A chime dinged overhead as Harvey let himself into the clinic where he'd supposedly find Mike Ross. At first glance, the place appeared to be an overworked sweatshop, stacks of sky-high files obscuring his view and not one employee batting an eyelid at him. Upon a second glance, the aesthetics didn't improve. The office made his skin feel grimy, like he was overdue for a long, hot shower, and assuming he had to make his own way through the maze of disorganized chaos, he twisted around several cheap melamine desks, avoiding anything that could transfer ick onto his expensive suit.

At a slightly more ornate wooden bureau, he found a man who bore a striking resemblance to the kid he'd taken a chance on several years ago. The difference was that this version hadn't aged well. Mike's once fresh-faced appearance was now overgrown with scruff and worry lines, the only familiar thing being the skinny noose of a tie hooked around his wrinkled collar.

Harvey lacked the means to exhibit any sympathy. The kid had abandoned him, and if he believed in karma, he might not be as smug. Unfortunately for Mike, he didn't.

"So this is where all the lawyers who can't hack the big leagues end up?"

Regardless of the outward signs, Mike was still as quick-witted as he remembered.

"Oliver! Can you check the douchebag scanner at the door? I think it's broken again."

Harvey smirked. "Is that any way to treat someone who came to help out an old friend?"

Mike's gaze washed over him, scolding and full of trepidation.

"The Harvey Specter I know doesn't have friends, doesn't help people, and sure as hell doesn't have a heart."

"You're wrong." His index and middle fingers tapped his breast pocket. "It's grown three sizes since you left."

"Which would make it about the size of a coffee bean. Congratulations, Dad, you're still an asshole."

"Looks like I rubbed off on you after all."

"Why are you here, Harvey?"

He took stock of the pitiful surroundings again, asking himself the same thing. Then his gaze retreated back to his former protégé. "Look, you obviously don't have time for all this fun nostalgia. I need your files on Jim Paulsen… Give me those, I'll let you get back to saving the world."

Mike stopped what he was doing to glare at the man's noxious presence. He really was the same arrogant, smug, and demanding asshole he'd left behind at Pearson Hardman. "Sure. Why not? If you can find them, they're all yours."

The sarcasm in the man's voice was a clear dismal — he wasn't getting shit. Shame that wasn't an option.

"You want the real reason? Jim's daughter hired me because she doesn't think you're up to the job. Quite frankly, neither do I."

"Wow." Mike chuckled, unoffended by the crooked insult. "You've lost your edge, Bruce. Jim doesn't have a daughter, and I didn't see a Bat-Signal in the sky last night."

Somewhere under the mess, Mike's phone joined the shrill ring of several others, and Harvey rolled his eyes as man pushed aside several piles to find and answer it. The sheer volume of impossibly stubborn people converging to piss him off this week was staggering. Obviously, Mike wasn't up to date with the news, so he took liberty with his patience, finding the video of Donna's press conference on his cell.

The option to connect to the clinic's Wi-Fi popped up, which he swiped away, suspecting he'd be old and gray before the clip buffered. Then, with a weathered tolerance, he smacked his palm down, cutting off Mike's call.

"What are you — "

"Watch."

He thrust the phone under Mike's nose. There was no denying who Donna was. Even though the sound was hard to hear in the noisy office, her name was in big block letters on the screen.

"Jim told me Donna was his late wife."

Mike mumbled his confusion as Harvey slipped the device into his inner pocket. A lie from the embezzling alcoholic's mouth — why wasn't he shocked?

"Clearly, this isn't the virtuous case you thought it was." He attempted to temper his tone, make Mike believe he was doing the man a favor. "If you want to do the right thing here, give me what I need. You have my word, I'll do what I can for Jim." If that just so happened to be nothing, he wouldn't lose sleep over sending the man to prison.

Mike skimmed a hand over his prickly stubble, eyeing Harvey skeptically. Several things weren't adding up, one of which being the redhead in the video. Aside from Jim lyng to him, he knew for a fact his former mentor didn't sign actresses. He could smell bullshit a mile away, and if Harvey really knew what was going on with Jim's firm, then they needed to move the conversation somewhere private.

"Let's take a walk."

The cloak-and-dagger act irked Harvey, but if agreeing meant they could leave behind the cramped space that reeked of cheap takeout, then sure, he wouldn't argue.

Once outside, they entered a small courtyard that linked the shabby, government-subsidized buildings, and Harvey pushed on his sunglasses, deciding that the area was an upgrade from inside. There was even a small strip of grass splashing some color onto the otherwise barren cement jungle.

A retaining wall guarding some decorative pebbles peaked out from the corner, and Mike leant against the circular edge, stealing a moment to let the early afternoon sun wash over him.

He didn't regret leaving Pearson Hardman. Every win at the clinic felt like he was doing actual good in the world. But sometimes he had to face the depressing reality that lawyers like Harvey, who had time, money and resources, could make a dent where he couldn't.

If he thought his former mentor would do right by Jim, he would hand the case over in heartbeat. The problem was, the showrunner in the real embezzlement scheme, Atlas, owned half of Manhattan's financial sector, and Harvey didn't hit home runs for the underdog, he played on the winning side. "How much do you know about the case?"

The man's wide peak lapels shirked with a shrug, a dead giveaway that Harvey had an opinion — one that didn't align with his own.

"I know this isn't a virtuous case, Harvey. Jim confessed. He told me he did it, and why he did it."

"Let me guess, he's funding monasteries in Nepal?"

"He did it because Atlas is cheating their employees out of their health care and pension plans. Every cent Jim took went into the pockets of people who were rightly owed money."

Harvey didn't buy that crap for a second, but he did, unfortunately, have experience with manipulation being a Paulsen family trait. Something he couldn't hold against the naïve lawyer. "Those policies are pennies compared to what the IRS is claiming. He's playing you, Mike."

"Then why was Jim returning the money? He used an old investment account to grow enough interest to make deposits so no one would be any the wiser. I've got his bank records. It all tracks."

"Sure. Except for the missing half a million dollars."

Harvey was quick to point out the blindspot in Mike's peripheral. He knew all about the account. Donna had co-signed it years ago, and because of Jim's negligence, she was going to be accused of hiding the unaccounted for money. "The investments were a front. Why else would he tell you it was his wife's signature and not his daughter's?"

"Maybe he was trying to protect Donna, keep her from getting involved."

The excuse sounded flimsy even to Mike's ears. He didn't know why Jim had lied, but he was sure about Atlas using the pension-funding scheme as a scapegoat.

"I think a higher-up in corporate found out what Jim was doing, and they piggybacked off the idea, setting him up to be the fall guy. The man's meticulous, but he still listens to a transistor radio... Anyone with access to his roaming profile could have made it look like the numbers were balancing, and he wouldn't have suspected a thing."

His determination was visible in the reflection of Harvey's dark shades, and while he couldn't see the man's eyes, the silence meant his former mentor was at least considering he was right.

"We didn't always agree on how to handle things at Pearson Hardman, Harvey, but we always had the same gut instinct when it came to the truth. I don't think that much has changed in seven years, do you?"

Frustration blew through Harvey like steam in a goddamn pressure cooker, because he couldn't deny Mike's instincts were ever wrong, even though most of the time his execution was way off. If the man thought Atlas was shady, then, fuck, they probably were, which left both of them in the shit.

Fucking Theodore.

He was going to wind up sinking in quicksand if any more bleeding hearts started clinging to his sleeve, because Mike obviously didn't have the balls to strong-arm the evidence against a company with so much reach. Which wasn't his problem. He could still get Donna off without breaking a sweat, but the only way he'd get her on a plane was if she thought there was nothing redeemable left of the loving father who'd raised her. He'd have to lie, and she might be like a pulsing, inflamed splinter under his skin, but he didn't hate her enough to hurt her like that. Not when he knew what losing faith in a parent could do to someone.

"I'll get you your damn proof."

" No ."

"Excuse me?"

Harvey's edginess drilled down into Mike's stubbornness. He'd wanted to get Harvey on the same page regarding Atlas, but he still couldn't trust the man's motives.

"You don't do anything unless it benefits you first. So what's the deal here?"

"I told you," he growled. "I'm representing Jim's daughter."

Mike knew there was more going on. There was always a hidden agenda attached to Harvey's goodwill, and if the man wasn't going to be upfront, he wasn't going to risk being burned alive at the stake after Harvey rode off with all the glory.

"Have it your way. I'm sticking with my original plan to go for a plea deal. After all, that's what Jim wants."

His shadow moved across the eroding tiles of the courtyard, and Harvey balled his fists, his temper brittle and thin.

"My brother." He snapped the reason he gave a damn about any of this, and when Mike turned around, wearing a look of skepticism, he closed the distance between them, challenging the man's virtue.

"Donna Paulsen is a favor I owe to someone who saved Marcus' life. You said we've always had the same gut instinct when it comes to the truth… I'll leave it to you whether or not you want to keep your client out of prison."

Mike moved so he wasn't bulldozed by Harvey's shoulder, not sure what to make of the lawyer's vulnerable M.O. He wasn't even aware the man had a brother, which could, of course, be a ruse, but something told him Harvey wouldn't use family to get his own way.

.

.

.

The elevator closed, the ride up to the 50th floor giving Donna the privacy to quickly slip into her purse. After lying awake most of the night worrying, taking a Valium this morning had calmed her enough to face the harsh lash of Logan's tongue. She'd hoped her manager would spare her the time to break the ice with her dad, but Logan had demanded she drum up as much positive press as possible, organizing her schedule and tipping off the paparazzi to where she'd be all day.

Her head was still swimming from all the unwanted attention, and she popped another pill, swallowing dryly as she zipped up her clutch. In fifteen minutes, she'd have a handle on her frayed nerves, and with any luck, Harvey would have her engagement letter prepped and ready to sign so she could go back to the hotel and get some much-needed sleep.

The metallic doors reflected her bold red dress, and she turned to the side, admiring herself. At least she'd looked damn good rallying through all the day's chaos.

It was quiet when she stepped out onto the floor where Harvey worked. A few people were still milling about, but reception had gone home, and so had Gretchen. The secretary's cubicle was empty as she passed by it, pushing open the door to Harvey's office with a confident strut.

He was expecting her, after all, and he ought to be pleased. The work she'd put in meant the studio executives weren't going to fire her. Not yet, anyway. Apparently, Hollywood loved a tortured actress story. As long as she smiled for the cameras and kept her political views under wraps, the studio would keep supporting her.

"Do I get a pat on the head for being a good girl?" she asked, watching his gaze lift from his laptop with dark indifference.

It was obviously asking too much to expect a little praise for following his rules.

Already starting to feel the effects of the Valium — she hadn't had time to eat since breakfast — she sank down into his guest chair, taking the weight off her pinched, throbbing toes. The relief she felt contrasted Harvey's stoic response, and she crossed her legs with lazy inhibition, trying to goad a reaction from him.

The attempt achieved nothing. His disapproving glare fell back to his work, his hand absently motioning to the edge of his desk.

"Sign the engagement letter and you can go."

She should — her mood too on edge to deal with one more person being cold and hostile toward her today. Except if she backed down now, he'd just be someone else on her payroll who had no respect for what she was having to endure.

"Not until you tell me what I did to piss you off."

"Who said I'm pissed off?"

His blasé, noncommittal attitude did. He was like an obnoxiously placed billboard, silently advertising his umbrage, and she wasn't going to sign anything if his plan was to ice her out while he worked her case.

"I did what you asked. I grovelled to my manager, made things right with the studio execs, and I didn't talk to any press."

"You didn't have to say anything."

Harvey clicked open all the tabs where her entire day had been chronicled on social media. While he'd been out, possibly contracting fleas to keep her and Jim out of prison, she'd been frolicking around the city like a spoiled, rich tourist, and he swiveled his laptop around, his narrow gaze condemning her spa day and shopping spree. "I told you to play the victim. Does this look like a grieving daughter to you?"

Faced with the photographic evidence, Donna bit the inside of her numbing cheek. If Harvey knew what she'd had to go through to force the smile in those pictures, he wouldn't be judging her so harshly.

"I was doing what everyone expects."

"News flash, Your Highness, your adoring public might want updates, but jurors aren't sympathetic to celebrities who put Fifth Avenue above family ."

The edge in his voice derailed Donna's defense. Her gaze was assessing as his jaw ticked with frustration, his eyes refusing to meet hers. It didn't make sense. She'd had to force him to take an interest in her dad's case, but now he was mad, talking about a jury and going to trial—something wasn't adding up.

"What did you find?"

His Adam's apple bobbed and tightened as he pulled the screen back around, and she suddenly felt nervous and clammy. He wasn't gloating, which supported everything she believed about her dad's innocence, but then she didn't understand why Harvey was acting so antsy.

"Whatever it is, if my dad just tells the truth — "

"He's guilty , Donna."

The situation was more complicated than that which is why he hadn't wanted to say anything until he'd looked into Atlas, but she was like the eye of a storm and the hurricane that blew around her was relentless. She had to make a choice and either accept that her stubbornness couldn't will an outcome or choose between her father and her career.

The third option was one he didn't see coming, her distracting legs carving a wobbly path to his whiskey decanter. She was upset. Good . That's meant she was finally hearing him. Or at least that's what he thought. Her first drink was chased by an immediate second one, then the glass shattered against his wall, liquid dripping down the teal paint. Shock wrapped around his vibrating anger, and he spun his chair, ready to ask what the fuck she was doing, but her panicked doe-eyes stalled the diva remark on his lips.

The whole point of waiting to give her context was so she wouldn't feel betrayed by her father, so, yeah, he'd have to shoulder some of the blame for jumping the gun.

"Look, it's not what you — "

She was moving before he could finish, making a beeline for the door, and he almost tripped over himself getting up, but her stilettos weren't a match for his lengthier strides. He caught her arms, prepared to explain, but he hesitated when he saw her enlarged pupils swirling a dark, midnight black.

"You're on something."

Momentary guilt slipped from the small curvature of her yellow irises as she shrugged her arm free.

"Take a day off from judging me... We're done here."

He rocked back on his heels, not sure what the hell he was supposed to do except let her storm out.

Fuck.

Pacing was his only solution. He wasn't going to chase her down and drag her back into his office, kicking and screaming. She was high, a goddamn train wreck, and—

His thoughts stopped when he spied her bag on his chair. She wouldn't get far without it, and he checked over his shoulder, making sure she wasn't going to come storming back.

He had at least a few minutes, and he unzipped the leather clutch, finding largely what he'd expect. Her phone, keycard, makeup, purse… but it was the two vials of pills that triggered questions. The Valium and Trazodone — anxiety and sleep medication — had been prescribed here in New York.

The layers about her that he was uncovering were confounding, exasperating, and downright perplexing, and his eyes flickered to his door. No movement stirred in the hallway, making him feel uneasy. She should have turned around by now, but this wouldn't be the first time he'd underestimated her sheer will to defy common sense. And the last thing he needed was for her to make a spectacle of herself, have a story break out on the cover of every gossip magazine from here to Madrid about her wayward behavior.

Fortunately, if he was right about her, he knew exactly where she'd end up. She'd tap into all of her charisma to find her way to the Ludwig, where no one would ask questions about her drowning her sorrows in a bottomless tab.

AN: I don't even know if I'm team Donna or team Harvey here, haha. But I'm definetely team Mike!