Oh, shit,” Mike mutters. “I should’ve--”
Harvey tries not to look too uncomfortable, but it makes him feel uncomfortable. He should probably be angrier than he is, but he did realize that bringing Mike to the stockroom would mean that no one was in the front of the shop, and he hadn’t heard anyone come in, so--
“I know,” he says after a moment.
Donna arches an eyebrow, then hands him a box.
“Here’s your schnitzel,” she says. “Mike, I got the same for you.”
Mike eats up front with Donna while Harvey finishes pricing the books, trying to balance everything against everything else. He suspects he’s being too nice. He is pretty sure he was meaner than this as recently as yesterday. It makes him feel soft and uncertain. Mike Ross, he reminds himself, is an actor. And he could be any number of things in addition to that, but it’s not like Harvey knows what those are.
That maybe explains why Harvey finds a RedBox and rents ‘The Catcher in the Rye’ even though Donna claims he’s already seen it. He probably has, he vaguely remembers seeing it and hating it, but he just doesn’t always pay much attention to movies.
This time he pays attention. Holden Caulfield is Mike, or maybe it’s the other way around. The internet claims it was Mike Ross’s breakout role, and he is the throbbing center of the movie: present in every scene, only slightly obscured by the character he’s playing. He was younger, then, than he is now: young and soft-faced with eyes that are sometimes hooded and sometimes flashing intelligence.
It’s fascinating.
It’s strange, because it is such a different Mike from the one Harvey has interacted with, even though they share something, and, furthermore, it’s strange to have Mike’s face sprawled across the television while Harvey unselfconsciously watches it--him. He moves differently as Holden Caulfield, but not quite differently enough.
It doesn’t really answer any of Harvey questions, and once the DVD is back in its case, Harvey doesn’t know what to do with it--with the experience as a whole. He returns the DVD the next morning, goes to the store and tries not to think too hard about anything, really. Except about Mike’s clothes.
“Seriously, though,” he says, because this is the third day Mike has shown up in a different, ill-fitting suit. “Where do you get these? Can you not see the difference between what I’m wearing and what you’re wearing?”
Mike looks down at his body like he’d forgotten it was attached to his head.
“I think it’s Prada,” he says, then looks at Harvey. “Your suits wouldn’t fit me, either.”
“No,” Harvey says. “They fit me, which is the point. A suit should fit the man it belongs to.”
“I don’t see what the big deal is,” Mike says. “It’s just clothes.”
“The clothes,” Harvey breathes. “Make the man. And I can’t believe you’re making Prada look like that.”
“It might not be,” Mike says. “I’m not sure.”
Harvey is not even going to dignify that with a reply, which is why it’s a good thing that that’s when Donna appears, with coffee.
“Donna,” he says. “Thank you.”
“I only bring you coffee because you’re so grateful,” she says. “It’s sweet.”
“I don’t care why, as long as you do,” Harvey mutters as Donna passes another cup to Mike. “One cup in the morning is not enough.”
“Harvey likes to pretend I get to work late but we actually space out our arrival so that he can have his coffee fix at the appropriate interval,” Donna says to Mike. “He’s like a child.”
“That explains some of his behaviour,” Mike says speculatively.
“Get thee to the stock room,” Harvey mutters, and Mike laughs and goes, bringing his coffee with him.
Donna sidles over to Harvey’s side as Mike disappears, and there’s a moment where they’re both watching him like--something.
“You know someone’s going to figure out that Mike Ross is working here sooner or later,” she says. “And probably sooner.”
“Our clientele doesn’t overlap with the sort of person who sells gossip to tabloids,” Harvey says.
“I’m just saying,” Donna says. “You can’t keep him in the stockroom forever, and some shutterbug is going to follow him here, or see him coming in, and then it’s going to be news, at least for Page Six. They already caught him at one of the food carts a few blocks away.”
“You read Page Six,” Harvey says.
“Of course I read Page Six,” Donna says.
“You get the Post and you read Page Six,” Harvey says, just to clarify.
“And they had a picture of Mike Ross buying coffee from the cart that Priya’s new boyfriend runs, and I really have to tell him not to go there.”
“You need to stop being intimately involved in the lives of street vendors,” Harvey says, finally.
“You need to remember that your new pet appraiser is a movie star,” Donna says, and that’s the end of that, really.
Harvey goes out on the floor to sell some people some fucking books, because that’s his job, really.
It is not his fault when Rachel spills her orange juice on Mike twenty-three minutes later, but he has to say that if it ruins that suit he doesn’t really mind. Mike doesn’t look like he minds terribly, either. Rachel is as close as she gets to apologetic, and Mike keeps telling her it doesn’t matter, it’s just a stupid suit that he’s pretty sure isn’t Prada.
“It’s Prada?” Rachel says, shooting a glance in Harvey’s direction.
“It’s awful,” he mouths at her, and she nods incrementally.
“It’s probably not,” Mike says. “I don’t know. Harvey says it doesn’t fit.”
“It doesn’t,” Harvey and Rachel say simultaneously.
“You can’t wear that for the rest of the day,” Harvey says, finally.
“I can just--I’m renting a place in Red Hook.”
“In Brooklyn?” Harvey says.
“It’s where I got my start,” Mike says, shrugging slightly. “In a theater there.”
Harvey studies Mike for a moment, because Harvey’s pretty sure Brooklyn wasn’t cool when Mike got his start.
“Okay,” he says. “Come with me. Rachel, you and Donna can take care of the store?”
Rachel salutes him, and it’s only about forty-five percent sarcastic, which isn’t half bad.
“We’ll be back soon,” Harvey says. “Or soon enough. Donna, call Rene. And Ray.”
“Rene,” Mike echoes, sounding a little dazed. Harvey realizes that he’s holding Mike by the elbow like he expects him to collapse, and drops his elbow, mostly in surprise.
“We’re going to get you a clean shirt,” Harvey says. “And then we’re going to get you at least one suit that fits.”
“It’s like you planned this,” Mike says.
“This is part of your training,” Harvey says.
“Since when?”
“Since now,” Harvey concludes, and he dares Mike to contradict him.
Which Mike doesn’t.
Harvey’s apartment is close, and he feels like he’s smuggling Mike in, even though no one looks twice at them in the street. It is, after all, New York, and they’re north of the most touristed areas. Even if someone recognized Mike, it wouldn’t do to show it.
“You live here?” Mike asks, when they get to the foyer. Harvey would say it’s only a little intimidating, but he doesn’t actually look around that often.
“Rent controlled,” Harvey says, and Mike mutters something that sounds like ‘lucky bastard.’ Harvey resist the urge to remind Mike how much money the imdb forums claim he was paid for his last movie, the one where he was a cross-dressing alien.
But only just. Only because telling Mike would mean letting Mike know he looked him up on, not just Wikipedia, but also imdb. In the forums, which are a cesspool of humanity if there wever was one.
Harvey’s apartment isn’t large, but it has the Window, which is--large. It’s in the bedroom, almost an entire wall of glass, and while Harvey rifles through the closet Mike goes up and puts his hands to it, peering out.
“Fingerprints,” Harvey says, and Mike pulls back.
“People can’t see you?” he asks.
“Do you remember how long we were in the elevator?” Harvey asks. He knows he was something from Harvard here, and he was smaller, then.
“Speaking of, I can just wear whatever,” Mike says. “So we can get back.”
“We aren’t going back, we’re going to Rene’s,” Harvey says, and throws a wadded up Harvard Law t-shirt across the room. “Put that on.”
Mike ducks and catches it neatly, then peels off his own shirt right there. It’s not a big deal. Harvey’s seen another man’s chest before, at the gym and here. But it’s somehow worse because they are here, Mike’s in Harvey’s bedroom, and usually if Harvey sees another man’s chest there they are going to have sex. If Harvey sees anyone’s chest there they are going to have sex, really.
It’s just a fact.
Mike doesn’t seem to notice, and Harvey tries to look past his chest to the window, or at least to look like he’s looking past Mike’s chest to the window. Mike is lean, but his chest is defined, and he looks--flexible.
His pants are too big, and sit low on his hips. There’s a sharp jut of bones pointing down, and that’s what catches Harvey’s eye now: the angle of the bones, the sprinkling of hair between. It’s--nice. It’s something. Harvey suspects that there are shirtless scenes in Mike Ross’s more recent movies.
The movie thing is what stops Harvey from thinking about it any more. Mike Ross probably has legions of teenage fans. Harvey is pretty sure he does have legions of teenage fans, and they run a website and draw Mike’s face in hearts. Mike Ross is the kind of person people lust after, and Harvey Specter is too old to have a crush on a movie star.
He’s too old to have a crush, period, end of discussion.
“I guess it fits,” Mike says, and that interrupts Harvey’s thoughts further.
Mike Ross in Harvey’s shirt is, in many ways, worse than Mike Ross in no shirt at all. The shirt belongs to Harvey. It’s something he’s had for ages, thin from Harvey sleeping in it and just tight enough--
“Harvard Law?” Mike asks.
“Yeah,” Harvey says, and if his voice is a little husky, it’s not. “I went there.”
“I wanted to study law, once,” Mike says mildly.
“What happened?” Harvey asks, fixing his eyes on Mike’s face.
“Life,” Mike says in a way that discourages further questioning, and Harvey realizes there are a lot of things about Mike that he doesn’t know. They only met a few days ago. This shouldn’t be as surprising as it it; as it is, it serves as a reminder that Harvey doesn’t know Mike well enough to have a crush on him, either.
“Come on,” he says, and they take the elevator down in silence, and when they get outside Ray is waiting for them.
“Ray, this is--”
“Mike Ross,” Ray interrupts. “I know. Pleasure to meet you, wife’s a big fan.”
Mike takes it well, and offers to sign something, an offer Ray refuses.
“She’ll be happy just to know you were in the cab,” he says. “Besides, what would we do with a piece of paper with your name on it?”
“I don’t actually know,” Mike says, and then laughs in surprise. “I wouldn’t be surprised if a lot of people put them in some drawer until they forget about it and then throw it out. Except when I sign boobs--”
He laughs uncomfortably and shifts a little on the bench. Harvey remembers that Mike’s probably straight--though, honestly, around Harvey is anyone really straight?--and even if he isn’t, he probably plays straight for Hollywood. That’s what you do, isn’t it? Unless you’re Neil Patrick Harris. But if you’re Neil Patrick Harris you’re married and have two children.
But that entire line of reasoning began with something Harvey is not supposed to think about.
By then they’re at Rene’s, anyway, and Mike is looking at Harvey skeptically.
“I can’t believe you’ve never been to a tailor,” Harvey says. “Seriously.”
Harvey looks at ties while Rene takes Mike’s measurements, and when Mike comes out he distinctly uncomfortable.
“That was--an experience,” he says.
“Now you can do a movie about properly fitting clothes,” Harvey replies. “Doesn’t the costume department measure you?”
“Not quite so--intimately,” Mike says. “Also without such a large price tag.”
“I’ll pay for it, if you don’t want to,” Harvey says. “But you need to buy something.”
“In case you haven't heard, I'm in the talkies,” Mike says. “I make a little money. I can afford some new togs.”
“Okay, historically inaccurate Jay Gatsby,” Harvey says, and Mike laughs.
“Keep me away from girls named Daisy, and swimming pools,” he says, then glances at Harvey. “Nothing will actually be ready until tomorrow, you know.”
“Sure,” Harvey says, because that’s about what he expected, and then Ray drives them back uptown, and they slip into the bookstore and Donna takes one look at Mike’s shirt and gives Harvey a look, and that's how they finish the day.
“Where’d you get that?” Rachel asks when she sees him, but she’s looking at Harvey.
“Harvey lent it to me,” Mike says. “Thanks, by the way.”
“You can keep it,” Harvey replies without thinking. He probably shouldn’t offer--this whole thing is a bundle of things he shouldn’t be doing, though.
‘Thanks,” Mike says after a moment, looking at Harvey with a strange expression on his face.
The rest of the day passes uneventfully, and Mike mostly sticks to the backroom, and after everyone leaves Harvey locks the shop and walks home, whistling.
And that’s how Harvey Specter winds up on Page Six. Not the whistling. Before that.
Page Six: Mike Ross was seen emerging from an uptown apartment building with a dapperly dressed older man--was Holden Caulfield slipping out for a nooner with a New York City businessman? More on this story as it develops. - The New York Post
At least they called him a ‘dapperly dressed.’
And you can’t see his face.
It’s only after Donna calls Harvey, and Harvey goes to the kiosk three blocks south of his apartment and picks up a copy of the Post that Harvey realizes he doesn’t have Mike’s number. There’s no way to contact him, to ask if this is going to be a problem, if he has some sort of publicity person managing this. Mike’s never given any indication of having a celebrity entourage--he clearly doesn’t have a stylist--but this is the sort of thing that Harvey suspects might matter. Mike’s career hasn’t yet reached its zenith. It might not. Harvey doesn’t know enough about Hollywood to know what matters and what doesn’t, but, well, it’s a pretty big picture. Bigger than the one of Mike buying coffee, anyway. Harvey went to Donna’s to check the back issues of the Post, for comparison. In exchange, he had told her what happened, which was nothing, really.
He figures all he has to do is go to the shop the next morning and wait to see what happens, but that means--waiting. It’s not something Harvey’s good at.
Donna comes in and hands him a cup of coffee.
“Nothing happened,” he says. “That should make it easier to spin.”
“You’re right,” Donna says. “It should. But not if it’s already spun.”
“Are they going to figure out who I am?” Harvey asks.
“I’m not telling them,” Donna replies, sipping her coffee. “And Mike’s not, either. It wasn’t a good picture of you.”
“I looked a little paunchy, I think,” Harvey says, and Donna gives him a glare.
“That’s what you’re going to worry about, now?” she asks. “You liked the kid.”
It might be an understatement, but Harvey doesn’t want to delve into that.
“Was there anyone outside your building?” Donna asks suddenly. “This morning. Photographers or anything.”
Harvey looks at her, now.
“Fuck,” he whispers. “I hope not. I should’ve thought of that.”
“You probably should have,” Donna agrees, and Harvey pushes his fingers up to his forehead, rubbing his temples like that will resolve the issue.
“A lot of people live in that building,” he says. “A lot of them dress like me. As long as Mike’s not there--”
“Probably,” Donna says, but she sounds more like she’s trying to placate Harvey than like she’s entirely certain.
Mike doesn’t come in that day. Harvey might not be a surprised, but--it still feels a little like he’s sleepwalking through the day, waiting to wake up.
What surprises him more is how quickly Mike had come to seem important, maybe even vital. Without him it feels like something’s missing from the entire operation, when nothing felt like it was missing before. Now the store is too quiet, and appraising is too slow (“It’s not like he was going to be your permanent appraiser, you dumbass,” Donna mutters. “Don’t look so depressed.”) and everything’s a bit empty.
They get a call from Mike’s agent, a woman named Jennifer Griffiths, but not until the next day. She calls immediately after Harvey opens the door, and Harvey almost wonders if Mike told her the precise time to call to catch Harvey before anyone else arrived.
Harvey’s not sure why Mike would do that, though.
“Mr. Specter,” she begins. “My client would just like to apologize--”
“I’m not going to tell anyone anything,” Harvey interjects. “You can spin it any way you want.”
“Mike just wanted to apologize,” Jennifer continues, her voice a little strained. “If the recent press brought your establishment any unwanted attention.”
“No,” Harvey says. “Thank you.”
And then he hangs up. He doesn’t know what there’s left to say.
“You hung up,” Donna says when she gets in.
Harvey turns to look at her.
“You hung up,” she repeats. “You didn’t ask to talk to Mike.”
“You think Mike was there?”
“Harvey,” she says. “Harvey.”
“I hadn’t had my second coffee yet. If Mike was there he would’ve known that.”
“That’s what you’re going to go with?” Donna says. “I hate to break it to you, but I don’t think you would’ve cut it as a lawyer.”
“I would’ve if I had coffee in an IV,” Harvey mumbles, clutching at his cup and swallowing two hot gulps.
“I’m going to star sixty-nine it,” she says.
“And say what?” Harvey asks.
“That Mike can come back if he wants to,” Donna says. “Which is what you should’ve said.”
“He obviously doesn’t want to come back.”
“Obviously,” Donna says. “Whatever intelligence you had has fled. Aren’t you supposed to be suave and confident?”
“Would you like me to go out and seduce someone?” Harvey asks. “I’ve been trying to cut back on liquor expenditures.”
“Of course you have, dear,” Donna says, and then she takes the phone off the hook and jabs quickly at the three keys.
“Hello,” she says. “Is this--? I’m calling from Spectre Books, and we’d just like to say--Mike’s welcome back any time.”
“And Rene’s wondering when he’ll pick up his suits,” Harvey adds.
“And Rene’s wondering when he’ll pick up his suits,” Donna adds. “If you could pass that along. Thank you.”
And then Donna hangs up, shrugs a little.
“At least that’s taken care now,” she says, looking at Harvey. “Good job putting your foot in it, there. He probably thought you were pissed about your getting caught Candid camera.”
“They didn’t even name me,” Harvey says.
“But they might, eventually,” Donna says. “If he keeps coming. And you told him that you didn’t want any paparazzi, didn’t you?”
“I don’t want any paparazzi,” Harvey says.
“They’ll come,” Donna says. “Build it, and they will come. Is that okay? Are you going to be okay with that, if he comes back?”
Harvey looks at her.
“Weigh it,” Donna says. “I know you like him, at least a little. This is part and parcel.”
Harvey looks at her, and Donna just looks back. She knows everything.
“I have an auction to get to,” Harvey says, and goes.
When he gets back he retreats again to the stockroom, goes through his own, slow, appraisal process while simultaneously trying to appraise the situation at hand, or maybe not at hand. Maybe it will all slip away.
It’s about the whole of the book, he thinks, flipping through a small volume with a soft brown cover. The story, the sentimental value, the stains. The way everything fits together.
Maybe Mike will come back, maybe he won’t, but Harvey will cross that bridge when he comes to it. If they come to it.
Mike is there the next morning.
“I’m afraid I did some appraising while you were gone,” Harvey says, and Mike grins until Harvey thinks his face is going to break.
“Rene says hello,” Mike says, doing a little twirl on the sidewalk. Harvey stops and looks at him, then.
His suit fits. His ass is perfect.
Harvey doesn’t look at it.
“Your suit fits,” Harvey says. “But your tie is still too damn skinny.”
It has been some time since Harvey had sex.
“Look, sorry I disappeared,” Mike says. “I just thought--I know you didn’t want the paps lurking around here.”
Harvey should tell Mike that it’s okay, that it doesn’t matter, that Mike’s been good for the store and he can stay as long as he likes. It’s just a little much, right now.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, instead.
And just like that, Mike’s back.
“You can do a press release, if you want,” Donna tells Mike when she arrives. Mike glances at Harvey.
“We wouldn’t need to release the particular store,” he says. “Though the intrepid would still find it.”
“Would that be good?” Harvey asks, looking at Mike. “I mean--was the first picture a scandal?”
“Minor,” Mike says, grinning a little. “They weren’t exactly the first pictures if you know what I mean.”
“They weren’t--” Harvey starts.
“The others were a little more scandalous.”
“I think I remember that,” Donna says suddenly. “Were they the ones--”
“With my friend Trevor,” Mike says. “Someone got them off Myspace, we were about sixteen. It was a shitty thing, all around, but the facts were there from the start. And then I dated Jen for a little, and--we don’t need to lay my dating history out, here. Let’s talk about Harvey’s.”
“Harvey doesn’t date,” Donna says. “So much as he--you know.”
“I have dated,” Harvey protests. “But that was a graceless segue, Mike, and I’m not going to humor you.”
“Can I come with you to a sale?” Mike asks suddenly.
And Harvey says: “Sure.”
There’s an estate sale two days later. Ray picks them up and glances at Mike for about half a second before reverting to normal.
“So what do we do, at estate sales?” Mike asks.
“We hope Louis isn’t there,” Harvey replies. “And we find something good.”
Louis is there.
They find something good. It’s part of a lot--Harvey sees it first, and he elbows Mike, and then Louis appears, peering between them.
“Who is this, Harvey?”
“New appraiser, we’re working with,” Harvey says, nodding between them. “Mike, Louis.”
Mike offers a hand, and Louis takes it and holds it for a moment too long, studying his face.
“I’ve seen you somewhere,” he says.
“Have you?” Mike asks.
“New York’s a big city,” Harvey says, and they move on.
They’re halfway through the sale before someone else says it.
“Mike Ross,” says a middle-aged woman. “My granddaughter loves you. Can I--may I--?”
“Yes,” Mike says, producing a pen and paper himself. “Of course. And what’s her name?”
Louis is staring. He must have heard--he was stalking Harvey, as he does, and now his eyes are narrowed.
“Mike Ross,” he echoes, but he’s looking at Harvey, not Mike.
They get the lot, and take the subway home, which is the way of it.
“You going to carry that box all the way back?” Mike asks, when they’re on the sidewalk. He slides sideways a little, and bumps his shoulder into Harvey’s.
“So you put out for little old women,” Harvey says, and Mike laughs a little, halfway between light and strained.
“Oh, you know,” he says. “For a while, it was just my gram and me.”
“For a while?” Harvey asks.
“Still, really,” Mike says. “The dictionary was for her.”
“Oh,” Harvey says, and he’s not sure what else to ask. There was a time when he would’ve said something, just to keep the conversation moving. He’s not sure why that time isn’t now.
They walk the rest of the block to the subway in silence. It’s midday and empty, so they find two seats, shoulder to shoulder, with space for the box by Harvey’s side.
It’s Mike, on his other side, that makes Harvey feel a little stiff and uncomfortable. Travelling with a box of books he’s used to, even though every box might--may--could--contain gold. Travelling with Mike, who slowly falls into a slump of sleep against Harvey’s shoulder--that’s something unusual.
Mike already contains gold.
Harvey jostles Mike awake when they get to their stop, and Mike blinks up at him blearily.
“Sorry,” he says.
“I’ll carry the box,” Mike adds.
Harvey lets Mike carry the box for half a block before he takes it.
Page Six: An anonymous tip tells us that Mike Ross has been working as an appraiser with a certain bookseller at the corner of 76th & Lexington. Is the actor trying to become the next James Franco? - The New York Post
The world doesn’t end, surprisingly, though Donna makes Harvey call Mike’s agent and get his number, so he can tell him that.
“You can come in today, if you want,” is what Harvey ends up telling Mike, and Mike says, “Okay.”
The bookstore does get busier, and Harvey has to call in Rachel even though it’s technically her day off, but it’s New York. No one salivates--nothing breaks. There are the obvious lurkers, and Mike handles most of those himself, and the rest seem to be more along the lines of--curious bystanders. Who can be persuaded to buy books. It’s really, stupidly, not a big deal. Sometime around lunch Mike catches Harvey’s eye from across the store, looking uncomfortable, and nods quickly at him. He hopes it conveys what he wants it to convey--that this is okay, that they’re okay, that Louis is a shithead who got them more customers.
It looks like Mike gets it. And so they move forward, into another day.
“Meeting with a seller today,” Harvey says the next morning, once the coffee is downed and the world is beginning to look a bit more manageable, even with their increased customer base.
“You going to get me something good?” Mike asks, and something about the way he says it--it startles Harvey.
It startles him a lot, actually. It makes his stomach drop like a promise, more overt than anything that’s come before.
“Of course,” Harvey says, because that’s the only thing there is to say.
The object--the book--is an autographed first edition of ‘Infinite Jest.’ It’s the sort of thing you take risks for; something everyone knows is worth something, but also with the potential to increase in value dramatically. It is, after all, David Foster Wallace. Harvey tries not to salivate. The situation is as complex and delicate as one of Wallace’s sentences.
The woman selling the book is a graduate student who looks like she would rather not. What Harvey has going for him, more than anything, is that he’s a reputable bookseller--the sort of person who will care for the book, treat it kindly, and sell it to a good home. He tells the girl as much, puts a little purr in his words, leans forward and sets a hand on his knee. It’s been a long time since he’s had the chance to do this; to seduce a seller, really.
She sees right through him.
“Mr. Specter,” she says. “Not that I don’t appreciate the attention, but I have a girlfriend.”
“She’s a lucky woman,” Harvey says, because that’s what you say when you’re trying to seduce someone who has a significant other. You don’t say: “But it’s okay, because I just want the book.”
Which is what Harvey addends, this time.
“Do you?” the woman--Elizabeth, her name is Elizabeth, and she doesn’t like nicknames--says. “And why is that?”
She’s not stupid--even if she weren’t doing grad studies at Columbia, that would be apparent. But Harvey’s not stupid, either, despite appearances to the contrary, so he just shrugs slightly.
“I promised someone,” he says, shunting his eyes away from Elizabeth’s. “I’d rather not say.”
She looks interested, but not entirely trusting, like she knows a liar when she sees one.
“Is that so?” she says, instead of something else.
Harvey sighs.
“I promised my appraiser I’d bring back something good,” he says, and Elizabeth peers at him. She wears plain, wire-rimmed glasses, and after a moment there’s something in her grey eyes.
“And this appraiser, what’s she like?” she asks.
“He--” Harvey corrects, and she peers at him again.
“You’re the one--” she says. “You’re the one with the movie star appraiser.”
That is--
“True,” Harvey says.
“I’m sure he could pay,” Elizabeth says, glancing at the book. It’s pristine, laid out on the coffee table in front of Harvey like it’s waiting for him.
“You let your girlfriend pay for her presents?” Harvey asks, and Elizabeth laughs.
The sale is his.
The rest of it isn’t, yet.
Harvey goes back to the shop and puts the book of the stockroom table, even though he’s not entirely sure how they’ll price it--if they’ll price it at all. Mike is there, perched on one of the stools.
“Oh,” he says. “Get me anything good?”
And Harvey says, “Yes. Though I’m not sure if it’s appraisable, exactly.”
“Seven hundred,” Mike says, looking at the autographed cover plate and then up at Harvey. The stockroom is still and quiet. “Seven twenty-five, maybe.”
“But it will appreciate value,” Harvey says. “It’s the sort of thing you keep around.”
“So what are you going to do with it?” Mike asks.
“Keep it around,” Harvey says. “If you’ll let me.”
Mike blinks at him, slow and liquid.
“You--” Harvey says. “You told me to get you something good. It’s yours.”
“Harvey,” Mike says. “How much did you pay for this? I can’t--”
“You can,” Harvey says. “It’s already yours.”
And then Harvey leaves. It was just five hundred dollars. He’s spent more on people he liked less, but he’s not sure how to say that, because while Harvey’s always been good at quick, easy seductions, this both complex and delicate. Mike could dissolve at any moment, back to Hollywood and movies and a life that’s well outside of Harvey’s realm of dusty books and estate sales. Harvey likes his life, but he knows its bounds. Sometimes it seems like they were drawn around him the day he got into fisticuffs outside Hardman & Associates and convinced the law firms of New York and himself that Harvey Specter didn’t play well with others. Now he’s a big fish in a pond that’s small and shrinking.
Harvey shakes it off, though, goes up to the front counter. Donna looks up at him.
“You look like someone just kicked your puppy,” she says. “Or your balls.”
“I’m just thinking,” Harvey says, and Donna pulls a face.
“You think?” she asks. “And here I thought you ran on blood and instinct.”
“I do that, too,” Harvey says.
“You got the book,” Donna says.
“I gave it to Mike,” Harvey replies, and Donna’s mouth forms a silent ‘O.’ There’s a sound from the back that could only be Mike leaving the stockroom, and then they get a customer.
“Hello--” Harvey says, and then Donna jumps up. “Can I help you?”
Donna rarely helps the customers with anything beyond ringing them up, and Harvey twists to look at her. She stares pointedly to the stacks, where Mike is standing, holding ‘Infinite Jest’ and looking--looking--
“Donna will help you,” Harvey tells the customer, staring at Mike. He doesn’t know--he doesn’t know. He goes to him.
“So,” Mike says. “I, shit, look--I think I know where you were going with the whole book thing, but, you know, apologies if I misinterpreted. It might be pretty awkward, but I just wanted to try something.”
And then Mike grabs Harvey’s tie, reels him in, and kisses him.
Mike kisses--Mike kisses like he’s been lost in the desert without water and Harvey is not an oasis but a mirage, something on the edge of hope. Mike kisses like he doesn’t know what he wants and also knows it exactly, sloppy around the edges and also completely focused.
Mike kisses perfectly, and too soon Harvey’s pressing him up against the shelves and rutting against him like a teenager, which is something Harvey hasn’t been in a long time. But Mike--Mike.
“Oh, good,” Mike says when they pull apart. “I was right.”
He sounds so cavalier that Harvey has to make a rebuttal, dipping his mouth to Mike’s jawline, to the soft spot where his neck meets his ear, and sucking until the only sounds coming out of Mike’s mouth are pleased whimperings. Mike’s grip on Harvey’s hips tightens and his breath shudders a little and--
“Well,” Donna says. “This will be good for publicity.”
Harvey would turn to look at her, but Mike’s cheeks are pink and his pupils are blown, and there’s a pink spot on his jaw that almost--almost--means he belongs to Harvey, and that’s something that needs to be finish.
“Donna,” Harvey says, trying to school his voice into something that doesn’t sound like what he’s thinking about. “Can you mind the store?”
“You owe me, Specter,” she says.
And then Harvey and Mike slip out for an actual nooner, and the Post can say whatever the hell it wants.
epilogue: 6801 hollywood boulevard
Harvey is preening in the limo, and Mike’s not sure if it’s hot or insufferable. It’s probably some combination of the two that is uniquely Harvey, who is kind of a ridiculous peacock.
“You do realize they want to see me, right?” Mike says. “I’m the movie star. You’re the one who didn’t want any press.”
“That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t look good if I get it,” Harvey says. “I’m the one who taught you that, plebe.”
His eyes do an admiring trawl up Mike’s body, and then he reaches for Mike’s tie. Mike probably should be paying Rene better.
“Mmm,” Mike says. “Not right now. We’re almost there.”
“I’m just fixing it,” Harvey says, and Mike lets him. Harvey’s fingers against his neck are familiar, scuffed with the fine lines of papercuts.
“Now, are you sure you’re ready for this?” Mike asks.
“Ready?” Harvey scoffs. “You’re the one who’s going to win or lose an Oscar.”
“There will be flashbulbs,” he says.
Harvey had, once, punched a paparazzo who followed them through Chinatown in the face.
“And I will be on my best behavior,” Harvey says. “Because I know after you win I’ll be the one debauching you. And only me.”
“You don’t think we could get Brad and Angie in on this action?” Mike asks. “Or--ah--who’s someone hot? Clooney? Zoe Saldana? I think Knightley has a nom.”
“Only if Brad shaves his face,” Harvey says, leaning forward a little. “But really, I don’t like sharing.”
His voice is low and husky and sends a small thrill running up Mike’s spine. Because, really, this is his, he’ll be the one debauching Harvey Specter tonight, whether as an Oscar winner or not.
“You really think I’ll win?” he asks, because they don’t really do the thing where they talk about what they mean to one another or whatever. Mostly they just leave hickeys on patches of exposed skin.
“You’re playing a bookseller,” Harvey says. “And you learned from the best. If you don’t win the Academy has their collective heads up their collective asses.”
“Which they might,” Mike says, and Harvey hushes him with a glance, and then with his mouth.
“We’re almost there,” Ray calls from the front. “We actually are there.”
And Mike holds up one hand, like that will do any good at all, but he wants to acknowledge that he heard, and it will just be a moment until he disentangles himself from Harvey. Or maybe the other way around. Harvey tastes like himself, and smells faintly of the cologne Donna told Mike to get him for Christmas, and really, this is good, this is right, this is what Mike needs to tumble out of the limo and not feel like an upstart or a freak, but like a person who deserves to be here and does, after all, have the best bookseller in New York (possibly the world) on his arm. And afterwards, they’ll go home together, no questions asked. The media already had that frenzy.
Harvey pulls away, and then reaches forward to adjust Mike’s tie again.
“There,” he says. “Perfect.”
They stumble out. There are flashbulbs and people with microphones, but mostly there’s Harvey’s hand on the small of Mike’s back, guiding him forward.