Chapter Text
Okay, so here’s the thing they don’t tell you when you fall for someone like Harvey Specter: he’s basically a high-performance sports car with the emotional range of a houseplant. No, scratch that. That’s an insult to houseplants. At least they droop when they need something. Harvey just gets... more smug. Like his emotional drought is your fault. Or Louis’s. Usually Louis’s.
So this is your official guide. A how-to, if you will. How to survive — and help thrive — Harvey Specter: Lawyer, Legend, and Loveable Dumbass Who Forgets to Drink Water.
Now I know what you’re thinking — "Mike, surely he’s a grown man who knows how to hydrate." And to that I say: sure. If your definition of hydration is three fingers of Lagavulin and a sarcastic quip. The man treats scotch like a food group. I’ve seen cacti with more moisture content than Harvey after a deposition. So yeah, emotional hydration — crucial. Especially because, left unchecked, he’ll go full Sahara Desert with his feelings and pretend it’s "efficiency."
The trick is subtlety. You don’t just walk up to Harvey Specter and say, "Hey babe, how are you feeling?" because that’s a surefire way to get the Eyebrow of Judgment™ and a fast pass to "I’m fine, now go brief the Zurich case."
No. What you do is check in like you’re slipping protein powder into a smoothie. You sneak it in between his naturally scheduled programming. Like this:
"Hey, did you sleep last night?"
"No, I closed at 2. Why?"
Because you’ve got bags under your eyes that make TSA nervous, Harvey.
"I’m just making sure you’re not trying to win Lawyer of the Year by dying on your desk."
Cue the smirk. Cue the mock-offense. Cue him saying something like, "You’d miss me too much."
And yeah. I would. That’s the problem.
So then I kiss his forehead.
Forehead kisses, I’ve learned, are the emotional equivalent of misting a delicate bonsai. You can’t go in with full-on PDA — that sets off his internal alarm system. But a forehead kiss? That slips past his defenses. That’s care disguised as affection disguised as "this is just a thing we do, totally casual." Except it’s not. He always freezes for a second like it short-circuits his brain.
Like someone dared to nurture him.
The first time I did it, he stood there blinking like a confused cat. Said something like, "What was that?" and I said, "Preventative maintenance." He didn’t ask again. Just started letting me do it when he was stressed, like he forgot to pretend he didn’t like it.
Anyway. Emotional hydration. Forehead kisses, yes. Check-ins, yes. But also, and I cannot stress this enough: get him to drink water.
You’d think this wouldn’t be a big deal. That a man who spends twenty percent of his day yelling "Goddamn it, Donna!" could remember to fill a glass. But no. The only time Harvey willingly drinks water is when he’s hungover, and even then it’s like pulling teeth. So I’ve started keeping a bottle on his desk. I don’t say anything. Just put it there. He ignores it, of course. So I drink from it first, dramatically, like I’m in a commercial. Then leave it on his side of the desk.
He acts like it’s a hostage negotiation, but eventually, he drinks it.
"Why are you watching me?"
"Just making sure the mighty oak gets its nutrients."
"You’re such a nerd."
"Hydrated nerd. What about you, crypt keeper?"
He flips me off, but he finishes the bottle.
That’s progress.
There was this one Tuesday — brutal day, trial prep, opposing counsel was a human equivalent of dial-up internet, and Harvey had that tight look around his mouth like he’d bitten into a lemon and was trying to sue it. I walked in around eight. He was still in his office, lights off, just the city bleeding in through the glass like some noir painting.
"Harvey," I said.
Nothing.
"Harvey."
Still nothing.
So I walked in, sat across from him, handed him the water bottle.
"You don’t have to say anything," I said. "Just drink."
He stared at it like I’d handed him a live grenade.
Then he took it.
Took a long sip.
"Thanks," he muttered.
And I said, "That’s what I’m here for."
It wasn’t a grand gesture. But he looked at me then, and there was this flicker — just a flicker — like something warm opened up behind his eyes. Like maybe he realized he didn’t have to be bulletproof all the time. That mayb someone could care about him without expecting anything in return.
That’s the thing with Harvey. You don’t water him with big speeches. You do it with small, steady acts. With showing up. With putting the damn bottle in front of him, over and over, until one day he picks it up on his own.
And I think he’s learning. I came in last Thursday and found him drinking from a bottle before I reminded him.
"What?" he said, noticing the look on my face.
"Just proud of you," I said.
"You’re so weird."
"Maybe. But I’m not dehydrated."
He rolled his eyes. But he smiled.
So yeah. That’s the first lesson.
Water regularly. But don’t overdo it. If you flood the plant, it’ll drown. If you’re too obvious with the feelings, he’ll retreat into sarcasm and push you away. You have to be consistent. Patient. Gentle.
And sometimes, when all else fails, you just kiss his forehead and wait.