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CHAPTER SIX:

On Your Own

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A/N: All of my chapters are pretty fluffy, but this one is especially so. I had a tough week and wanted to write something to cheer myself up. This is not at all what I'd originally intended. It was supposed to be super serious, but whatever; I didn't really want to go there emotionally. If a few of you guys could maybe send an extra handful of reviews my way, that'd be great too. I'd really appreciate it.

Disclaimer: none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language.


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Wednesday dawns clear skied and unpredictable.

Wearing only a baggy tee and tartan bottoms with stripes, Mike pads into the kitchen barefoot, giving his armpit a cautious sniff as he clambers onto a stool, before sleepily pillowing his head on the crook of his arm.

"Morning, puppy," Harvey greets from where he's fixing himself a bowl of that boring, all-bran cereal. It's obvious he has just returned from his daily jog, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead and cheeks faintly flushed. "What would you like for breakfast? Toast sound acceptable?"

"No," Mike replies, still slumped over the counter top.

"Okay…" He racks his brain for another preference of Mike's. "What about some strawberries and waffles?"

He doesn't even pause, before rejecting, "No."

"Well, those are your options, kiddo." With an unapologetic shrug, his boss says, "I'd offer you some of mine, but I know how much you hate any cereal that isn't cheerios, so what'll it be? Toast or waffles?"

He doesn't know what's gotten into him, but he wants to push just to see what might happen, and he needs to refuse if only to show that he can. "No."

To Harvey's credit, he simply says, "Mike."

Bumping his nose against his arm and stubbornly shaking his head, the youngster stretches, "Noooooo."

"Alright, here's what's going to happen: I'm going to count to ten and you are going to choose or I'm going to choose for you and that'll be the end of it, got it?"

"But Harrvvvyy," Mike whines, lifting his head momentarily before flopping lifelessly down again.

"But nothing," he firmly refutes. Somewhat louder than his usual speaking voice but no less obstinate, the senior partner begins slowly, "One, two, three-"

Mike fidgets.

"-Four, five, six-"

Lips slip into a sullen pout.

"-Seven, eight, nine-"

"Okay, okay!" the boy interjects, succumbing to the pressure. "I'll have the toast." When Harvey simply raises a brow, he quickly tacks on, "Please."

"No problemo, kiddo," he cheerfully assents, ignoring Mike's resentful frown. Within minutes, a warm plate is placed in front of him along with another lousy juice box, blackcurrent in flavour, which he glowers at on principle. As if reading his mind, Harvey doesn't hesitate to intervene. "Nope," he effortlessly impedes, relaxed yet resolute. "We don't have time for any 'don't want its.' You're eating your toast, crust and all, and that's it."

As if some external force has invaded his mind, Mike can't stop himself from blurting, "No."

Harvey's nose twitches and the associate knows, right then, that he won't like what's coming next.

"Is that the only word in your vocabulary today?" he queries, not sounding the least bit amused. "I was kind enough to give you a choice, Mike. In future, I might not be so liberal. So you better believe it when I say that unless you wolf down at least one slice of toast inside the next five minutes, I will spoon-feed you for the rest of the week. If you want to act like a spoiled brat, then you'll be treated as one, simple as that."

"No fair!"

"On the contrary, I think you'll find that it's more than reasonable. You know you get cranky in the morning unless you've eaten and I, for one, am not in the mood to deal with any more temper tantrums."

Knuckling his eyes and not quite holding off the tears, Mike isn't even aware that he's been sucking on his thumb until he has to meekly consent around the blockage, "Fine."

"Good boy," Harvey softly praises, giving him a quick hug and kissing the top of his head. "Now, I'm going to go shower and when I get back, that plate better be clean, mister."

The kid nods, picking up the lukewarm bread and sluggishly pushing it against his lips as if to say, See? I'm being totally agreeable. Look how well-behaved and pleasant I am.

"And when we get to the firm, you can take a little nap in my office if you're still tired, okay?" he proposes with a knowing look. Before Mike has the chance to object to that statement, the lawyer adds, "Plus, I think Jellybean might be feeling a little sad today." Mike doesn't know why, but that makes him sad, brows furrowing in sympathy. "Maybe you should stay with him for a while. Just in case he gets a bit lonely."

"Okay," he agrees whole-heartedly, willing to do anything that might cheer up his furry pal and secretly promising to give him an extra-special cuddle later.

And if Mike just so happens to drop off during the middle of a very, very long hug after telling about ten different jokes that he's certain would brighten anyone's day, ("Hey, Jellybean. What do you call an alligator in a vest?" Blue eyes gazed back at him vacantly. "An Investigator!") then what's the harm anyway?

He's just being a good friend.

And if, unbeknownst to him, Harvey and Donna are left struggling to contain their mushy awwwws, and the senior partner smiles upon seeing the boy's eyes have drifted closed before hunting down his favourite blankie to tuck him in, then what's the odds anyhow?

It's not like Harvey anticipated this moment.


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Much more refreshed and better rested, it's an extremely guilty, shame-faced Mike who awakens on the couch.

He should probably apologise.

Yet, just as Mike is about to sit up and stretch, he overhears a hushed, "No, I can't. My schedule is chock-full and I-"

Cracking open a curious lid, he finds that Harvey is on the phone and appears to be arguing, jaw cast in rigid infuriation with grave grooves of stress sculpted across his frown line.

"It's not about that," he murmurs quietly, "Jessica, I really can't-" Another long pause has him massaging his brow and sighing. "I don't even want to know how you found out about the kid staying with me, but it's actually none of your business. Mike…he's-" Hearing his name, Mike stills, assuming a peaceful expression and feeling eyes on him. "…He needs me right now. I can't go flying across the country. Not after-" the lawyer breaks off. "Look, LA is great and all - you know I'd love to join you and take down this bastard. But it's just not viable right now." His voice is even lower to utter, "No, absolutely not. I am not asking Donna to look after him." Almost whispering, "She killed her last goldfish."

"I trust her!" he exclaims after a moment. "I just…No, it doesn't matter - fine, she sprinkled some Oreo crumbs in the water. Poor little suckers didn't know what hit them."

All of a sudden, an indignant voice comes over the intercom, "Are you telling that fish-murderer story again?"

"No!"

"Good. Because we were both pretty drunk that night and you have no way to prove it was me."

"It was totally you," he grumbles, before finally responding to Jessica, "Moral of story is, I am unable to go. Go find some other lackey to do your bidding. I'm sure Louis will be delighted."

But since when has Jessica ever fought fair?

"Flattered as I may be," Harvey chuckles, "I'm still not sold. You're going to have to do better than point out things I already kno- Wait, wait, wait, seriously? You're kidding. You'll give me how much for two days?! That's a pretty hefty bonus from someone who claims not to be desperate. You know what? You give me a weeks vacation afterwards and repeat everything you've just said to me in front all of the partners, including Louis, and I'll even do it for free."

From the sounds of it, Jessica isn't exactly over the moon, but hey - a deal's a deal.


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Fast forward to an hour later and no countdown technique is going to nip Mike's newfound defiance in the bud.

"No," he avows, putting his foot down (and maybe, just maybe, unintentionally punctuating Harvey's point and stamping it too) and nowhere near ready to give in.

"Now, Mike-"

"No, we are not discussing this. I've had just about enough of you two ordering me around. Do not make me repeat myself."

"Mike," Harvey's voice is strained and nothing approximating the equanimity of before, "Remember our conversation earlier? This is not a time when I can give you a choice. There's no choosing now. I know that you don't like this, and I'm sorry, but this is how it's going to be."

"I said no!" the associate snaps in frustration. "Get this into your head: I will not bow down to your stupid schemes just to satisfy your peace of mind. It's not happening."

"Mike, poppet," Donna says her piece, "Harvey is just trying to do what's best for you. For what it's worth, I think we would have a fan-fricking-tastic few days together."

"While I appreciate the concern, Donna," he says diplomatically, "I'm old enough to stay on my own. I have an apartment for a reason." Even if he hasn't stayed there in, oh, three weeks or so. "I'll be fine. Stop encouraging him."

Mike avoids using the words 'man,' 'grown-up,' and, 'adult,' to propel his argument because lately he's noticed they seem to plot against him, highlighting all the ways in which he's not the least bit reliable in his present state. And it always ends the same way: with Harvey even more converted to a lifetime of mollycoddling than ever, and Mike feeling powerless to the solace of his trusty thumb.

"I don't need any damn encouragement, alright?" Harvey irritably tells him. "I'm in charge here, and I have grounds to believe that you most certainly will not be 'fine.'"

"Why do you get to dictate how or where I spend my time?" Mike puts forward, doing his best to withstand that side of him that wants to kick and shout and narrate all the reasons why no-one can tell him what to do.

"Because I'm Harvey, that's why," his boss concludes as if it's that simple.

Okay, time to switch it up.

"Please, Harvey?" Mike sniffs, widening his eyes minutely, tilting his head ever-so-slightly and rumpling tragic brows. Blinking past the tears catching on his eyelashes, he adds a layer of the sweetest sincerity to his tone. "I promise I'll be really, really good, and do everything I'm supposed to, and call Donna if anything happens." And just to seal the deal, he does the one thing guaranteed to thaw any last reservation - Mike pokes the edge of his mouth with the tip of his thumb, neither sucking or chewing, and adds, "Pretty please?"

So he's a manipulative little shit - sue him.

He can see Harvey's willpower draining away at the adorableness. It shouldn't work, - he's a long way from the picture of independence - but it does. If nothing else, Harvey is a sucker for a charming, distressed Mike.

With a look in his eyes like he knows he's going to regret this later, the senior partner gives in, "Fine. But if anything - and I mean, anything - goes wrong, then you will be shipped off to Donna's, no hesitation. I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt, Mike. Do not let me down."

But, of course, it wasn't that easy. Harvey spends the rest of the day trying to change his mind, because he can't very well go back on his word, and then panicking as the time draws nearer and he realises that Mike is genuinely going to be left on his own.

Two days, Mike keeps reminding him.

And another morning, Harvey predictably parrots back.

His flight (first-class, naturally) is scheduled to leave that Thursday morning, but Mike soon begins to doubt that he'll ever make it on board. A twist that nobody saw coming, Harvey is unbelievably clingy that evening. Beyond ensuring that the refrigerator is well stocked, (there was no hope of the associate returning to his own 'landmine of fleas and disease') and drafting up list after list on what to do in case of an emergency, the lawyer's focal goal is not letting Mike out of his sight.

With his approaching departure skulking around the corner, Harvey consoles himself by carding fingers through his puppy's hair while he reads up on the case - and Mike lets him. Even if it does become a tad distracting when he's trying to build the Millennium Falcon out of Lego without instructions, thank you very much. Instructions are for wusses.

Mike, on the other hand, isn't feeling at all apprehensive about his father-figure leaving. On the contrary, he's looking forward to the prospect of revelling in his freedom.

It isn't until bedtime that the first trace of fear sprouts. However, he can't really express these fears without aggravating all of Harvey's, so he keeps them to himself and inadvertently gets comforted anyway, when the man continues to stay with him, crooning song after song, and accidentally ends up falling asleep in Mike's bed.

Thursday dawns with the peachy afterglow of sunrise.

Mike unenthusiastically swallows his toast without complaint, while Harvey packs the last of his things.

"Don't worry, kiddo. I'll call as soon as I can," Harvey pledges, while the kid clutches at him for dear life. "Be good for me, okay? I'll be back before you know it."

"Miss you," he mumbles into the man's chest, one hand mangling his crisp, scrupulous suit. It is perhaps the first time that Mike truly pays attention to the drastic difference in height between them. He really is but a boy.

"I'll miss you too, puppy," Harvey murmurs, planting a kiss on his head and rubbing his back. Mike reluctantly lets go, standing back as his protector slides into the cab.

But it'll be good for them, he thinks. The separation.

Two days, Mike reminds himself.

And another morning.


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For his first step towards doing-whatever-the-hell-he-wants, Mike casually forgets to call Ray.

He waits long enough for Donna to have gotten to work so that he won't run into her outside the building, but doesn't leave it too late that the redhead will grow concerned and get in contact with Ray herself. He hops onto his bike and feels the last of his guilt shrink away. Man, he missed this.

Besides, it's not like he's doing anything that anyone other than Harvey would categorize as dangerous. He's being healthy and active, getting his blood pumping and all that. And really, Mike is not abusing Harvey's trust. He hasn't gone mad with power; he's just riding his bicycle.

Work itself is far from enjoyable. But that's precisely what he'd aimed for.

As soon as Mike arrives, he advances towards Louis' office and requests to chip in on the Peterson & Ridge merger. It's not the most intellectually-challenging of cases, but there's a mountain of paperwork that the junior partner is all too happy to impart on eager, naïve associates.

Like him.

And Harold - who he feels a little bad about roping in, but at the end of the day, he is far too docile to even suggest that Mike takes his lunch instead of burrowing under a cave of briefs in the file room, and so unobservant that it's highly unlikely he'd ever notice Mike then falling asleep after holding out for as long as he can.

Mike is cunning enough that he texts Donna to say everything's okay, while supplying the vaguest of details to hopefully knock her off his tail.

It's late by the time he finishes up - he may have yelled at Harold a little and decided never to work in close proximity on an empty stomach with anyone ever again - and Mike once again opts not to phone his boss' driver, preferring to make his own way home in the dark.

He's shivering violently as he turns his key in the lock with frozen, trembling hands, and it takes a moment for Mike to realise that the door was never locked.

Guardedly pushing it open, he breathes a sigh of relief at the welcoming brightness. What kind of dim-witted burglar leaves the hall lights on?

Tiptoeing towards the kitchen area all the same, he halts at the sight of a figure helping themselves to a glass of the finest wine on offer.

"Welcome home, Mike," Donna drawls, swirling the sparkling, crimson liquid and taking a leisured sip. "You took your time."

His messenger bag falls to the floor. "Goddammit."


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"Donna, what are you doing here?" Mike questions, shock quickly wearing off and annoyance rising in its place.

"You're moping," she states with a shrug, taking a seat by the breakfast bar. "I figured I'd better do something before you started writing shitty poems and sobbing into a tub of strawberry ice-cream."

"I am not moping," he objects. He's just… going about his day a little differently, is all.

"You didn't step one foot into Harvey's office all day and have been going nuts trying to keep yourself busy," the redhead recounts dryly. "Pretty sure that counts as moping."

Unable to defend himself without digging a deeper hole, Mike instead probes, "Did he call you? Is that why you're here?"

"No, I volunteered to save you from becoming a walking cliché," Donna tells him, elegantly crossing her legs in total indifference.

"But he did call."

"Duh." She rolls her eyes. "Classic worrywart, remember?" Donna chuckles, then abruptly sobers. "Though that's beside the point. Now that Harvey is out of the picture, we can finally have some fun around here."

Mike is almost afraid to ask. "…Fun?"

The beam which comes over her face is so scarily bright, it verges on foreboding. "Yes, fun. Ever heard of it?" Without giving him the chance to protest, Donna commands, "So go change into some old clothes, and shorts if you've got them, and brace yourself for a shitload of awesome."

When Mike only continues to stand there in hopeless incomprehension, she snipes, "Well? What are you waiting for? Chop, chop. I've got stuff to prepare."

He does as instructed, emerging almost ten minutes later in the rattiest clothes he owns.

When he enters the living area, Mike is stunned to learn that the couch has been pushed back against the far wall and an enormous slice of paper has been rolled out in its place, roughly eight feet in length, and the corners are weighed down by generous trays of thick, glossy paint - modest yellow and luscious blue opposite a tart red and blushing pink.

Not only this, but the redhead herself is now dressed in a baby pink vest-top and black yoga pants, with her hair scraped back in a lopsided bun and looking far too smug for his liking.

"Uh, Donna…" He scratches his chest. "What's all this?"

"This, my sweet, ignorant friend, is everything we need for some good, old-fashioned freeze dancing."

"Some-some what?"

"No need to look so worried, sunshine," she declares, laughing openly at his wary expression. "It's easy peasy. Here, just take off your socks and follow my lead, 'kay?"

It takes a bit more coaxing for Mike to get in the swing of things, but Donna's zest is irresistible.

Which was why, an hour later after hastily retrieving and accepting a call from his buzzing cell, Mike answers with a breathless, almost giddy, "He-hello..?" while fighting to maintain his balance, feet skidding on the green-speckled wooden floor and leaving a trail of bright, sticky prints.

"Mike?" Harvey replies in confusion. "Why do you sound so out of breath? Is that music playing in the background?"

"Bit busy, Harvey," the kid tells him, mind elsewhere. His heart is beating frantically while his legs are moving seemingly of their own accord to the infectious rhythm - riffs of frenzied, electric guitars and chaotic drums clashing with the offbeat keyboard and passionate yet silky vocals. "Donna challenged me to a dance off and I'm currently losing by- what was it?" he directs over his shoulder. "Ten points?"

"Fifteen if you're not careful," she supplies, wisps of auburn sticking to her forehead creased in concentration. "I am gonna. Bring. You. Down."

"You wish," Mike retorts, before returning his focus to the conversation at hand, "Sorry, Harv. Can you call back in, like, twenty minutes?"

"Wait-wait-wait," he butts in, "What's this about a dance off?"

"I'm teaching him how to play freeze dance," Donna shouts over, bouncing to the climatic build of the drums. "Try to keep up."

"What the hell is that?" the man asks, perplexed.

"It's a game where you pour some paint into a container and then jump into it," he explains. "Once your feet are covered, you start the music and dance around on a really large sheet of paper. The song stops at random and you have to freeze and hold your pose. First one to move loses. Winner scores five points."

"Is that.. Is that safe?" he wonders suspiciously. "Sounds kinda messy."

"It's kickass," Mike enthuses just as the music is brought to a standstill and he halts, wobbling a little as his toes strain under the weight of his awkward position. "Check it, I only fell over twice."

"Wait, what-"

Sneaking a peek at his companion, he sees that Donna is struggling to uphold her own difficult pose as she tips to one side, paint slick and slurring under her heel. "Plus, by the end, you've got a pretty cool picture. We've made three already."

"Mike, I don't want you getting hu-"

"We'll scrub the place down afterwards and everything, no worries."

"Mike, you'd better not do anything-"

A sharp gasp and suddenly Donna is pitching forward. Her hip knocks into Mike's side, disturbing his own brittle steadiness. Soon, he is crumpling unceremoniously on top of her in a heap of tangled limbs and startled laughs, flecks of paint spraying their faces as a lock of hair dips into the colourful mush.

"What was that?" Harvey cries in panic.

Before he can assure his boss that everything is fine, - he's doubtlessly bruised, but it doesn't seem like anything's broken - the redhead snatches the phone out of his grasp and replies smoothly into the receiver, "Sorry, no killjoys allowed. Feel free to call back whenever I actually give a crap. I'll pencil you in for Tuesday."

"Donna, I swear to God-"

"Bye, Harvey," Donna sings, not hesitating to hang up.

Mike stares at her.

Gazing back at him unrepentantly, she says, "What?"

Huffing a laugh, he shakes his head and remarks instead, "For the record, I so won that round."

"Oh, hell no, bitch," she counters. "You could have fractured my spine with that twisty manoeuvre there; I am entitled to at least ten pity points."

Sometimes with Donna, it really is easier to simply give her what she wants.

The clean up takes about twice as long as the game itself and Mike has a sneaking suspicion that he will be picking blobs of paint out of his toenails for weeks, but with what feels like a permanent grin having long ago conquered his face, it's hard to sustain any exasperation.

Ultimately, the boy can't deny that it was totally and unequivocally freakin' worth it.

Even if Harvey will never entrust Donna to oversee Mike's welfare ever again. And he had to endure a pretty impressive, anxiety-driven rant which clocked in at around twenty minutes when he finally worked up the courage to ring back the catastrophic-thinker who probably shouldn't be left alone to his thoughts.


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Harold doesn't want to work with him on Friday.

Not that Mike blames him.

He buys a cookie to say sorry and leaves it on the much-too-gentle associate's desk along with a written apology, before going to hide from Louis in the library and drawing a picture for - and possibly of - Harvey (he was bored).

The man eventually tracks him down and he ends up working in Louis' office for the rest of the day where he can keep tabs on him - damn Harvey called him too.

Mike doesn't think he'll ever recover from the horror of being bulldozed into taking a nap by the same man who was gunning for the obliteration of his career just a month ago and who now forced him to eat turkey bites, celery and carrot sticks for lunch after squabbling for over an hour about who was superior: Batman or Superman (Batman, obviously. Strategic mastermind, anyone?).

And as it turns out, there's not a whole bunch of people that Harvey didn't call, because when he leaves the firm at six o'clock on the dot at the junior partner's insistence, Ray is leaning against his limo sporting a disapproving frown courtesy of one even more disapproving senior partner.

Mike hangs his head and gets in.

He only has enough to time to change out of his suit into something more comfortable before knocking sounds at the door. Grumbling on his way to answer it, the associate readies himself for an argument with a certain legal secretary, but to his surprise, it's not Donna standing at his front door with a mouth-watering bag of takeout.

"Hey, loser."

"Aw, man," Mike groans, throwing back his head and standing aside to let her in. "He recruit you too?"

"What?" Rachel asks, startled.

"Harvey," he says roughly. "He's been enlisting the help of everyone I know to make my life a living hell from the other side of the frickin' country. He made me stay with Louis today."

"Yeah…about that..." She bites her lip, looking up at him guiltily. "He, ah, got in touch with me, too."

Of course he did.

"Well, I have to give him props for his thoroughness," Mike grumbles, collecting two plates and a couple forks from the kitchen. "He's like some kind of evil mastermind."

Rachel laughs. "You didn't honestly expect anything less?"

"I don't know," he answers candidly, before glancing over at her in confusion, "Why? Did you?"

"Can't say I did," the paralegal admits easily. "My Dad used to be the exact same and don't even get me started on my Mom. Even now, it's like I have to remind her the umbilical cord was cut decades ago."

Mike swallows at the insinuation that their situations are in any way similar.

Right. New caregiver, chemical reaction, whole distortion of reality thing.

Not wanting to get into it, he says teasingly, "Harvey the only reason you came over?"

"'Course not," Rachel grins. "We haven't hung out in ages and I thought you might want to have another Vikings marathon. Unless you're not up for it. It might be a little graphic."

"Seriously? Blood, guts and gore - hell, yeah, I'm all over that shit!"

"You sure?" she frowns. "People are, like, slaughtered every five minutes."

"Rach, come on." Not this again, he inwardly sighs. "You can't dangle something like that in front of me just to yank it away. Get over yourself, we're watching it. I've been dying to watch season two."

She doesn't look convinced. "If you're sure…"

"I'm sure," he assures with soft earnestness, positive that he has this in the bag

"Alright then," Rachel allows. "But don't come crying to me if you have any nightmares." And for the first time, it crosses Mike's mind that she's acting a lot more like a babysitter than his friend - much less his equal. It upsets him a great deal more than it should.

Then when she murmurs, "It'll be our little secret," the penny drops and it becomes apparent that - just like everything else - Rachel may not purposely treat him this way, but for all intents and purposes, their friendship may as well be in shambles because all Mike's ever going to be to her is a dorky little kid that needs protection from the harsh realities of the world and R-rated movies.

He enjoys his time with the paralegal even so, but it's not the same.

Whenever they make a fresh batch of homemade popcorn beforehand like always, Rachel warns him to be careful not to burn his fingers and she constantly scrutinizes his expression for any signs of emotional disturbance during the show, which sadly does end up being more than he can handle.

After swapping for another Disney film, - Brother Bear or something - Mike's spirits are a little low and he finds himself wishing that Harvey were here to comment on the mediocre animation and far-fetched plot as if in agony, so that even though the kid side took pleasure in the childish show, he could laugh about the occasional flaw and that would be fine, too.

He'd feel more…balanced or something.

At the finish up, Mike is on the verge of tears, (not because the ending broke his heart or anything, as if) and involuntarily sniffles, "Want H'vey."

Though alarmed, Rachel is obviously cooing uncontrollably on the inside and she stokes his hair for a moment before pronouncing, "I think I might have just the thing."

She stands and soon disappears from his line of sight and just when he fears she's going to present him with Jellybean, or a sippy cup, or something equally embarrassing, Rachel returns with his neglected laptop.

"Here you go, pumpkin," she smiles, handing it over.

Brows puckering, Mike begins to say, "What-" but is cut off by a voice emanating from the contraption on his lap.

"Hiya, puppy. A little birdie told me you were feeling a little down."

"Harvey!" Mike beams, tilting the laptop so that the familiar face appears on the screen. In the meantime, Rachel leaves to give the two some privacy, quickly giving Mike a good-bye hug and nodding to Harvey.

"Yup," The other man's smile is warm and gentle. "What's up, puppy? Why so sad?"

Eyes downcast, Mike shrugs, toying with his fingers. "Just been…been missing you," he admits shyly with a faint blush.

"Well, then isn't it a good thing you'll see me tomorrow, right, bud?"

"But tomorrow's forever away," the boy whines, breath hitching.

"I know, puppy," Harvey appeases. "But just think of all the time we'll have to do something together when I get back."

The conciliation alone isn't enough.

In the end, Harvey has no other alternative than to wait until Mike is 'as snug as a bug' (Harvey's words, not his) in bed, clutching his security blanket and stuffed animal close, before singing his usual lullaby over an honest-to-God Skype call so that the kid can finally sleep.


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The appointment he arranged with Dr. Slater for Monday morning can't come quick enough.

He doesn't bother with any preamble, simply choosing to barge in, thoughts of this future and his current routine - which evidently has a sell-by date - ricocheting in his mind, and demands, "How am I ever supposed to have a normal life?" It's the one question he'd give anything to have an answer to. "It feels like I have no control over anything and there's only so long that I can keep all of…this up."

He doesn't have to elaborate on the 'this.'

Dr. Slater stands and gives the subject his full, undivided attention, pausing for several moments to carefully consider his response.

"Foremost," he begins, clearing his throat and licking his chapped lips, "My advice to you would be to embrace it." And wasn't that a stinker. "I won't lie. The other's still struggle and this is all very new. But the absolute last thing you should do is act like nothing has changed."

So… the exact opposite of everything he has been doing?

"Major adjustments are only logical," Dr. Slater explains. "You are not an adult, in body or mind. Hard as it to accept, you're less than eighty-percent teenager. Mike, you must cater to your body's needs."

"What? Like, you mean I should walk around casually sucking on a pacifier?" he scoffs with a healthy dose of sarcasm. But his hands are ticking and he's feeling extremely out of his comfort zone.

"Let me ask you this," the man challenges. "If you were diabetic, would you feel uncomfortable taking insulin?"

Mike rolls his eyes, having seen this very practical outlook coming a mile off. "Of course not."

"Then why should you think of this as being any different? There's no reason to be ashamed, Mr. Ross. If you need security items, use them - discreetly, if you must. Say for example, you find yourself craving a hug or getting carried away with make-believe, go with it. Repressing these desires will not help. We've tested that avenue and it has failed spectacularly. Best case scenario, you have a complete and utter meltdown come naptime. Worst case, you risk disturbing the somewhat delicate balance between the two, resulting in even more indulgence of puerility. You aren't normal, Mike," he says matter-of-factly, causing the associate to flinch. "You have to be realistic, which, yes, requires making a few life changes that are not altogether ideal."

"Not ideal?" Mike repeats incredulously. "Doc, you're talking about me giving up my independence, my job, my everything."

"Maybe, maybe not," he shrugs. "With the appropriate measures in place, I do believe that you can manage this. Go back to school, take up something new for a few years. Then you can qualify as a lawyer or whatever it is that you wish and-"

"Start all over again?" he interrupts cynically, a bitter taste on his tongue.

Dr. Slater pauses. "Would that really be so bad?"

Yes, a voice deep down screams. It would be the end of everything.

But then he remembers just how goddamn happy he'd been to see Harvey on his return. The beam that shone much brighter than ever before. How the man had wrapped his arms around him and pulled Mike tight against his torso, running his fingers through his blonde hair and grinning.

How easy it had been for both of them to say, 'I missed you. Let's not do that again.'

"I never asked for a do-over."

"But still… you got one," he bluntly points out. "The only question is, what will you do with it?"


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Thanks for reading.

It isn't as long as I would have hoped for, (sort of like short snippets) but I hope you enjoyed it nevertheless.

Also, for the Anon who asked if Mike is a kid - no, he's technically a teenager with child-like tendencies. Sorry, if I've made this unclear.