"Shit."

He gets a glare for that but, really, this deserves it.

"Shit," Mike moans, dropping his head into his hands.

The stack of papers on the table before him literally grazed the goddamn ceiling and, fuck, this is not what people mean when they say 'giving holiday spirit'. Someone—read: Louis—has a twisted, grinch-like sense of humor.

It doesn't help that Harvey is laughing at him.

"You can't be serious," Mike begs.

"Oh yes," Harvey says with a straight face, "Very."

How the hell did they even get it stacked so high? Mike is hit with the sudden picture of a cackling Louis in full Santa Claus get-up sneaking around the firm at night with a ladder.

Dear god.

Mike presses the palms of his hand against his eyes until he sees stars.

"It's Christmas Eve."

Harvey raises one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. Someday, Mike decides, he's going to ask him where he gets them done. Someday when Harvey is not in the position to fire him.

Mike risks another glance upward. The question is looking more and more appealing.

"Your point?" Harvey asks, but not really.

"I was just…" Mike looks down, "Planning to spend it with my grandma."

He wants to glance at Harvey's face and see if the expression has softened. The trick is to look if the lines around the mouth loosen, fractionally, maybe if your lucky, they'll turn up slightly at the corners.

Ask him anything about Harvey's expressions, about the way he talks and dresses and what his favorite foods really are and—well, the point is that he'll know.

"The doctors, uh, think it might be her last. Last Christmas."

But Mike doesn't look at Harvey because his voice is tight and if his eyes are red then it's sleep depravation, okay?

His insomnia is back, on the nights where he'd be able to sleep anyway.

A hand touches his shoulder lightly. He doesn't mean to jerk away but the heat and the comfort are unexpected and unsurprisingly welcome.

Harvey takes a step back and something in Mike sinks because he kind of wants to press his arm back into those hands and let harvey lead him in the right direction. He's never been good at orientation.

Maps. He means maps and stuff.

"Go home," Harvey say, exasperated, but not meaning it.

Mike looks up, surprised and pleased and thinking about GPS's. He should get one, really. Damn useful things, he's been told.

"Really?"

It comes out a little more hero-worship than he meant it to be in his head.

"Yeah. You're no use to me moping around here."

Harvey touches the small of his back, almost-smile twitching up at the corners. Those hands, large and warm and welcome, guide him to the door and Mike follows dutifully because it must be the right direction.

"Merry Christmas, Mike."

(It'd be stupid to grin all the way home.)

(He does anyway.)