𝐍𝐄𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐇𝐄. || 𝘴𝘶𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘹 𝘰𝘤

𝟏𝟐 ➻ pizza alla droga

♛ ┇ ▒ ⋅⋅⋅ Q. WHITAKER v. L. LITT'S TYRANNY ⋅⋅⋅ ▒ ┇♛

𝐌𝐈𝐊𝐄'𝐒 𝐀𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐀 𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘, and not just for him. The first time Quinn met his grandmother was here. She'd taken to the old lady like a moth to a flame, and to this day, Quinn was the only friend of Mike's that she remotely liked. Mike used to defend Trevor against her disappointment, but right now... he didn't have much to defend.

The four walls were plastered with decorations - paintings, posters, a bike rack and two more clocks than strictly necessary. A simple art piece of a panda with bamboo stalks hung over the small dining table, and there was no divider between the living room and his thrashed bedroom.

Mike Ross was a messy person, but so was Quinn Whitaker. Even she hadn't seen his apartment look so demolished.

Quinn tentatively put one of his lamps back onto the table next to his black leather couch, giving it a reassuring pat. Her eyes lingered on him as he sat at the table, looking at the stack of three pizza boxes before him, his hands on either side.

His eyes were on a brown file that she held in the crux of her elbow. All the files at Pearson Hardman were blue or cream-colored. He got the sense that it wasn't something she was supposed to have, and combined with her attitude earlier tonight when she'd blown right past him... she had her own thing going on.

"What was he looking for?" She finally asked, setting her file aside and bending over to pick up his bike, which he'd thrown to the floor after seeing the state of his place.

Mike looked down at the pizza boxes. "I don't know if you want the answer to that."

Quinn hung his bike on the rack, her arms dropping to her sides. She considered his cryptic response as she took off her ivory blazer, rolling up the sleeves on her rust-colored button-down. "Why'd you bring me here if you don't want to tell me what's going on?"

Mike exhaled through his nose, looking over at her again. "I... you were the first person I thought to call."

"You're telling me you didn't want to call Trevor and curse him out?"

"I was considering it," Mike pulled his phone out of his suit pocket, waving it. "That's why I wanted to get your opinion first. Harvey told me to cut him off. But I don't want to cut him off, I want to get back at him for this."

"Well, Mr. Specter's right. But... you know how I feel about Trevor. Slicing the line just isn't enough."

Quinn walked over to his fridge, opened it, and pulled out a small bottle of orange juice. She took a seat on the other side of Mike, taking a swig of the drink before training her eyes on the pizza boxes between them. "Call him."

A low sigh escaped Mike's mouth as he dialed Trevor's number, getting to his feet. The second he answered, Mike spoke, his tone teeming with anger. "What the hell were you thinking?"

Trevor's voice was almost inaudible, but in the dead silence of the apartment, Quinn could just pick it up. "I need the briefcase back."

Mike turned on his heel and began to pace. "So that's what this is about? You don't care about our friendship at all?"

Quinn turned the pizza boxes to face her and peeked into it. The black briefcase was there, and she knew Mike and Trevor well enough to know exactly what weed smelled like. She shut the boxes and shook her head.

"You're my oldest friend and you know it," Trevor defended. Quinn pushed the boxes away from her and got to her feet, squeezing past a seething Mike and collapsing on the couch. "But you don't seem to care about that anymore, and yeah, I need the briefcase back. And I'm gonna find it, Mike!"