Fic: Hips Don't Lie
Jan. 19th, 2012 10:51 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
coffeebuddhaTitle: Hips Don't Lie
Rating: PG/FRE
Word Count: 428
Pairing: Harvey Specter/Mike Ross
Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me.
Summary: He doesn't know why people keep mistaking him for a hooker.
Notes: Originally posted here as a comment fic.
The woman looks to be either in her late fifties or very carefully maintained early to mid sixties. There are teardrop diamonds the size of Mike's thumb dripping from her earlobes and several more of almost equal size interwoven into a latticework of spiderweb fine platinum chains around her neck. Her perfume is expensive, but so heavily applied that people across the room can probably taste it.
The bar is ridiculously, pretentiously exclusive, most of the clientele either old money, shrewd-eyed business men, or both; even Harvey wouldn't warrant entrance if not for an invitation from a client. The woman, however, is clearly neither. Everything from her expertly dyed and done hair down is trying too hard to pass for the more understated style favored by those born into the whole silver spoon thing and probably the most important decision she's made all week is what color to paint her nails.
She brays out a laugh and Mike wonders if this is what a trophy wife a few decades past her expiration date looks like.
It's almost fascinating in a strictly anthropological way, like it should be on National Geographic or something with Morgan Freeman narrating, "Behold the aging socialite in her natural habitat. Notice how she singles out a younger, prosperous male and distracts him with shiny baubles while she spins her web. She is looking for a new mate and will be ruthless in her attempts to obtain him."
She's leaning in now, sharp nails denting into the crisp fabric of a suit sleeve, which Mike would love to hear Morgan Freeman comparing to maybe a venus fly trap. But then he catches sight of the flash of a slim bundle of bills between her fingers and he can't swallow down a mumbled You must be fucking kidding me as he starts to move. Harvey's smile is cool and fixed as he turns to raise an eloquent eyebrow at Mike that somehow manages to convey both Save me and What the fuck, really at the same time.
It's actually a pretty cool trick, Mike thinks as he smoothly sidles up to the woman and Harvey and slips an arm around the other man's waist. "Sorry," he tells the woman with a smile that's anything but. "He's already with me."
Her hand drops away like she's been burned, and even the flash of distaste across her face isn't quite enough to keep him from wanting to laugh when Harvey leans in as they're making their getaway and asks, "Okay, seriously, why does that keep happening to me?"
Thank you for reading! Feedback is always appreciated. :)
Rating: PG/FRE
Word Count: 428
Pairing: Harvey Specter/Mike Ross
Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me.
Summary: He doesn't know why people keep mistaking him for a hooker.
Notes: Originally posted here as a comment fic.
The woman looks to be either in her late fifties or very carefully maintained early to mid sixties. There are teardrop diamonds the size of Mike's thumb dripping from her earlobes and several more of almost equal size interwoven into a latticework of spiderweb fine platinum chains around her neck. Her perfume is expensive, but so heavily applied that people across the room can probably taste it.
The bar is ridiculously, pretentiously exclusive, most of the clientele either old money, shrewd-eyed business men, or both; even Harvey wouldn't warrant entrance if not for an invitation from a client. The woman, however, is clearly neither. Everything from her expertly dyed and done hair down is trying too hard to pass for the more understated style favored by those born into the whole silver spoon thing and probably the most important decision she's made all week is what color to paint her nails.
She brays out a laugh and Mike wonders if this is what a trophy wife a few decades past her expiration date looks like.
It's almost fascinating in a strictly anthropological way, like it should be on National Geographic or something with Morgan Freeman narrating, "Behold the aging socialite in her natural habitat. Notice how she singles out a younger, prosperous male and distracts him with shiny baubles while she spins her web. She is looking for a new mate and will be ruthless in her attempts to obtain him."
She's leaning in now, sharp nails denting into the crisp fabric of a suit sleeve, which Mike would love to hear Morgan Freeman comparing to maybe a venus fly trap. But then he catches sight of the flash of a slim bundle of bills between her fingers and he can't swallow down a mumbled You must be fucking kidding me as he starts to move. Harvey's smile is cool and fixed as he turns to raise an eloquent eyebrow at Mike that somehow manages to convey both Save me and What the fuck, really at the same time.
It's actually a pretty cool trick, Mike thinks as he smoothly sidles up to the woman and Harvey and slips an arm around the other man's waist. "Sorry," he tells the woman with a smile that's anything but. "He's already with me."
Her hand drops away like she's been burned, and even the flash of distaste across her face isn't quite enough to keep him from wanting to laugh when Harvey leans in as they're making their getaway and asks, "Okay, seriously, why does that keep happening to me?"
Thank you for reading! Feedback is always appreciated. :)
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no subject
Date: 2012-01-19 05:29 pm (UTC)