Work Text
The city shines hard tonight, the glittering skyline laid out like a spread of jewels for Harvey’s viewing pleasure. He’s sufficiently accustomed to the display that he barely notices it, though he strolls to the window to pour himself a liberal glass of Macallan 18. He’s still mostly dressed from work, his wide tie loosened, his sleeves rolled up and rumpling fabric that cost more than even he makes in an hour. The lamp by his hearth glows, throwing soft golden light across the room.
He reaches for his phone. Taps his way to “Favorites.” Wavers.
He calls Donna instead, makes up some story about going out for a celebratory drink while the phone rings, and doesn’t bother mustering surprise when he gets her voicemail. She must have plans; even Louis has plans these days.
He tries again.
His call to Mike also falls to voicemail– even faster than he expected, though he can’t let that shake him. He lounges on his throne, arms draped easily on the black leather, and dons his smile, only slightly too aware of the matching seat sitting empty on his right.
“Hey, Mike, it’s me.”
He smiles loud, warming his voice through. His tone is strange to his ear, jollier than he’s sounded in months, but Mike can’t possibly care, seeing how he hasn’t been around to notice the difference.
“I’ve got a hell of a story to tell you. It involves Kevin Miller, Stu Buzzini . . .”
It is a hell of a story, Harvey’s got nothing if not that. He’s just lived the goddamn sequel to Mike’s prison days, the same motley cast, the same guilt and looming threat of jail. The damn echoes have torn through his psyche, and surely they have some pull on Mike still, via deja vu or nostalgia or mere intellectual interest.
“Sean Cahill . . .”
It’s a blast from the past, their past. Harvey’s own personal hell creeping back to remind him how he moved “heaven and earth” for Mike.
“And that trade we made for Teddy Doyle last year.”
A thought flits through Harvey’s head, that perhaps he shouldn’t implicate them both in stock manipulation over the phone. He plunges on with merry indifference to the criminal liability, because what did they ever have if not that?
“Give me a call if you want to hear it.”
If.
The conditional slips in where he doesn’t want it, the implicit question of whether Mike still wants this story. He doesn’t ask it outright; no self-respecting corporate lawyer asks questions they don’t know the answer to.
“Miss you, buddy.”
Now that’s a lawyer’s statement through and through, nothing but the truth and in no way whole. It fits. Their story’s never been the whole story. Harvey’s long since settled for long looks and half-truths and “buddy.”
Mouth going slack, Harvey drops the smile he might not have meant, he drops his arm and drops the call, shoulders sinking as all his breath slips out. He turns his head to the right, throwing his face into shadow, and takes a slow, quiet sip of scotch. His eyes catch on the glitter, the refracted light from the facets of his glass.
The city shines hard tonight.