A/n: ...Hey, guys. It's been a long time. A year?

...I have no excuse...

The new season is on, so I really have no excuse. This story had one hell of a reception, you guys seem to love it, so I can't not update. And I love it too! I got a lot of great reviews, but my thanks go out to Harvey and Mike [the guest reviewers]. I got Harvey's review first, and I...I felt like a chastised child. "Why have you not updated the story yet, Hardwood Studios?" My full pen-name! I was like, "Oh, shit."

Fair warning to all, I've been watching the new season [obviously] and I'm very, very angry. This new season is going exactly like I thought it would, and it's infuriating! My views on the whole thing should be pretty clear from...this entire story. Mike works hard, Harvey can be a dick. A lot. Harvey has been a magnificent dick, this entire season! And then the whole thing with Louis and the cake...I almost cried for Louis. Damn near burst into tears. Mike is too forgiving.

Well. Not in this story, he's not. Let's have fun with this, yeah?

Song of Choice: She Spider, by Mew. Very angsty and introspective. Thanks to my new beta-reader, helping me through my multiple coffee breaks and backspacing, . Thanks, girl.

9:00 a.m.

It was nine o'clock. Harvey ignores the incessant ticking of the wall clock. He rolls a pink highlighter between his fingers, uncaps it, recaps it, uncaps it. He glares and glares some more. He flips absently through a fat, unopened file. He sees a lot of words and pretends to read them. Frowning, he abandons the file. He picks up his phone, glares at it, puts it back down. He looks at the clock.

9:01 a.m.

He stabs the end of his highlighter at the intercom. "Donna."

"[No, Mike is not here. For the twelfth time.]" She says, a bit snippish.

He glares at the intercom.

"[Don't glare, you'll get wrinkles.]"

"Don't tell me what to do." He sounds petulant to his own ears. He makes a quiet, grumpy noise. He looks at the clock.

9:02 a.m.

Snatching up his phone, he dials a very familiar number. Dial tone, dial tone, dial tone. Voicemail, the same voicemail he's gotten countless times. "Goddamnit." He snarls, his face twisting up. Harvey has called sixteen times, now seventeen, and Mike hasn't answered. That means one of two things: Mike is ignoring him or Mike lost his phone. The latter seems most likely, but that doesn't explain his tardiness. Mike is five hours and three minutes late, and he very specifically said -

Harvey stops. He remembers what he said. ["I want you in the office at four, Mike. You will fix this, and maybe I'll ignore how much of a goddamn disappointment you are."] He grimaces. He was a bit harsher than intended, but their relationship is founded on tough love. Mike knows that, and he should know better than to volunteer for shit he can't handle. His associate is not so fragile as to let some harsh words keep him from coming to work. He looks at the clock.

9:04 a.m.

Five hours and four minutes late. His fingers tighten about his phone, and tiny cracks blossom on the screen. He wants to throw it, break something. Then he hears the clickity clackity of heels, and he knows that distinct clickity clack. Jessica Pearson, as tall and dusky as an Amazon wonder. She wears power like she wears her Dior, extraordinarily well. Her umber curls settle in her collarbones, and her lined eyes spit fire. She walks into his office like she has every right to the place [she does].

"Mike isn't coming." She says bluntly. Harvey frowns. "Excuse me?"

"Mike is not coming." She enunciates more clearly. Her face is stern, sterner than normal [he detects notes of disgust? disappointment?]. Harvey stands. His eyebrows shoot into his hair. She presents him with a single paper, still warm from the printer. He reads it. His expression remains that hard, neutral slate [though his insides are cramping up].

[I am resigning from Pearson Hardman as your Junior Associate]. He reads this line several times, not quite believing what it says. Mike doesn't quit, he certainly doesn't resign. Harvey swallows, and a bad taste fills his mouth. He wants to not care. If Mike is so goddamn delicate as to quit over a rightful chewing out, then good riddance. Pearson Hardman isn't the place for dropouts or hurt feelings [but Mike doesn't quit!]. Harvey doesn't understand.

"I don't know what the hell you did, but you're out an associate." She says crisply. Harvey doesn't say anything.

"Find Katrina. You're due in court." Then she turns, scarlet skirt straining around the outsides of her thighs, and leaves. Harvey watches her go. His mind is miles away, operating at dangerous speeds. A hard, heavy ball sits in his gut. Mike quit. Mike quit. Goddamnit, he doesn't care! Donna scuttles in. She looks incredulous and terrifying. "What did you do?" She half whispers, half shouts. He grits his teeth. "I didn't do anything."

She pins him with this doubtful stare.

"I didn't!"

"Mike doesn't quit, Harvey."

"Oh, so it's automatically my fault?"

Her green eyes get small and mean. "Do I need to get mad? I'll get mad."

He frowns tightly. "I reamed him out on the Carmical briefs, that's it. He fucked up." He finally admits. He sounds more defensive than he intends. Her brows knit, and her lips purse. "The Carmical briefs? Isn't that a Katrina thing?"

"Mike volunteered. He bit off more than he could chew, again."

She gives him this look, like he'd just said something utterly insane. Her mouth makes a tiny, red "o" and her nose wrinkles like an old sweater. "Um, no. Mike was juggling your Double Merger, Insurance Fraud for Louis, and...some environmental dispute, I think. We had takeout in the file room like a couple of hermits. He didn't say a thing about the Carmical briefs."

At this discovery, Harvey feels the beginnings of dread, a slow creep like rigor mortis. "That doesn't mean shit, Donna." It does. It really, really does. It means Mike was working three times his fair workload, Katrina lied through her pretty teeth, and Harvey was played the fool. It means he chewed Mike out [put him down like an ugly stray] for no fucking reason. He remembers the things he said [some of the cruelest things one can say], and he remembers Mike trying to interrupt him. He whitens.

"What...exactly did you say to him?" Donna asks softly. He remembers every word. He straightens, tugs at his cuffs, and makes a grand show of nonchalance. Donna sees right through him, as she always does.

"I'm due in court."

She lets him go. He wishes she didn't.

He was discharged at six, given his crutches, and sent on his way. The sun had barely risen. His ankle is home to some new screws and plates, the Doctor told him. The things he is no longer allowed to do include: heavy lifting, excess walking, excess movement, and getting his cast wet. Which is all just so awesome. Mike found a familiar cabbie [Samson, he later learns] sitting in a familiar cab. He hadn't gone home, he'd waited like he said he would. Mike felt simultaneously thrilled and guilty to the point of sickness.

Then he went home. Of course, only then did he remember his bike [the very same one he'd left in the street]. Because goddamnit, could this day get more awesome? Feeling a little high and a lot miserable, he struggled into his apartment. He sent his formal, bullshit resignation to Jessica [it was scary and final]. He changed [which was far more exhausting and painful than he anticipated], ignored the constant vibration of his phone, cried some more, and slept for a scant hour and a half. Again, Samson waited. Now he sits in the back of his favorite cab, leg outstretched, as Samson shoots him disapproving glances via the rearview mirror.

"You should be home. You need rest and recovery." Samson says huffily. He's glaring, though Mike doesn't notice. His nose is pressed to the crease of a newspaper. He scans the classifieds carefully. "No, Sam. I need a job."

"You can barely walk! You will not be hired like this!"

"Hey!" Mike snaps the paper down, and it rustles wildly in his fists. "Do you know what this says to my prospective employers?" He points to his big, plastic cast. "It says I'm ambitious, a go getter! I'll work hell or high water, broken ankle or internal hemorrhaging."

"That is not healthy!"

Mike sighs into the classifieds. "Probably not." He shifts. "Shouldn't you be...looking for other customers?" He changes the subject awkwardly [and not at all subtly].

Sam makes a sudden, offended noise in the back of his throat. "I do not mind." Is all he says. Mike feels warm, but he feels guilty too. "I'm just one person, Sam."

"You're hurt. I do not mind." He repeats firmly.

"You're too nice, man." Mike grins, big and toothy, despite himself.

The city rushes by in blues and greens and big, heavy greys. Traffic lights, cracked sidewalks, old buildings and new buildings are only a few pieces that fit into the ever expanding puzzle that is their city/kingdom. There are silver beams, sunny plexiglass and long rows of bumbling, yellow taxis too. People amble back and forth by the hundreds [in bright colors and monochromatic schemes]. The sun sits very high and shines like she'll never shine again. She warms the back seat, and the vinyl splits under her concentrated beams. Mike wants it to be just another afternoon, but it's not, and he knows that. His grin is quick to slip.

A short ways from 2nd Avenue, on E 9th, is a cafe. Mike squints. He almost overlooks the shady, nondescript storefront. It's a very dim place with open windows and scarlet drapery. They call it Mudspot. With its darkly bronze etchings and steel framework, it feels urban and lived in. Mike likes it immediately. "Down here, Sam." They turn and saddle up close to the sidewalk. Mike takes both crutches in hand, looking horribly glum. He isn't thrilled about the crutches. Just as he opens the door and breathes in summer heat, his phone shudders.

He knows who it is, but he looks anyway. [Harvey]. For the seventeenth time. With a pained face, he shoves his phone into its denim prison. The hurt is too fresh. He lets it ring. Sam gives him a [becoming rapidly familiar] look, which he ignores. After a brief battle with his crutches, he stands on the one leg. He steadies himself and wobbles awkwardly into the small chophouse. It smells like a thousand coffee beans, eggs, numerous breakfast meats, and tea leaves.

The inside is all rusty red bricks and matching vases full of floppy, yellow tulips. It feels a lot like home [better than home]. The room vibrates with chatter, and patrons flit about like honey bees. "Hi, Welcome to Mudspot!" A cheerful employee calls to him. Her smile is annoyingly bright. He hobbles over and leans heavily against the countertop. She laughs breathily. "That must suck." She looks pointedly at his crutches.

He scowls. "You have no idea."

"What can I get you? Would you like to try our Green Apple & Cinnamon Cobbler? It'll rock your world." Her eyes [mint green] shine under the smoky bulbs in an undeniably flirtatious way. Mike burns a little pink. "Uh, no. I'm actually here to ask about a job?"

"Oh!" Her face slackens. She gives him a once over and quirks a dubious brow. He shrugs sheepishly. "Hold on, I'll get you an application." She finally concedes. Mike watches her, imprints her to memory without meaning to. Her hair is too blonde and too straight [not enough gel]. Her face is pretty and soft and feminine, light touches of makeup [too soft, too feminine, too much makeup]. She doesn't have enough moles. Mike frowns. She comes back and hands him a disconcertingly thick packet. He takes it with a strained smile. "Have fun." She winks.

He can't think of anything witty to say. He finds the dimmest, quietest table in a corner nook. He produces a pen from his back pocket [you never know when you'll need a pen], and works through the packet one question at a time. His crutches lean precariously against the brick wall, and his booted leg is propped on the opposite chair. He feels sort of like a circus sideshow.

Suddenly, someone is calling to him. "Mike Ross, isn't it?"

He turns and sees a vaguely familiar man. He's tall, broad, and donning a suit by Alexander Price [with its thousands of individual stitches]. He's also handsome in that outdoorsy way. His hair is carefully shaggy and fallow, his brows big [but not overbearing]. Sparse, short hairs matt his jaw and myrtle eyes shine like river stones. They've met before at a particularly pretentious fundraiser in Greenwich Village. Then the name comes to him like a holy epiphany, and he nearly swallows his tongue. Holy God, this is Noah Aimes [of Fitzgerald & Aimes]. Fitzgerald & Aimes is a big, connected, rival [not really rival, he doesn't exactly work for the competition anymore] firm.

"Mr. Aimes, I'm surprised you remember me." He maintains a modicum of polite coolness, but his insides are a panicky mess. He extends a hand and is shocked half to death when the man actually shakes it. Noah chuckles. "You remembered me, didn't you?"

"Yes, but you're - " He makes a few, abstract gestures. "Important." He finishes lamely. Noah laughs a full, rich laugh. Mike blushes hotly.

"And you aren't? The rising star of Pearson Hardman?" Mike notices his word choice. The 'rising star of Pearson Hardman', not 'Harvey's golden boy'oranything of the like. He appreciates the unwitting change of phrase.

"Not anymore." He shrugs awkwardly, not sure he should be admitting this to a formerly rival Partner. Noah looks taken back. "I, uh...I quit." He explains. Noah calms quickly. He nods to the almost finished packet. "Don't tell me that's an application." He actually sounds offended. Mike colors pink. He would give anything to stop blushing in front of this [God] man.

"Ah, yeah." He feels outclassed in every way with this admittance. "I happen to like this place!" He says jokingly, a little defensiveness creeping into his voice. Noah raises his hands in mock surrender.

"I like it too, I'm a regular customer." He glances around very deliberately. "Isn't this a little beneath you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why'd you quit?" He asks in lieu of answering. "Didn't have anything to do with that leg, did it?"

"I - No." Not entirely, anyway [only mostly]. Mike is unnerved by his attentiveness and curiosity [because no one usually gives a shit about Mike Ross].

"How long do you have to wear it, the cast?"

"Six weeks." By now, Mike is rightfully suspicious. Noah seems to sense this, and puts on his most innocent front. "I'm just curious, Mike."

"Why?" He sounds harsher than he means, but Noah doesn't notice [or care].

"You're not a drone, you're clever." He begins. "I know all about you. I know you have an eidetic memory, a frighteningly high IQ. I know you work hard and win cases. You're one of a kind, Mike Ross. I was actually jealous of Harvey. He had your loyalty, I could tell."

After such a speech, Mike should be well beyond disturbed. A small part of him is, but the rest of him is flattered stupid. He blinks and blinks again. His lips flap uselessly, as he doesn't know what to say. "I...Thank you?" It comes out confused. Noah smiles. "Don't thank me. Just say yes."

"To what?"

"I want to offer you a job, Mike."

He says it so casually that it catches Mike completely off guard. His brain stutters and stumbles, he doesn't get it. Mike is just a nobody associate [er, former nobody associate], and he barely know this [rich, powerful, terrifying] man. He stares blankly, just processing. He eventually gets it, and the beginnings of panic crawl up his throat like weeds. "I'd have to say no, I'm sorry." His voice shakes finely, and he swallows. Noah doesn't look put off.

"You'd rather work here?"

Sweat beads at the back of his neck, and he shifts [squirms] in his seat. "I...wouldn't feel comfortable working for the competition." Which is true. A big piece of Mike is still loyal to Harvey and always will be. Noah makes a considering noise. "We're not competition anymore, Mike."

"I still - "

"If you're concerned about your utter lack of a formal education or diploma, don't be. Harvey didn't seem to mind, neither do I." Again, he is the epitome of casual. Mike chokes on nothing. His heart drops and jumps and stops, he might be having a small anxiety attack. "I don't know what you're talking about." He immediately denies.

"I think you do."

They engage in a short [but intense] staring contest, in which Mike cracks like a boiled egg. "Why didn't you...? I - I don't understand. You could've - !"

"I could've done many things. I could've had you arrested, had Harvey arrested. I could've brought Pearson Hardman to her knees." He shrugs like it's not a big deal. It's a very big deal! It's a huge deal! Mike is struggling with this entire conversation. He's been rendered speechless at every turn. "But you didn't." He says slowly.

"I didn't." Noah agrees.

"Why?" There's the big question. By this point, Mike is extremely curious. Noah looks him evenly in the eye.

"If I had, well, I wouldn't have the chance to hire you myself."

Mike stares in utter befuddlement. Noah doesn't give him the time to collect himself. He flips a business card onto the table [it lands squarely on his application] and turns to leave. "Think about it." He calls over his shoulder. He's left gaping and mentally flailing. He looks down at the business card. Gods, that man is cool, Mike can't help but think.

"What the hell?"

Harvey stalks from the courtroom. Katrina is hot on his heels. They'd dominated, crushed the opposition and their every argument with unnecessary ruthlessness [or Harvey did, anyway]. As it turns out, Katrina had finished the Carmical briefs. She practically gift wrapped them, and said something like, "I just knew Mike wouldn't get these done on time." Harvey wasn't one to hit a woman, his father raised him a little better than that, but the urge was strong.

He restrained himself, but just. In their brief time together, his restraint wore incredibly thin. He tightens his jaw against the building tirade and walks faster. He has to keep his head at least until they leave the courthouse. His strides are long and purposeful. Katrina can't keep up, and she ends up jogging after him. She isn't blind to the rigid straightness of his spine or the hard grinding of his teeth. She doesn't say anything, partly out of respect, but mostly out of fear.

They reach the car in record time and slide into their respective sides. Ray sets off without bothering to ask where. For a long while, nothing is said. All that's heard is the faint squeaking of leather and far away horns. Harvey holds himself tensely, and Katrina watches like he were a loaded gun. Then he explodes, though you wouldn't know by the utter calmness of his face. He turns to her with a mildly curious look. "Tell me something about Anderson Global. Have we found anything to back Amelia's asbestos claim?"

"Not yet." She answers easily.

"Have you gone through their employee records?"

"They haven't been faxed over. They're taking their time." Again, she answers without pause. Harvey frowns in mock confusion. "That's funny. Donna said something about those files sitting in Conference Room B."

Katrina looks stricken. She clears her throat and tries for a surprised demeanor. "Oh, I must've - "

"Enough." Harvey drops the act. His frown deepens into a scowl.

"Excuse me?" She puts on this brave, affronted face. Harvey sees right through it, she might as well be made of glass. "Mike has already taken care of it." He says.

"Why would he - "

"Cut the bullshit. You dropped your case on him, your one responsibility."

"I didn't - !" Harvey won't allow her the chance to spin some half - hearted fabrication.

"You did, just like you lied about the Carmical briefs. Mike didn't volunteer. Whatever childish shit you're trying to pull, it ends here, you're done."

She straightens in her seat, seeming to sprout a backbone. "You have no idea what the story is between me and Mike."

"I don't care what the story is." He spits. Petty, office rivalries should never interfere with one's professionalism or work.

"You hired me, and then you hung me out to dry. You don't give me cases, you don't give me a word. What am I supposed to do?" She asks. Accusation and desperation color her. Harvey isn't exactly sympathetic. "We both know how you got here. You expect more from me, that's not my problem."

She gets this confident air about her suddenly. "I do know how I got here, which is how I know you're not going to fire me. So keep your empty threats to yourself."

Her tone digs under his skin like a baby splinter. His jaw spasms. "When I said you're done, I meant your future with this firm is over. Because you will never be anything more than you are right now. And," He says as an afterthought. "If you ever do anything like that to Mike Ross again, I don't give a shit what our deal was. You'll be gone." He means it, she can see the diehard seriousness in him. Harvey Specter is a force [unlike any other] not to be stoked, because he'll chew you up and ruin anything you might be.

Harvey glances out the window. Pearson Hardman stands tall [touching the clouds, or so it always seems to him]. "Get out."

She does. He gives Ray a different address, one in the Bronx. Ray knows the place. He knows who lives there, so he doesn't ask. That ride to the Bronx is one of his most quiet. Mike is on his brain and has been for the longest time. He can hear his own, harsh words [over and over again]. Mike tried to interrupt and explain himself, but Harvey was too good to listen.

Now Mike is hurting, and Harvey is out an associate. Not just an associate, but the best associate he's ever had [his associate]. He could go on winning cases without Mike, but it wouldn't be the same. It would be utterly boring and soul - crushing. With Mike, work isn't just work. Work is fun. Work is finding loopholes, schooling the opposition, back and forth banter, stupid references. Harvey can admit he likes to show off in front of Mike. He likes the awed glances, the camaraderie, the fist bumps.

Loves it, actually.

Harvey might not need Mike, but he wants Mike [fucking badly]. He doesn't say it enough [or at all]. He can hardly admit it to himself, but he should. He will, as soon as Mike comes back to work. As much as he loathes to admit it, he cares [a lot]. He cares so much, it's starting to really hurt. Mike makes him warm, and he isn't used to all this warmth. It scares him. He used to hide behind pretty, feminine faces and nonchalance. He can't do that anymore, and a part of him is glad. He has to take action. Mike means more than his pride, so he'll apologize. He'll prove he cares.

They stop, and Harvey is thrown from his heavy introspection. He climbs from his car and gifts the seedy building a mistrustful glare. He pays [paid, he reminds himself bitterly] Mike handsomely, surely he can afford better living accommodations. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he makes the short trek to Mike's floor. A few, suspicious characters pass him on the way up, and he starts to fear for Mike's general safety. Suddenly, he's standing in front of Mike's door. He tries the knob. It's locked, because nothing is that easy.

He knocks. No answer. He leans in close [just short of pressing his ear to the door] and listens. Faint shuffling sounds within, and Harvey huffs. He knocks again, a little harder. Still no answer. "Mike!" He calls, all but banging on the door. It trembles on rusty hinges. "I'm not leaving, Mike!" He calls again, louder.

"Go away."

Harvey stops and glares at the door like it might collapse under the sheer weight of his eyes [a plausible notion]. "I'm not going away."

Mike doesn't say anything, so he resumes his violent knocking.

It swings open under his closed fist. Mike stands on the other side, stiff and scowling. Harvey doesn't get shocked or visibly surprised [ever], but when he sees Mike [in all his broken glory, cast and crutches and the whole shebang] his heart jumps into his throat. For the first fucking time, when he could really use one, he doesn't have a clue. "Mike?"