A/N (Aimee) The only thing more exciting than collaborating on a You've Got Mail Darvey story is the opportunity to do it with my dear friend jobiefreeman. We are only 2 chapters in and it's already so much fun. Hope you are enjoying it as much as we are. Thanks for reading!
You've Got Mail
Chapter 2
~oOo~
Sometimes I think my love of sports borders on unhealthy. I never leave a jazz concert feeling like my heart was put through a sausage grinder or like I want to rip the face off of the next person who speaks out of turn. Last night's Yankee game made me feel both of those things.
You a sports fan?
~ NYC_901
~oOo~
Of course, I'm a sports fan. Sadly, not baseball though. I'm into a much more aggressive, sometimes lethal, sport than that. One that definitely makes my heart pound, has the potential to fill me with pure joy but unfortunately also often causes violent altercations with other fans.
You might think baseball can get your blood racing and fire up those animalistic impulses to the max, but I bet you've never experienced a Summer or Winter Sale at Hermes!
Designer handbag shopping in a Sale is the ultimate extreme sport.
~ Theatergirl
~oOo~
Wow. I can't say I have any experience with handbags. Or shopping in general. But if the opportunity presents itself, and we do a schoolyard pick for teams, you'll be my first choice for sure.
Do you ever come across people in your profession who are glaringly ignorant about their ignorance? It's one thing not to know your ass from a hole in the ground but to basically flaunt it like a damn peacock? If ignorance is bliss, the moron I faced in… how can I put this without crossing our carefully drawn 'no personal details' line... that I dealt with today at work must be floating on cloud fucking nine. I'd say excuse my language but it's completely necessary. You'll have to trust me on that.
NYC_901
~oOo~
The blonde is a little assertive for his taste, but it's not like he's not going to tell her to stop. With both her hands gripping his pecks, she teases his lips with the tip of her tongue. Harvey can feel himself hardening in his slacks as he leans into the kiss. The mystery woman is all over him, hands everywhere, moaning, her tongue lapping against his face…
Harvey's eyes shoot wide open and his nostrils fill with rancid dog breath.
"For fuck's sake, Rembrandt! Get the hell off of me!" Harvey attempts to shove the oversized yellow Lab off the bed but it only excites the pup more and he plants another sloppy kiss on Harvey's face.
"Scottie!" he shouts toward the bathroom door. "Why did you let this disaster of an animal into the bedroom?"
"That 'disaster' is your dog, Harvey!" she calls back through the slightly open door. "And you know full well, no one lets him do anything." With that, the door clicks shut the rest of the way.
Harvey swings his legs over the side of the bed and glares at the big brown eyes smiling up at him. He's not sure what's more humiliating, the drool he's currently wiping from his face or the half-mast erection he can still feel in his sweatpants.
"Come on, Spaz," he grumbles, pulling on the hoodie next to the bed. He stumbles into the kitchen of his penthouse apartment, Rembrandt literally on his heels, and looks out over the cityscape while his coffee brews. He's not a dog person. Shit, he's not even a person-person. But every time he looks into the stupid mutt's eyes, it makes him feel closer to his mom.
With a heavy sigh, Harvey slides open the tall glass door and steps out onto his balcony. It's been six months since he lost her. Cancer. But Harvey isn't one to wallow or dwell on things that are out of his control. So it's not her passing that sticks in his craw. It's all the years he wasted being angry. All the Christmases and birthdays he missed being a stubborn prick. That he does dwell on. Far more than he should according to his therapist, Dr. Lipschitz.
Rembrandt had been his mom's therapy dog during chemo. He brought her so much comfort and joy during those last few months that Harvey couldn't help but love the damn mutt, despite the fact that he is a giant pain in the ass. He has a feeling that his mother's request for Harvey to take the dog in after her passing was her final ditch effort to help him learn how to let others in. And he is still pissed at her for it.
The coffee pot beeps repeatedly to signal it's ready and he heads back inside nearly tripping over Remy who loves to wind his way through his legs like he's some kind of mobile obstacle course. He fills his travel mug with the piping hot brew and picks up his phone from the counter.
Seventeen new emails but all in his Outlook account. His Gmail box is empty. Not ready to tackle any work bullshit quite yet, he sets the phone back down with a sigh.
She hasn't responded to his last message and he chastises himself for the pang of disappointment it brings. Yesterday he'd worried that he may have gone too far with the Yankee batting order comment, but she played right along. It felt a lot more like flirting than any previous discussions they'd had. He doesn't usually message her twice in a row. He writes, she writes, he writes again. It's a simple and predictable interchange. But thinking about his mom makes him a little sad and for some reason, one he hasn't quite wrapped his mind around, it makes him want to connect with her, Theatergirl.
"You okay?" Scotties asks, taking the coffee he'd just poured and walking to the fridge. "You look… lost."
"What?" Harvey replies, trying to snap his mind back to the girl who is actually in the room. His girlfriend, to be precise. "I'm just… ahh."
"Gotta run," she cuts him off. "Have a good day," she calls on her way out the door. And just like that, she's gone. Taking his coffee with her.
Harvey grunts, takes another mug from the cupboard, fills it, and grabs Rembrandt's leash.
"Let's go, Remy."
The words have hardly left his lips before Rembrandt tears for the front door knocking Harvey straight into the wall.
~oOo~
Fall has definitely arrived in New York. The early morning breeze has a distinct bite to it as it blows through the colorful leaves scattered along the path in the park. Harvey and Rembrandt walk here almost every morning while it's still quiet and nearly deserted.
The central area of the park has a fenced area where the dogs can be let off their leash. Once free, Rembrandt scampers off to explore and Harvey pulls up a seat on the nearby bench and takes his phone from his pocket.
When you hear the name Rembrandt, what do you picture? Seventeenth-century militia, perhaps? A ship battling the raging sea? Well, I see an overactive hairball with bad breath and more slobber than could possibly be normal. And I have my dear mother to thank for it.
~ NYC_901
Harvey clicks his phone into sleep mode and sticks it back into his pocket. He'd tried to resist writing to her but eventually gave in, justifying it by keeping the message short and basically pointless. Hiding behind sarcasm and a dry sense of humor is one of his many strengths. But he had dropped one small line about his mother in there and it made him feel a bit better. Maybe she'll comment on it. Maybe not. But for some reason, completely unbeknownst to him, he'd needed to put it out there. The realization makes him clench his jaw.
Harvey's not even sure what this is between them. An online friendship? It's so out of character for him it's almost laughable. Firstly, he doesn't have female friends. He hardly has male friends, other than Mike of course, but even that he entered into begrudgingly. And secondly, he's not a fan of the internet in general. He doesn't have a single social media account and only happened upon the jazz forum where they met by accident, trying to access a review posted about a solo performance his dad had given. He's always considered himself more of an old soul.
But with Theatergirl… it's different. He finds himself waking up and reaching directly for his phone. Or falling asleep at night smiling about something she'd said or something he couldn't wait to share with her the next day. And while it unnerved him and made him feel almost vulnerable, he hadn't run away. Not yet anyway. Maybe the death of his mother had taught him a thing or two. Or maybe it was a result of the small fortune he was paying his therapist.
~oOo~
"You're late." Mike stands scowling when the elevator doors open.
"Sue me," Harvey deadpans as he walks past his protege without so much as a second glance.
"Jessica's pissed." Mike scurries after him down the long hallway of Pearson Specter.
"Then have her sue me."
"Harvey, I'm serious," Mike says following his boss into the corner office. "Tony Giannopoulos will be here in twenty minutes."
"I'm far more interested in when he'll be leaving than when he's arriving," Harvey mumbles as he opens his computer and finally makes eye contact with Mike. "We just handed that windbag a huge win in court forty-eight hours ago. What does he want now? The whole fucking state of New York?"
"I'm guessing it has to do with the resistance some of the small business owners are putting up." Mike shrugs and lifts the file in his hand toward Harvey. "This new development isn't exactly popular with everyone caught in its wake."
"I thought he approved generous offers to get these people to move on." Harvey absently shuffles through the file folder as his good mood from earlier quickly morphs into something darker.
"He did." Mike takes a seat on the sofa across from Harvey. "And although some are dancing a jig all the way to the bank, others are digging their heels in."
"Christ." Harvey runs a hand through his hair. "What exactly does he plan to do about it? They're owners, not renters. There's no legitimate way we can force these people to sell their property."
Mike tilts his head and purses his lips.
"Right. This is Giannopoulos," Harvey sighs. "Who said anything about legitimate?"
"Mr. Specter?" The voice on the intercom breaks the silence.
"Yes, Gretchen?"
"Ms. Pearson wants to see you in her office."
"Fabulous," Harvey responds as he begins tapping away at his keyboard.
"Mr. Specter?" Gretchen repeats.
"Yesss?" He drags out in an exaggerated tone.
"She wants to see you, now."
"For fucks sake!" Harvey pushes himself away from the desk and stalks toward the glass door with his name etched into it.
"Are you coming?" he yells back over his shoulder as Mike fumbles to grab the file from his desk and follows him.
~oOo~
Jessica Pearson is a fierce and merciless litigator. And that's just her nice side. She'd plucked Harvey from the mailroom years ago and helped support him through law school. She was, and still is, a major contributor to both the lawyer and man he is today. But referring to her leadership style as 'tough love,' is a gross understatement. And despite the fact they're now, in fact, partners, the two butt heads twice as often as they agree.
"Harvey," she greets him with the usual annoyed tone, despite the fact that he hadn't actually done anything. Still, she doesn't greet Mike at all, so there's that.
"Jessica," he mimics.
"Nice of you to show up this morning. I trust your 'morning meeting' was… satisfying?"
Harvey actually winces as the image of how he'd woken up this morning flashes through his mind. He doesn't bother to correct her or to explain that in reality, it was his four-legged, co-dependent, life partner that caused him to be late.
"Actually, she was a real bitch," he smirks at his clever reply.
"Then you're suited perfectly for one another."
Harvey doesn't let her snide remark bother him in the least. It's the way they communicate. It always has been. He plops down into the chair across from her, and like a good protege, Mike follows suit.
"What's got your panties in a wad this morning, Jessica?" Harvey leans in and lifts a marble paperweight from her desk, turning it over repeatedly in his hand. "And, please, don't leave out the part about how it's somehow my fault."
"Tony Giannopoulos will be here any minute," she snaps, clearly unamused by his nonchalance, "and he's up my ass from here to next Thursday about getting this development up and running."
"Have you told him that you're not into that kinky shit? No means no, Jessica."
"Goddammit, Harvey!" Jessica's voice booms and Mike jumps at least six inches off his chair. "Can you stop being a poorly behaved toddler for five minutes?" It may have been phrased as a question but there is no mistaking it's a demand.
"Fine." Harvey huffs, placing the trinket back on her desk. "Clearly Gia-slop-oulos thinks this is somehow our problem to solve. What does he want from me?"
Jessica clears her throat and glares at Mike.
"Oh." Mike looks back and forth between the two of them. "Right. That's me." Mike opens the file he'd tried to show Harvey earlier and begins flipping through the papers inside. "As I mentioned in your office, Harvey. There are a few property owners in the main demolition area that are being… problematic."
Mike removes a single page from the file and extends it toward Harvey. "This one in particular."
"Bobbie Byrne Theater?" Harvey's voice drips with boredom. "Sounds pretty harmless to me. Can't we just throw more money at them? Doesn't this 'super complex' have a theater in it? Offer the man a damn job."
"Actually," Mike scoots forward on his chair. "The owner is a woman. Her name is Donna Paulsen and from what I can gather the small independent theater had been in her family for generations. Bobbie Byrne was her grandmother."
"Are you finished? Did you want to show me some pictures of her as a little girl in ballet shoes?" The look on Harvey's face is straight contempt for his bleeding heart sidekick."Maybe she could hire you to be her lawyer and get this whole construction plan thrown out for a local petting zoo and a circus."
Mike leans back in his chair looking like a puppy who'd been scolded for shitting on the floor.
"I was just trying to provide context. For Donna Paulsen this isn't about money. It's personal."
"Everything is about money, Junior."
"Okay. Okay." Jessica finally intervenes. "I can't stand listening to the two of you bicker like a married couple for another second." She pushes back her chair and walks to the front of her desk. "Harvey, fix this. Get out there and find out what these people want. You say you're the best closer in New York City? Then prove it and close this!"
It's clear from her tone that there is no room for further argument. The two men stand up without another word.
"And Mike," she adds as they head for the door. "You better keep him from doing anything stupid, or you'll be the one looking for work at the new Giannopoulos Superplex."
~oOo~
By the time Harvey finishes his long day of meetings, conference calls, and mountains of paperwork, it's dark outside and the office is nearly empty. He pours himself two fingers of Macallan and puts on his favorite jazz album. As he lifts the amber liquid to his lips, the smooth musings of his father's saxophone fill the room. He should really give him a call.
Harvey takes a seat on the black leather sofa and pulls out his phone. Two text messages from Scottie and one email. He tries not to overthink the quick flutter in his chest but clicks on the Gmail account first.
Rembrandt has always previously conjured up memories of lazy Sundays visiting The Met with my mother, but I admit, now I'm intrigued by this furry friend of yours that shares his name.
From your description, he sounds pretty horrendous. All those cuddles, licks to your face, and the way I bet he's so pleased to see you when you come home at the end of the day. Just terrible. What WAS your mother thinking?
Just remember that while Rembrandt might seem high maintenance, his needs and demands are nothing compared to that of a cat.
One of my closest friends has a Maine Coone, and it may just be the most pampered and spoiled pussy on the Eastern Seaboard, yet I'm convinced it's playing my friend for a fool. The thing glares at me with disdain and suspicion. So much so, that I'm convinced that when it's not sleeping or eating, it is plotting world domination. I swear that cat is evil.
So next time Rembrandt takes a pee in your slippers, just remember that at least when he looks at you with remorse and love, it's genuine. It's not just a ploy to lure you into a false sense of security, because actually he despises you and plans to kill you in your sleep as a prelude to rallying his feline comrades for the launch of an unexpected attack on the unsuspecting New York population.
You may think I exaggerate. But I counter that with, 'you've not met my friend's cat!'
~ Theatergirl
~oOo~
First of all, let's set the record straight. I wouldn't be caught dead in slippers.
Secondly, it takes an incredible amount of restraint for me to let that 'spoiled pussy' comment go without a completely inappropriate rebuttal. Because I have many. And every one of them would have surely made you blush.
Do you ever question what you're doing with your life? Probably not. You seem like one of those people who have it all figured out. Like you knew exactly what you wanted to be when you were six years old and you just made it happen. Living the dream. Am I right? At six I was certain I was going to pitch for the NY Yankees. At sixteen, too, if I'm being honest. And I know I can't tell you what it is I do, but it isn't that. Not even close.
It's crazy how much my day today seemed to fall in line with the day you had yesterday.
Morning sunshine. Positive vibes. Funeral bell. Bottomfeeder.
But seeing a new message from you turned my day right back around. You seem to be making a habit of that.
Oh. And as far as my mother's motives for making me the parent of a four legged furball, I think she hoped it would help me be less of a prick. I'm not convinced it's working.
But between you and me, he does make me feel closer to her.
~ NYC_901
Once Harvey hits send, he sits quietly with a smile on his face, listening to the soft music and letting the liquor quiet ease the muscles in his neck. Several minutes pass before he clicks on the text message bubble still lit up on his phone.
Scottie: Working late then going out for drinks.
Scottie: Don't wait up.
Nothing new there. He pours himself another drink and walks to the giant window that overlooks Manhattan. Harvey can scarcely remember a time, long ago, when he thought he and Scottie were the perfect couple. Both driven, high achieving, workaholic junior partners.
Now they'd both matured, grown-up, and become driven, high achieving, workaholic named partners. They care about each other. Sure. But what they have is a lot more like a business merger than a relationship.
"Up for company?"
Harvey scoffs at the timid suggestion coming from Mike who's looking even more sheepish than usual standing in his doorway.
"Only if you're going to keep me from drinking alone."
"I'm not turning down a glass of that fine scotch if that's what you're suggesting."
"Then help yourself." Harvey gestures to the bar cart next to his desk.
"You okay?" Mike asks with his back to Harvey as he fills his glass. "You seemed a little off all day today."
"I'm fine."
"Because it seems to me like I'm not the only one who Giannopoulos makes sick. What he's doing to these small businesses is—"
"None of our concern, Mike. Didn't you hear Jessica's warning?" Harvey interrupts. "We aren't in the business of playing the conscience of our clients." The words leave a bitter taste on his tongue, but he doesn't question it.
"Right." Mike nods. "Of course not." He takes a sip of his drink before adding, "He's still a dick though."
Harvey laughs out loud at that and it feels pretty damn good. His second drink, affecting him just enough to loosen his tie and take the seat across from his friend.
"You still emailing back and forth with that cougar who's catfishing you?" Mike grins over his glass. "What's her handle again? Balletlady? I bet she weighs three hundred pounds."
"The only thing that's three hundred pounds is the force behind this fist I'm going to put into that pretty boy face of yours."
"Uh! You think I'm pretty? I knew it!"
"Can we rewind the last few minutes, please? This time I'm definitely going to tell you to fuck off when you ask to join me." Harvey's voice is stern but there is a playfulness in his eyes.
"Okay, okay. Sorry." Mike bites his lip and holds his hands up toward his friend. Still a hint of laughter in his tone. "Seriously. Trust me on this. Whoever she is, I'm her biggest fan. She's the only person I know that has made you smile lately." Taking a swig from his glass he adds, "No matter how much she weighs."
Instead of getting pissed off, Harvey snorts into his glass and almost spits what's in his mouth all over Mike. He'd have deserved it, that's for sure, but Harvey could never waste excellent scotch like that.
"Her handle is Theatergirl and I'm not at all concerned about her weight or her age." Harvey's eyes are cast beyond Mike and out the window. "She's just a friend who I enjoy talking to now and then."
When Mike doesn't come back with a smart rebuttal, Harvey turns his attention back to him and finds him gawking. Mouth wide open and completely speechless.
"What? Is that really so surprising?"
"Holy shit." Mike finally finds his voice but he's still just staring back at his friend. "You're serious." He swallows and sets his drink down on the glass coffee table. "You are completely serious."
"And?" Harvey shakes his head and waves his free hand in the air.
"And we need to find this girl."
Just as Harvey is about to question Mike further, his phone buzzes on the table. His brother Marcus's face appears on the screen.
"We aren't finished with this conversation," Mike says hurriedly as Harvey reaches for the phone.
"Yes, we are."
Sliding his finger across the screen he picks up the call. "Shithead! To what do I owe the displeasure?"
Mike sits in contemplative silence while Harvey talks with his younger brother.
"Harvey! Love you too, bro." You can hear the smile on his face through the phone. "I need a huge favor. I'm coming into the city tomorrow for a big interview, but I'm going to have to bring Haley and Lucas along. Any chance you could, um, watch them for a few hours?"
"Am I really your best option, Marcus?" Harvey purses his lips. "I'm not exactly Nanny McPhee."
"I know, Harv, I know. But I kinda told the kids they were spending the afternoon with you and now they're so excited and—"
"Alright, Marcus. I'll move some things around."
"You will?" Marcus and Mike both respond in perfect unison. Each seemingly as shocked as the other.
"Sure. That's what brothers are for, right?" The words sound foreign, even to him. But it's more of a good foreign than a bad one and Harvey thinks to himself that Lipschitz just may be worth every penny he's paying him.
~oOo~
Later that night Harvey lays alone in bed scrolling through the long strand of messages between him and his unlikely friend. It feels weird to think of her like that. As a friend. In so many ways she's far more than that. He's shared more of his true self with Theatergirl than with people he's known his entire life. Probably more than he has with his live-in girlfriend. But in the ways that really count, in the real world, he doesn't even know her name.
She hasn't responded to his last message. He hadn't expected her to, considering how late it is. But it doesn't stop him from longing for it. Harvey sets down his phone and turns out the bedside lamp. Pulling the comforter up over his shoulder he rolls onto his side and looks out the window to the night sky. Minutes later he drifts off to sleep, wondering about the color of her hair and the sound of her voice.