The Five Times Harvey and Mike Slept Together

…and the one time they acknowledged it.


First Time—Las Vegas

The pain cracks through Mike's skull haunts him before he even opens his eyelids. His brain flutters into a state of awakening slowly, causing growing waves of agony to build and crash over his head in slow succession. The cadence quickens until he knows he's on the brink of vomiting, but he swallows it down in an attempt to save his own frayed dignity, forcing the acid back down his throat.

When he tries to open his eyes, letting thin cracks of sunlight filter through his eyelashes, his arm immediately moves to cover up his wounded visage and he lets out a low moan.

This is bad, he realises. This is very, very bad.

The lingering aroma of tequila and lime that would usually bring a grin to his face at the thought of all the stupid things he'd done under its influence made him gag. A tortured, "Fuck," passed through his lips as the hammer that had been pounding on his skull returned with its jackhammer friend to tag team on his hung-over head.

He took several steadying breaths, placing his mind somewhere else to help ignore the ache, and opened his eyes.

Mike almost passed out, taking in the overwhelming brightness of the room and the light streaming in from the partially opened curtains. He blinked several times at what was possibly the most blinding sight his eyes had ever taken in, and then wracked his brain to try desperately to remember last night.

He came up blank, and felt like he ought to be slipping under the six hundred thread count sheets in shame.

Think, Mike, think! His aggrieved brain begged him. Where are we?

Biting his lip to supress another pitiful noise, Mike slid up in bed and glanced directly forward, unwilling to twist his neck. His gaze met a cream coloured wall with an expensive looking wooden desk pressed against it, with signature hotel stationary displayed on it in only the most elegant way possible. His suit jacket had been tossed more recklessly than usual onto the desk chair and his pants were discarded haphazardly at the end of the bed.


A nice hotel, at that—vague recollections began flooding Mike's mind now as he inhaled cologne that calmed him and eased the mounting nausea in his stomach. Right, right—he and Harvey had a client who'd called the firm in hopes of purchasing a large casino in Las Vegas, and Jessica had thought the two of them should fly out and meet the client there. The client—Jack; Jack Grenache?—had been concerned at a possible major loophole in the deal and Harvey had insisted that Mike was the best man for the job and that he ought to accompany him to keep him in line.

Yeah, right, chided Mike's conscience. He was lost on how Jessica had bought something like that, but he had a feeling that if such things like past lives existed Harvey had been a con-man in his.

Mike had spotted the loophole quickly, and an hour after the two had checked into the hotel Harvey insisted they celebrate the way he knew best—gambling.

Harvey, by no surprise, was a fantastic gambler, but Mike found his vivid Technicolor memory started to bleed and run into his other ones after a few hands of poker.

Harvey grinning, laughing—it was the best sound Mike had heard all night, and the hand his boss had placed on his shoulder the best feeling. The air here was filled with fascinating scents and sounds, captivating and neon reflecting off of Harvey's skin.


The laughter was closer, now—pressed flush against the skin on his neck and followed suit by warm exhales that tickled his nerves.


Suddenly, he was cold, and he made the closest warm body his cocoon, losing himself in someone else's heartbeat and cologne.

Cologne—had he slept with a guy?

He became instantly terrified at the prospect of who might be lying in bed next to him—a male stripper? A drunk college kid? Or, the worst out of all the options—the client?

Shit, Harvey would kill him—if Harvey was alive, wherever he was. Maybe Mike was dead, too, and this nauseating feeling was just another product of being in hell.

Harvey, his brain reminded him. You have to find Harvey.

Something shifted on the other side of the bed.

Shit, shit, shit! Mike's brain exclaimed, and he grabbed his phone from the bedside table next to him. The agony was instantly replaced by the adrenaline that came with panic, and Mike leaped out of the bed and bolted to the door, the room and discarded tumblers blurring past him.

He turned the handle as quickly as he could, his hand shaking around the cool metal and his heart throbbing in his chest. Mike felt like he had as a child after waking up from a particularly vivid nightmare—rattled and shaky, as though the reality he had known and accepted was falling apart and he didn't know where to stand.

He slipped out quietly into the hallway, biting his lip to keep from screaming at the brightness, leaning against the wall for support. Only then did he look down and realise that he was wearing boxers.

And only boxers.

Mike glanced around, relieved to see that he was alone in the long corridor and hadn't terribly scarred any young children or innocent bystanders, but evidently not many people felt the need to get up until five in the evening in Vegas, and for that, he was grateful. He was sure, however, that whoever was forced to watch the security tapes was currently crying with laughter as they watched him stand like a deer in the headlights in the middle of the hall, almost naked.

Harvey, his brain reminded him.

Right, Harvey. How would he reach Harvey? Oh, yeah. Phone.

Stupid, his brain stated.

He was relieved to see that despite the perdition his phone had been through, in his pocket the whole insane night, it had stayed intact and functioning, despite a few new scratches.

Mike hit number two on his speed dial.

It made the quiet noises of attempting to connect with someone against his ear, and suddenly Mike's thoughtless comment about Harvey possibly being dead came back to haunt him.

Oh my God—what if he actually did die?

What if I killed him?

How would I break it to Donna? To Jessica? I'd go to jail!

I wouldn't do well in jail.

What if Harvey has a family he never told anyone about? He doesn't wear a wedding ring—but maybe he has kids! How would I tell them? "Gee, kids, I'm sorry I killed your father, but it really was his fault—I mean, he's the one that wanted to come to Vegas because he's a degenerate gambler."

He'd be more tactful when he was completely sober.

"…'ello?" a voice at the other end of line asked.

"Harvey?" Mike whispered obnoxiously loudly into the phone. "Are you alive?"

There was a pause, and Mike heard sheets rustling. "My pulse says yes," the older man groaned, "but my head says no."

"Oh." Mike stated. "That's good. I was worried I'd have to talk to your children."

Mike heard Harvey scoff in a way that might have been a laugh if Harvey had been fully functioning. "I don't have kids, Mike, but right now I'm feeling incredibly responsible for you, which is bothersome."

"Where are you?" Mike asked. "I'm worried I slept with someone."

"Yeah," Harvey said gruffly, "it would suck if you lost your virginity and couldn't remember it."

Mike rolled his eyes, then groaned at the pain that caused. "Seriously," he asked, choking on his words, "where are you?"

"In a bed."

"That's pretty vague—could you be more specific?"

He heard Harvey shuffle slightly, and then paused for almost a minute. Finally, he came back with, "It's a white bed."

"Really?" Mike asked sarcastically, suddenly frustrated with his inebriated boss. "I thought it would've been black."

"Don't be racist."

"Holy crap—I'm not being racist, okay?" Mike exclaimed. "I am not racist. I love all people—I mean, beds, ah—"

"Me thinks the lady doth protest too much."

"Oh, hilarious. Seriously, though, where are you? I'm freaking out," Mike stated earnestly, looking up and down the hall.

"Wait—where are you?" asked Harvey.

"Me?" Mike asked. "I'm outside my room, at the hotel. Why?"

"Because," Harvey said, and Mike could hear him get to his feet, groaning slightly as he did, "I think I can hear you."

"Are you in your room?" Mike asked, remembering Harvey's had been aligned across the hall from his, as Harvey had jokingly brought up that if the two of them were to share a room, he wouldn't bother putting a sock on the door handle, as Mike could just assume he was sleeping with somebody. It had occurred to Mike then why Harvey didn't stay in many long term relationships—not many people would want to put up with that level of arrogance if they didn't know Harvey actually did care.

"No," Harvey said. "Everything's…flipped. It's on the wrong side. Stay where you are—I'll see if I can spot you."

Mike felt a wave of relief sweep over him temporarily, but the feeling of alarm returned instantly when he heard the door handle from his room click, and a figure stepped out.

He stared blankly at the dishevelled version of Harvey, who's hair stuck up on odd angles from his head that made Mike think of the puppy analogy that had been used on him so many times. He was wearing more clothes than Mike—a white t-shirt and boxers, which Mike was envious of, and a light shadow of stubble graced his face. Harvey looked less menacing and younger in the morning, or maybe some of Mike's adolescence had rubbed off on him the night before; but either way, it was a different Harvey to the one Mike was used to seeing. One with fewer walls up, as Mike could see Harvey's eyes widen comically and flick towards his own as though trying to read something in them.

"I have to go," Mike said into the phone. "I think I just slept with my boss."


An hour later, Harvey was dressed impeccably and had shaved, but the sweet naïve expression that had lingered in Mike's mind was replaced by a scowl. The two of them sat under an umbrella, avoiding the too harsh sunlight that was filtering down and being absorbed by the hot desert floor that leaked into the surrounding buildings. Both of them had a coffee in hand, and were avoiding each other's gazes.

No one said anything for a while, until Mike eventually piped up with, "Harvey—Vegas rule."

Harvey sighed and then glared across the table at his associate, placing his coffee on a coaster. Go figure, Mike thought, we're in the middle of a possible life-changing crisis and he still feels the need to put his drink on a coaster. Even if it's a plastic table that belongs to a hotel.

"This could've happened in Kansas and I'd still expect it to stay in Kansas. Clear?"


"Look—don't get freaked out. We don't have any proof that anything actually—"

"—you mean, you don't have proof. Trust me when I say I'm very aware of the fact that I had s—had ss—"

Harvey frowned, shushing Mike with his hand. "Let's not use that word, alright?"

"What's a better word?"


"God, that makes it sound even worse, like we did it in my old biology classroom—"

"—okay, okay…how about slept together? That doesn't imply much, except sleep…"

"You're really living in the wrong century, y'know that? What about 'fucked'?"


"'Got it on'?"

"God, no."

"'Did it'?"

"What is this, primary school? No, this just didn't happen, alright? I don't have feelings for you, and you don't have feelings for me. We aren't like that. It was just alcohol and poker and the heat of the moment, so this doesn't come back to New York with us, understand?"

"Look, I get it, but don't look at me so accusingly. This wasn't my fault! I'm completely heterosexual," Mike stated.

Harvey gave him a look.

"What? I am."

"Jesus," Harvey said, rubbing his face with the palm of his hand. "I feel like I'm living a scene from The Hangover, except the script is worse and there aren't any strippers."

"I'm pretty sure sleeping with your boss wasn't included in there, either."

Harvey smirked half-heartedly. "Check the deleted scenes."

"Whatever—anyways, this didn't happen."


"For sure."

"Wait, what? No, it didn't happen for sure?"


"Okay—it didn't happen. Period."

"Full stop if you're British."

Harvey put his face dejectedly in his hands. "This is officially my worst trip to Vegas."

"Didn't you win money?"

"I doubled what I came with—I guess in that sense, you're lucky, but in every other way you make me want to drop you off at the next bus stop."

"See?" Mike pointed at him. "This is why you don't have friends."

"I have friends," Harvey stated.

"If people hang out with you after work hours, it's either because, a), they don't know you very well and think you might pay for things, or b), because all your friends are comedians and they use the things you say as the material for their acts."


"Really," Mike stated.

"Then why are you here?" Harvey asked.

"I fall under column a, since I'm your one night stand," Mike said cockily.

They sat in silence for the entire plane ride back.


I'm baaack…:D

Alas, a comedy fanfiction to prove to the lovely Suits community that I'm better at angst than anything else, but this 5+1 is for the sake of keeping me from dying from the…plot-y-ness… that is ongoing in my other, soon to be posted, story.

Below this is a blue button. Cliiiiccck the button and magical things will happen. Just cliiicck it. You'll feel better if you do.