Three Times Harvey Asked Mike To Marry Him, And One Time Mike Said Yes

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I.

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Harvey offered up a bit of actual mentoring just before they left the office.

"Come over tonight," he said, and Mike looked at him all baby-blues and startled because he was typically just used to being yelled at or harshly corrected. "I'll teach you the right way to file a subpoena." Harvey was just relieved he hadn't made the demand sound too terribly suggestive.

And Harvey probably only did it because Mike had done such a kickass job on their case and probably because Donna reminded Harvey how hard he was being on the kid. And maybe, after all, maybe he did care about him, maybe even a little more than was likely appropriate given the circumstances: the age difference, the fact that Mike was a subordinate, oh, and that they both were supposedly straight. Maybe. Harvey wasn't too keen on the idea of asking himself all of these questions since he wasn't sure he had the answers, or if he wanted to know what they were.

"Grab your manpurse or whatever the fuck and come on," he told Mike, determined to halt any and all signs of humanism before he became too approachable. It was one thing to care, but he'd be remissed to show it.

Mike gathered his things and raced to catch up with Harvey, "It's a European shoulder bag, actually."

"Are you quoting The Hangover now?" Harvey asked, with a raised eyebrow and a judging glare over his shoulder.

Mike looked up, then down, as if deciding whether or not to answer, settled on the latter and was quiet. In fact, the whole drive to Harvey's loft was comfortably silent. They didn't even discuss work or whether or not Mike was still 'getting it'. He was, for what it was worth.

On Harvey's sleek couch, somewhere in between discussing proof of service and legal loopholes, they wound up a little closer, a little less professional, laughing a little harder, scotch swishing in unsteady glasses. Suddenly the entire case was hilarious, the opposing side a Darwin award candidate (and winner, according to Harvey), and personal space was merely an employee guideline, not a rule. And then eventually, on the same couch, a little closer still, somewhere between discussing IQ-depleting clients and the cost of the liquor they were drinking, Harvey's hand found the back of Mike's neck, not shy, and he smiled the same smile he always got when Mike said something equally as clever and suave as his hand was being.

Mike went along, leaning forward in unison as they laughed, and he felt the warmth and the weight of the hand resting just along his shoulders, and maybe it was the scotch, but he didn't try to move or shake it away, or do anything but silently encourage it's placement.

"Press until it hurts," Mike mumbled into his glass, replaying their recent win, his words rolling off his tongue more loosely than they had an hour or so ago.

"Can we get married?" Harvey asked next, his voice sounding much louder than he intended. Maybe it was because their laughter had died down and they were still, and his words bounded off the walls and back into their ears. Mike looked up from under alcohol-heavy lids.

"I mean," Harvey said smoothly. "Donna said no one would ever put up with me more than a month. I'm supposed to marry the first person who does."

"Well then," Mike said. "You're way behind. It's been six."

Their laughing resumed, the scotch refilled, their conversation strayed back to clients and then to food and then to cars, and somewhere among it all, Harvey's hand never left the back of Mike's neck.

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II.

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With New York on the coattails of legalizing gay marriage, there was still the occasional straggling protesters, and today they happened to be on the sidewalk where Mike was trying to lock up his bike. Flustered, he tried to shoo them and their cardboard signs away, but, no dice. Harvey, who was only a dozen yards away, striding up all swan-like with coffee in hand, noticed Mike and the legally pathetic sight he was as he tried to fend for himself.

"You're so adorable when you need back-up," he announced, and, turning to a lone protester, he said, "Go fuck yourself."

"Ha, ha, ha, ha," Mike laughed sarcastically, but he was grateful for the rescue. He looked barely out of high school sometimes and no one ever took him that seriously unless he was kicking ass in the courtroom. Sometimes he didn't mind when Harvey had his back.

"So Jessica's giving me another pro-bono case and I'm dumping it on you. Again," Harvey explained as they walked into Pearson Hardman.

"At least you're honest."

Harvey shrugged and tilted coffee into his mouth. "Did you get my note?"

Mike looked confused, maybe even remotely panicked, "No," he said.

"I left it on your boxes this morning. By the way, do you plan to unpack in the next decade? I'm thinking of just moving you onto the balcony."

"If you plan to stop giving me pro-bono cases and I can actually get to your balcony before three a.m..."

Harvey smiled and shook his head.

He threw the note away when he got home, which was at twelve thirty, three hours before Mike slithered in, rolled onto the bed and whispered, sarcastic as always, "The balcony is too cold." Harvey just shoved him playfully and went back to sleep.

Since you're moving in, why don't we just get married?

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III.

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Mike's dirty little secret had been out at the firm about a year into his job. And not the part about how he'd been living with his boss, but the first one, the one where he'd been working as a lawyer - a damn good lawyer - but wasn't actually a lawyer. Well, the second one was out too, but it had been for a while. After the initial ripples, things had gotten back to normal and, proving they were still effective and that their relationship posed no conflict of interest, Jessica had let it be. Everyone else had moved on.

It had been for the first part that Harvey convinced him to go back to school, pulled a few strings to expunge his academic suspension record, and hadn't been too surprised that Mike wasn't instantly agreeable.

"I don't know," he had said, doubting himself for what seemed like only the second or third time since Harvey met him.

"What do you mean?" Harvey had asked. "Mike, this is undergrad. You could do this shit in your sleep."

It had taken a few weeks of gentle encouragement, not-so-subtle hints - like leaving college applications open on the laptop in the living room - but eventually Mike agreed. So when Harvey was standing in a crowd in a sea of Columbia Class of 2014 graduates, he might have been beaming. Just a little.

"Smile any wider, Harvey, and your face might freeze that way."

"Jessica," he said. "I thought you'd be proud."

"I'm proud that you're proud of someone other than yourself."

When they found Mike in the maze of gowns, he looked up at Harvey and smiled. "I got your note," he said. "Just thought you should know."

Harvey raised an eyebrow, "Oh, really?"

"Yeah, by the way - the toaster, really? I don't eat breakfast."

"You don't eat, period."

"For a second there I thought you didn't want me to find it."

"Whatever helps you sleep."

"I was going to leave one for you," Mike said, and he had that glint in his eye that he got every time he lead Harvey to believe he was somewhat dumber than he actually was, just before pulling out all the stops. "But then I thought I'd just bring it with me." He reached into the pocket of the gown, his face turning into a confused furrow when his hands found a small box instead of the note he'd scribbled on while he'd been rushing to make it to his graduation.

"I'm always a step ahead of you, Mike, remember that," Harvey told him, smirking. "You're so busy gloating you don't even notice when someone is stealing from you. Or, in this case, giving."

Mike grinned at the ring in his hand. This was one loss he would happily accept.

Congrats, Mike. Remember when I told you Donna said to marry anyone who could put up with me for more than a month? About that. Love, Harvey

You're way behind. It's been three years. By the way, this is me saying yes. Love, Mike

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