It starts with Bohemian Rhapsody. Actually, it probably started with Mike’s insistence that they had the radio on in the apartment while they cooked. Or possibly with Harvey’s insistence that they cook, despite the fact that they live in the take out/dining out capital of the world. The DJ burble is ignorable in the background as Mike chops and re-chops onions finely while Harvey wields the spatula like a fencing foil. It’s not until he realises that Harvey’s been humming along that Mike starts to listen.
Harvey cannot sing. He’s keeping rhythm. He knows all the words. He’s just… The pitch is all over the place. Sometimes the notes go low and sometimes high. Harvey is murdering the song. One of the greatest songs of all time, in Mike’s opinion. Harvey – his Harvey, who is so so serious about his obscure jazz – just grins lazily and directs Mike back to the onions.
Mike feels he has no other options. No recourse. He picks up the harmony. Now, Mike may not be ready to leave the law (or, you know, his shady pretence of the law) for the nightclubs but he knows how to sing. He’s been back up in enough bands to hold a tune. And it turns out that he’s still got it, as Harvey dries out and lets Mike carry on. Then he straightens his shoulders in his (sadly) loose Harvard t-shirt and picks up the words again. He and Mike sing at each other across the counter until the sizzle in the pan lets him know that he should really be stirring. Doesn’t stop Harvey’s free hand shooting out in a grand operatic gesture as he reaches for the high notes.
Mike laughs, free and easy. Harvey throws a grin over his shoulder before head banging into the bridge. Mike plays his part. It’s time to bring out his air guitar.
“You look ridiculous, Ross,” Harvey mutters, taking the chopping board and dumping the vegetables into the pan. There’s no come back to that, not really. Mike sips at his beer and lets Harvey finish stirring. Then he arches his eyebrow. “Take it home?”
Mike makes a ridiculous act of it, singing falsetto as he swaggers towards Harvey. It’s only a step or two further until he snugs his hips against Harvey’s ass and makes him sway in time. Harvey adds the sauce – proving he’s still in control of course – before turning down the heat and leaning back. And stealing Mike’s beer. “That’s what you get for upstaging me.”
“Gotta be used to that by now.” Mike lets the words rumble into Harvey’s ear as the DJ finishes up the song and the ads start. Harvey doesn’t respond, too busy drinking the beer. “So, how long does this take to cook?”
“Half hour.” Harvey stirs the mix once more before settling the lid on top.
“So we got some time for you to upstage me, right?” Mike dropped a kiss on Harvey’s neck, just where the t-shirt ended and warm, soft, kissable Harvey skin began.
“Won’t take much.”
You have no idea how much I wanted to call this Shagaleo Gigolo, even though I'm not sure that would translate to American. <3
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Suits, Harvey/Mike - Any Way The Wind Blows
Date: 2012-03-12 08:38 pm (UTC)Harvey cannot sing. He’s keeping rhythm. He knows all the words. He’s just… The pitch is all over the place. Sometimes the notes go low and sometimes high. Harvey is murdering the song. One of the greatest songs of all time, in Mike’s opinion. Harvey – his Harvey, who is so so serious about his obscure jazz – just grins lazily and directs Mike back to the onions.
Mike feels he has no other options. No recourse. He picks up the harmony. Now, Mike may not be ready to leave the law (or, you know, his shady pretence of the law) for the nightclubs but he knows how to sing. He’s been back up in enough bands to hold a tune. And it turns out that he’s still got it, as Harvey dries out and lets Mike carry on. Then he straightens his shoulders in his (sadly) loose Harvard t-shirt and picks up the words again. He and Mike sing at each other across the counter until the sizzle in the pan lets him know that he should really be stirring. Doesn’t stop Harvey’s free hand shooting out in a grand operatic gesture as he reaches for the high notes.
Mike laughs, free and easy. Harvey throws a grin over his shoulder before head banging into the bridge. Mike plays his part. It’s time to bring out his air guitar.
“You look ridiculous, Ross,” Harvey mutters, taking the chopping board and dumping the vegetables into the pan. There’s no come back to that, not really. Mike sips at his beer and lets Harvey finish stirring. Then he arches his eyebrow. “Take it home?”
Mike makes a ridiculous act of it, singing falsetto as he swaggers towards Harvey. It’s only a step or two further until he snugs his hips against Harvey’s ass and makes him sway in time. Harvey adds the sauce – proving he’s still in control of course – before turning down the heat and leaning back. And stealing Mike’s beer. “That’s what you get for upstaging me.”
“Gotta be used to that by now.” Mike lets the words rumble into Harvey’s ear as the DJ finishes up the song and the ads start. Harvey doesn’t respond, too busy drinking the beer. “So, how long does this take to cook?”
“Half hour.” Harvey stirs the mix once more before settling the lid on top.
“So we got some time for you to upstage me, right?” Mike dropped a kiss on Harvey’s neck, just where the t-shirt ended and warm, soft, kissable Harvey skin began.
“Won’t take much.”
You have no idea how much I wanted to call this Shagaleo Gigolo, even though I'm not sure that would translate to American. <3