Harvey rapped twice on Peter's office door, entering without waiting for a response. Between the impatient forcefulness of the knock and the self-importance necessary to enter an FBI agent's office without permission, Peter was reasonably certain of his visitor's identity, even before he turned around to find Harvey skeptically looking around his office.

"I know you said you were in the closet at work, Peter," Harvey began smugly, "but I didn't know you meant literally. This place is tiny!"

"Oh, haha, very funny, Harvey," Peter shot back, though he was trying not to smile. "First of all, I'm not "in the closet"; it's just not something that I broadcast. We can't all work in a strange, parallel universe where all the male employees look like models, and there's someone having sex in every supply closet. I swear, every time I'm there, I feel like I should shower afterwards."

Harvey laughed appreciatively and said, sounding unabashedly proud, "Yeah, that's Pearson Hardman, for you. It's like Disneyland for adults."

"More like adult film stars..." Peter muttered under his breath.

"Now, that's not fair, Peter," Harvey said, bringing his hand to his chest in a gesture of mock hurt, "Chad and Jeremy only did those films to put themselves through Harvard Law. And they both assure me that their work on "Buggering the Witness," gave them a very firm grounding in objection procedure."

"Wait, you mean to say that you work with actual gay porn stars who also went to Harvard, and I'm stuck with Norm the mail guy who loses all my memos and keeps calling me Derek? I hate you."

"No," Harvey corrected, "You love me, because not only did I strong-arm my client into handing over their employee list, but I also brought you some of that Italian roast you're so crazy for."

Peter reached for the coffee, but Harvey pulled his arm back a few inches and said, "Uh-uh-uh, no coffee until you admit you love me."

"Fine, I love you, can I have the damn coffee?" Peter asked, grabbing the coffee from Harvey's hand as soon as it was in range.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything," came an amused voice from the doorway.

"Neal!" Peter exclaimed, his face turning slightly red, "Harvey, this is Neal, my C.I. Neal, this is Harvey Specter, a friend of mine - he was a great help on that big racketeering case we had a few months back. Harvey works at Pearson Hardman."

"Really?" Neal asked, his eyebrows slightly raised as he reached forward to shake Harvey's hand,, "I've heard some things about that place."

"Rest assured, they're all true," Harvey whispered conspiratorially as he took Neal's hand and gave him a little wink.

"Did you, um, need something Neal?" Peter asked, clearly perturbed by what sort of mischief an alliance as unholy as Harvey and Neal could manage if left to their own devices.

"No, no," Neal said, raising his hands nonchalantly while keeping his eyes on Harvey, "I just wanted to drop by and ask if you needed anything, but I see that you're...otherwise occupied."

"So nice to meet you, Neal," Harvey called out as Neal turned to leave, "By the way, that's a great suit."

Neal pivoted slowly on one heel and gave Harvey a once-over which was just a tad too prolonged for Peter's personal comfort level, "Thanks, yours too. Hugo Boss, Fall Collection?"

"You know your suits," Harvey said, his eyes lighting up in appreciation as they roamed once more over Neal's person. "Let me see, yours is quite unusual...vintage, but very high quality...I would venture a Dior, around 1968?"

"It is such a pleasure to meet a fellow aficionado," Neal said, his grin growing wider. "The lining of this one was hand-stitched by Christian himself, you know. Apparently my gracious landlady's late husband won it from him in a poker game. Care to feel a piece of sartorial history, Mr. Specter?" Neal extended his sleeve toward Harvey, as if offering him his arm.

"Oh, I would love to," Harvey began, his smile becoming increasingly shark-like, but upon receiving a surprisingly intense death glare from Peter, amended it to, "Perhaps another day."

"Anytime," Neal said, taking the time to flip a sleek, black fedora onto his head with a swift flick of his wrist before ambling back into the main block of offices.

"I didn't even notice he'd brought that in here!" Peter muttered in astonishment, shaking his head at Neal's retreating form.

After he'd finished watching Neal walk away, Harvey declared resolutely, "That's it, I want one."

"What do you mean, you want one?" Peter asked, confused and a little scared. "Harvey, what on earth would you do with a C.I?"

"One who looks like that?" Harvey asked, turning to Peter with an increasingly predatory grin, "Oh, the mind boggles."

"Well, if you're set on 'having one' as you put it, then you'll have to find one of your own, because Neal," at this point, Peter came dangerously close to saying is mine and had a feeling Harvey knew it, "...already has a job."

"Point taken," Harvey said, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. "However, I now officially have no sympathy for your terrible plight with Norm the Mail Guy; I would say that getting to work with that everyday," he continued, gesturing to the general area from whence Neal had departed, "more than tips the scales in your favor."

"Neal is not a that, he's a him, Harvey," Peter corrected primly.

"Ugh, debating semantics bores me, Peter," Harvey said with a wave of his hand. "Now, on the other hand, what interests me - just how built is he under that fantastic suit of his?"

Peter had sent Harvey a look which spoke volumes and let out an involuntary, "Mmmm..." before he could think to stop himself, and tried to recover with a firm, "We're colleagues, Harvey, nothing more."

"Did I imply otherwise?" Harvey said, his voice rife with mock hurt as he continued, peppering his speech with the liberal use of air quotes, "No, no, you're 'colleagues,' it's 'all business' between you. Believe me, I get it."

"No, really, Harvey, that's all it is!" Peter got the sinking feeling that nothing he said was going to do any good.

"Really, say no more about it, Peter. I understand completely," Harvey replied, in a way that would have been reassuring if not for the shark grin he was still flashing.

"Well, regardless of whatever incorrect assumptions you wish to keep making about my relationship with Neal," Peter interjected firmly, "the fact remains that you can't have him. Go find your own consultant to ogle."

"You know...I think I will," Harvey said slowly, his eyes suddenly alight with anticipation, his grin Chesire Cat-esque, "I mean, I've got the associate interviews this afternoon, anyway. I'm sure the indispensable Donna can find me a suitable candidate. You, Peter, are an absolute genius, remind me to tell you that more!"

"I didn't mean it as a serious suggestion, Harvey!" Peter exclaimed, "You can't just hire an associate because you think he's attractive!"

"Why not?" Harvey retorted, "Look, they're all Harvard Law graduates, which means they're all pretty much equally qualified on paper. Why shouldn't I pick one whose...personal qualities will make pulling long nights in the filing room a little more palatable?"

"You know, sometimes you are downright ridiculous, Harvey - do you realize this?" Peter asked.

"Well, I can't truthfully say I'm called ridiculous terribly often," Harvey mused, "unless it is immediately followed with '-ly good in bed'."

Peter barely resisted the instinctual urge to smack himself in the forehead with the hand not containing coffee.

"Still," continued Harvey, glancing at his watch, "I really do have interviews to prep for, so I suppose I'd better be off. Are we still on for lunch next week?"

"Yeah, does the park at 1:30 on Friday work?"

"Sound great. I'll be sure to give you a full update on my hiring decisions then," Harvey said, giving Peter a little wink before he turned to go.

"Harvey, you are downright incorrigible," Peter called after him.

Harvey popped his head back in the doorway, and said with a grin, "Now that one I will admit to being called. See you on Friday!"

With that, he was gone, and Peter was once again left with the unmistakable impression of having been momentarily placed in the path of a very charming tornado. Still, he supposed that was the price one paid for being friends with Harvey Specter.