Sunlight spilled into the apartment. Harvey scowled against the sudden intrusion, wondering why he lived in a place with quite so much light. He slowly sat up, blinking groggily. His head was pounding. What the hell had he done last night to warrant such a hangover? He stumbled straight into the shower, relaxing as the hot water jets massaged his sore muscles. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he padded into the kitchen to make himself a pot of coffee.

He was interrupted by a loud snore. "HOLY JESUS WHAT THE FUCK?!" Harvey yelled in shock at the sight of a very shabby Mike sprawled out on his couch.

"Harvey?" Mike asked sleepily as he lifted his head. "You're really loud. Some courtesy, please, okay?" He went back to sleep, burrowing his head into the pillow to make himself more comfortable.

"Why are you wearing my sweatshirt?" Harvey demanded, ignoring his associate's request.

Mike groaned, trying to come to terms with the fact that his sleep was now permanently interrupted. "Because you gave it to me."

"I most certainly did not."

"Did too."

"Did not."

"Then how am I wearing it?"

Harvey pondered this before narrowing his eyes. "Because you stole it."

"Whoa! Let's not jump to any hasty conclusions," Mike yelped.

"Why are you even in my apartment in the first place?" Harvey asked.

Mike looked back at him, confused, then a grin slowly lit his face. "Do you not remember anything about last night?"

"Of course I do," Harvey lied. "Some parts are just…less clear than others. Just refresh my memory," he snapped, folding his arms across his bare chest and momentarily forgetting he was half-naked.

"It's really weird not seeing you in a suit," Mike commented.

"Wha-" Harvey looked down in dismay.

Mike cocked his head, blatantly examining Harvey's physique in the way that a teenage girl stares jealously at runway models. "Is that from boxing?" he asked, gesturing to the older man's abs.

"This conversation isn't over yet," Harvey retorted as he stomped off to his room to put clothes on.

"Yeah, keep making threats. You're really menacing in that fluffy towel there," Mike called after him.

When Harvey returned in a long-sleeved navy tee and grey sweatpants, Mike was busy at the stove. "What are you doing?" Harvey asked suspiciously.

"Cooking," Mike answered, not bothering to look up from the pan. "It's what people normally do with stovetops and pans."

Harvey's stomach lurched at the thought of food, let alone food prepared by Mike, and he busied himself with the coffee machine. "I didn't say you could touch my pots."

"I'm cooking you breakfast and you're complaining about your pots?"

"Easy there, Martha Stewart. Want me to get you an apron?" Harvey teased. "A hairnet?"

Mike threw him a dirty look. "Why, do you actually own one?"

Harvey scowled. "What is that anyway?" he asked, eyeing the plate of unidentifiable slop nervously.

"It's Grammy's hangover cure," Mike explained happily, squirting ketchup over the whole thing. Harvey cautiously leaned in to sniff and grimaced.

"Don't exaggerate," Mike said haughtily. "I didn't take you for a weak-stomach kind of guy. This is Gram's special hangover cure. Eggs, ketchup, green peppers, a little salt, and voila."

"I think I'm gonna vomit."

"Don't knock it til you try it," Mike said cheerfully as he spooned the eggs onto two plates and started frying bacon.

"Where did you even get all that food?" Harvey rarely kept his apartment stocked with anything more than alcohol, olives, and pretzels.

"We went grocery shopping last night, remember?" Mike asked as he flipped the bacon over.

"Excuse me?"

"You know, that thing that normal human beings typically do once a week in order to provide themselves with basic nourishment?"

"That's what takeout is for." Harvey shook his head. "Why the hell did we go grocery shopping together?"

Mike looked hurt. "It wasn't that bad! We got stoned and really hungry so Ray drove us to Food Emporium and we bought a shitload of snacks." He peered thoughtfully at the plate of eggs and bacon, turned to rummage through Harvey's pantries, and pulled out a fresh loaf of bread.

"I got stoned with you?" Harvey asked, feeling as if he was a main character in The Hangover.

"Yup," Mike said as he expertly cut two thick slices of sourdough bread and added them to the pile of food. Harvey slowly grabbed the handles of the coffee mugs he'd filled, hardly noticing he was holding two of them.

"Wait a second. How come I don't remember any of this?" Harvey asked suspiciously.

Mike shrugged as he shoveled in a heap of eggs and bacon. "'Cause you're getting old?" he asked with his mouth full.

"Shut up," the older man snapped as he leaned back and took a sip of his coffee. Shit. How had he gotten to his point in his life, where he apparently got stoned and went grocery shopping with his overly happy associate who cooked him breakfast?

"And you're the one telling me to get my shit together," Mike observed cheerfully. "Good coffee, by the way." He munched on a piece of toast, slathering it with butter and jam.

"So then why aren't you hungover at all?" Harvey questioned.

"Grammy's hangover cure. Try it, I swear it really works." Mike pushed a plate over to Harvey, who reluctantly took a bite. "Atta boy."

"Not bad," Harvey admitted, chewing. He pointed his fork at Mike. "But you're going to tell me everything that happened last night in full detail, then you're getting out of my place."

"Has anyone ever told you you're a really bad host?" Mike lamented as he wiped his mouth with a napkin and pushed back his chair to clear the plates.

"You're an uninvited guest," Harvey shot back.

"Someone had to take care of you," Mike said in return.

"FOR THE LAST TIME, WHAT HAPPENED? And I don't need 'taking care of.'"

"Someone's grumpy," Mike said. "I beg to differ. Twelve hours ago, I doubt you could tell your ass from this lamp. Have some more eggs."

"I don't want eggs, I want answers! Need I remind you that I'm your boss?"

"Okay, fine," Mike said, his blue eyes widening. He sat down on the couch. "I'll start from the beginning."

"No," Harvey said stubbornly.

"I'm telling you, that's what happened!"

"I most certainly did not willingly dance to "Thrift Shop" in the middle of some random Williamsburg bar. I don't do the boroughs, let alone hip-hop."

"Yes, you did," Mike insisted. "You were actually pretty good. I'm impressed. You had, like, swag."

"Don't use that word."

"It's a compliment!"

"Not to me," Harvey moaned, sinking back onto the couch.

"That's not it," Mike said. "There's more."

"I don't believe you anymore. You're full of shit. You're practically brimming with the stuff."

"Harvey, you asked me what happened and I told you!"

"You're lying!"

Mike clasped his hands together and closed his eyes for a moment. "I solemnly swear on the can-opener that you were offered a job as a male stripper."

Harvey stared at him.

Mike continued, "They got firemen, they got policemen, they got army guys, but hey, they ain't got a lawyer." He paused. "Until now."

"UNTIL NOW?!" Harvey roared. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Thus far. As yet. Up until now," Mike reeled off. He jerked his thumb to the yellow Rosetta Stone package Harvey had bought when he thought he was going to become fluent in Italian and gave up after three weeks. "Should I get you the English version?"

"I swear to God, Mike Ross, whatever stunt you're trying to pull-" Harvey shouted, looking around for the nearest sharp object to stab his associate with.

"I have proof." Mike slowly turned around and reached into his messenger bag. He pulled out a photo. "Little souvenir of last night. Look, there's me, and that's you."

Harvey took it and examined it. "I'm burning this thing to ashes."

"Wait, no, Harvey! That's the only picture of us together! Harvey? HARVEY?!"

So this was kind of a weird chapter, but I had fun writing it. Let me know what you guys think!