Things Mike Ross Wanted To Say To Harvey Specter But Never Did.

Just Mike being Mike.

On a Friday, two months before Mike is thrown into a glass table by an angry client, his head throbs dully, growing with intensity as the day wears on, until he's finally positive there are needles sticking into the back of his eye sockets. He wonders if it's a migraine, though he's not sure what it feels like to have a migraine because he's never had one before. Typical, his luck, and how he's most likely experiencing his first migraine when he has his plate completely full until the end of the work day.

Mike pulls up, in his mind, what he remembers about migraines, knowing he should be sensitive to light and noise, as well as experiencing possible nausea. He's not having trouble with any of those things, though. The headache is just a pounding one but, damn it, it's painful.

Digging through his desk drawers proves fruitless, the empty aspirin bottle nothing but a mocking son of a bitch, so Mike just downs some coffee and hopes the caffeine can keep the ache in his skull at bay for just a little while so he can finish his work. It helps for about an hour, but the stabbing comes back with a vengeance, forcing him to the break room two more times afterward for more coffee.

Just before his third trip, ear-buds softly producing the sounds of "rain on a lake" in an attempt to soothe his fried brain, Donna peeks her head in through the opening to the break room. She catches Mike's eye, urging him over with a stern wave of her hand. His eyes grow a bit wide, unsure of what he has done, exactly, to warrant Harvey's assistant coming in there with such a serious look on her face. Pulling out the ear-buds, he slowly walks toward her like a child whose mother is about to scold him.

"Uh, I've been at my cubicle all day, so I'm pretty sure I haven't—"

Donna holds out a sample packet of advil in between her fingers and looks at Mike expectantly. "You know, you're allowed to ask me for this if you need it. That silent suffering thing you were doing? Stupid." Her eyes are honest, even with the incredulous smirk that curls her bottom lip.

"I know, but it was—"

Cut off again, Donna puts her hand over his mouth. His eyebrows knit together in confusion as she shakes her head.

"No excuses," she says. "Just don't be stupid again, okay?" The words are said with a fondness that Mike would never tell her he hears.

He nods, and she takes her hand away. "Got it," he mutters, but she's already out the door.

Turning the packet over, Mike notices a small post-it note attached to the little plastic packet. Go home, it reads, in Harvey's familiar handwriting. With a smile, Mike swallows the pills and heads back to his desk to gather his things, making a mental note to give Harvey a hard time about, "not caring, my ass".

-o-

Two weeks after the pounding headache and six weeks before he's thrown into glass, Mike sits next to Harvey, in the back of his car, going through some papers in his lap. They're on their way to meet with an important client (aren't they always?) but Mike still hasn't had time to organize everything he needs. He's taken a few folders out of his bag and begins sorting.

"Shouldn't that already be done?" Harvey asks coolly, without turning from the window.

Mike keeps himself from glaring and says, "I'll be done in five minutes."

"We'll be there in three," Harvey counters, raising an eyebrow at his associate. Mike scowls.

"Then I'll be done in three," he snaps. Harvey's face shows a hint of amusement, but he chooses to remain silent while Mike continues to put things in order. Three minutes later (exactly, on the dot, and Mike scowls again, shoving papers in folders) the car stops, not quite against the packed curb.