Chapter Text
It is January, 2001. The world population has just reached six billion. Pops Staples died in December. Harvey hasn't listened to the radio in two months, because Creed is top of the charts and it's unbearable.
Mike is eighteen, just starting his second semester at NYU, and Harvey has been expecting this moment since his birthday eight days ago.
He comes home from work earlier than usual, bringing files with him because a lot of people got arrested over New Year's and it's his job to prosecute a lot of them. Mike is sitting on the sofa, holding a mug of coffee, not drinking it.
"Hey, how were classes?" Harvey asks, setting his briefcase down.
"Okay," Mike says distantly.
Harvey watches him. "Is something wrong?"
"I didn't go to Criminal Law," Mike says. "My dad showed up on campus."
Harvey has been expecting this, but the shock of adrenaline still kicks through him like an electric charge. "What did he do?"
Mike shakes his head. "Nothing. I saw him before he saw me."
"Did you call campus security?"
Another headshake. "Went out a first-floor window on the other side of the building. I came home, but..." he looks down at his coffee. "He knew what class I was in, Harvey. He has to know where we live."
Harvey hasn't taken precautions against Mike's father finding them, because he's not going to live in fear and he's not going to make Mike live in fear. He's not in the phone book, his number is blocked, but that's been the extent of it.
"What'm I gonna do?" Mike asks. "I can't just not go to school. I'm gonna get reamed for missing Criminal Law today as it is."
"If he goes after you in public -- "
Mike gives him a dry look. "He's a cop. Would you stop a cop dragging someone into the back of a patrol car?"
Harvey is careful around this, but he has to ask. "Do you think he's capable of that?"
"I think he thinks I'm still a fifteen year old kid," Mike says. "When I saw him that's how I felt, too."
"Well, you're surrounded by wannabe lawyers," Harvey replies, crossing to the window, looking out on the street. "Call a couple of them, have them walk you to school tomorrow. If -- " he stops.
"If what?" Mike asks.
Harvey is looking down at the street, dimly lit by the lamps, at a figure in a blue uniform below.
"Well, he definitely knows where we live," he says quietly. "He's downstairs."
"What?" Mike asks, voice rising. "What if someone lets him in? Harvey -- "
"We're going to put a stop to it before that happens," Harvey replies, pulling his coat back on. "I'm going down -- "
"No, Harvey -- "
"Trust me, Mike," Harvey says. "You can stay here or put on your shoes and come down with me. I won't let him hurt you."
Mike looks terrified.
"You stay here, that's okay," Harvey adds. "I wouldn't make you do that, Mike. I wouldn't expect you to."
Harvey has a fancy new cellphone the DA's office issued him, and in that cellphone he has a number on speed dial. And when he calls that number, well, a certain phone will ring.
He also has a baseball bat. It's a handy tool, a baseball bat. You can walk down the street with one without a permit. There's no snow league in New York like there was in Cambridge, but Harvey goes to the batting cages sometimes.
He picks up the bat and puts the phone in his pocket, and he's at the door when Mike says, "Wait," and bumps up against him, pulling on his boots. They're shitkicking Doc Martens that Harvey said weren't sensible snow boots and couldn't be worn with a suit, either, but Mike just had to have them.
"Okay," Mike says, still looking terrified. Harvey nods, because this is Mike's choice, and whatever else Mike might be, he's a stubborn brat when he believes he's doing the right thing. Boots: case in point.
They go down a flight of stairs, Harvey with his bat and Mike in his boots, and Harvey opens the front door of the building, stepping out onto the paved walkway that leads to the street. The light from the door draws Eric Ross's attention. Mike's still standing behind it, but Harvey grins sharply at Mike's father and says, "Hey there, buttercup."
The absurdity of the phrase gives him just enough time, confuses Ross just enough, that he can continue. "Remember me? Harvey Specter. We met in court."
"I want to see Mike," Ross says, without preamble.
"Deja vu," Harvey replies. He lets the bat fall from his shoulder, propping it on the sidewalk, palm resting on the flare of the handle. "Mike doesn't want to see you."
"What, still can't talk for himself?" Ross asks, eyeing the bat. He's in uniform. He's wearing his belt, where he has mace and a gun. Harvey wonders idly if Officer Eric Ross is on duty.
"Doesn't have to," Harvey answers. "I thought we could have a little talk first."
"He's eighteen now. An adult. He can make his own decisions."
"I'm so glad you understand that," Harvey informs him. "It's going to make my life that much easier. Because, see, Mike is eighteen. And if you go near him, or follow him, or put a hand on him, it's not parental rights anymore. You know what it is?" he leans forward just a little, the bat comes off the ground, and Ross's eyes track it again. "That's harassment and assault, Officer Ross."
"Mike!" Ross calls, and Mike emerges, standing in front of the door. "Come on, son, man up. You don't want to talk to me, tell me yourself."
"Seriously?" Harvey asks. "Man up? That's what you have to say to him?"
Ross tries to dodge, but Harvey blocks him, the bat now raised slightly.
"You assault an officer, you'll rot in prison," Ross warns.
"Nah," Harvey says. "You should have done your homework, Eric. Because see..." he takes his phone out. "I work for the DA's office now. And if you think cops are fraternal, you should see the way lawyers close ranks."
"Mike!" Ross calls again. Harvey doesn't look back.
"Let me explain to you how this is going to work," Harvey says instead, swinging the bat just slightly --
And Ross steps back.
Because he might be a cop and he might be a bully but picking on the innocent is a little different from picking on a grown man with a three-foot hank of polished maple wood in his hand and absolutely no fear in his eyes.
Which is how Harvey knows this is going to work.
"You're going to walk away from this, and you're going to stay away," Harvey says. "You're not going to follow Mike to school, and you're not going to loiter outside of his classroom hiding behind a badge that lets you go where you want. Because the alternative is that I call your boss right now," he adds, holding up the phone, with its little illuminated screen that reads Precinct Captain and lists a number Ross will recognize, the number of his commanding officer, "and get you in a whole mess of trouble. And if you come back, well, then we get a restraining order, which is very easy for me, because -- I mentioned I work for the DA's office, right? I know all these judges..." he shrugs. "Abuse of power, nepotism maybe, but what can you do?"
"Listen, I just want to talk to my son -- "
"And then, if you violate the restraining order, rest assured, I'll have your badge just to start with. And if I can't have your badge..." Harvey hefts the bat lightly. "I'll break your fucking legs."
Ross refocuses on him sharply.
"I will beat you until it hurts to breathe," Harvey says, his voice low and calm. "I'll put you in the hospital for a month. After all, I'm pretty sure your son would give me an alibi. Wouldn't you, Mike?" he calls.
There's a moment of silence, and then Mike laughs.
"Sure, Harvey," Mike replies. "Any night you need it."
"Michael," Ross says, grief in his voice.
"Go away," Mike says clearly. He's almost directly behind them now, Harvey can hear that; Mike ducks around Harvey's shoulder and he can see him out of the corner of his eye. "I'm eighteen now. You can't get me back."
"Brave boy," Harvey murmurs.
It's Harvey's thoughtless speech, the approval in his voice, that sets Ross off; with a snap of leather and metal he draws his gun, and Harvey's looking down the barrel of a police-issue firearm.
He is genuinely in fear of his life, and he thinks later he's probably going to have dreams about this moment. But he still lifts the phone to his ear and presses call. All three of them can hear it ringing, hear a female voice answer.
Ross lowers his gun. Harvey hits end.
"Can't we talk?" Ross pleads with Mike.
"No," Mike says. "We haven't got anything to talk about, Dad."
"I kept your stuff, Mike, your room's just -- "
Mike cuts him off. "Do I look like I need a place to sleep?"
"Michael!"
"I'm in college, Dad. I have a place. I don't need anything from you. I don't want anything from you. I want you to leave me alone," Mike says, volume increasing with each word. He takes a step forward and to Harvey's delight, Ross takes another step back. "GO AWAY!" Mike yells.
"You little son of a bitch," Ross snarls. He pulls back to swing, raises his arm -- and Mike, bless his scrappy, ill-treated soul, sucker-punches his father in the gut.
There's eighteen years of rage and fear behind the swing, and the knowledge that this one punch has to count for all of it.
Ross doubles over with a surprised noise. Mike looks shocked, looks down at his own hand.
"I think you made your point," Harvey says gently to Mike, while Ross struggles for breath. "Head inside. I'll be there in a moment."
Mike looks at him, nods smartly, and turns his back on his father. The door snicks shut behind him.
Ross is straightening, slowly, unbending, wheezing, and Harvey props the blunt end of the bat under his chin.
"Do not mistake me for someone who fears you," he says. "Or your badge, or your gun. I don't want to see your face again. Cross me or mine and I will put you in a world of pain for the rest of your life. And then I'll let Mike have a turn. Are we understood?"
He hikes the bat slightly. Ross lifts his chin.
Harvey lets the bat slide through his fingers, stepping back. Ross still has his gun in his hand, but then again Harvey still has his phone in his.
There are no last words, no threats. Ross just holsters his gun, and Harvey lowers the bat a little more, and then Officer Eric Ross walks away.
Inside, Mike is waiting for him, sitting on the stairs.
"You got a mean right jab," Harvey tells him, passing him the bat. Mike scrambles up the stairs after him, bat on his shoulder. "I don't think your dad's gonna be back any time soon."
"I would, you know," Mike manages.
"Would what?"
"Give you an alibi."
"I wouldn't make you, kid," Harvey answers. "He's not worth the risk."
"Then why'd you say all that?"
Harvey shrugs. "People like him, they don't believe anyone could be better than them."
"I hit him," Mike says, as Harvey follows him into their apartment -- their little apartment, where Mike has a bedroom with an American Beauty poster on one wall and a poster of Charles H. Houston on the other, where Harvey's small but growing record collection is slowly devouring their communal bookshelf, where there's a burn mark on the ceiling over the stove from Mike's one disastrous attempt at learning to deep fry.
"I think you were owed a few," Harvey replies, settling on the couch. Mike drops down next to him, and Harvey slides an arm around his shoulders.
"You totally went all Godfather on him," Mike says eventually. "You were like, let me make you an offer you can't refuse."
"Well, you know how it is," Harvey says, preening a little internally. "Gotta look after family."
They don't sleep till late that night. In the morning, just in case, Harvey doesn't leave Mike's side until he's safely in his first class. He's late, and both Donna and Cameron take it out of his hide, but that's all right.
It is January the ninth, 2001, a Tuesday. Mike is eighteen. Harvey is twenty-five. And though they don't know it yet, though they share a city with him, it's the last time either of them will see Eric Ross.
The future is unfolding before them, ripe with promise. As hard as they were, Harvey knows neither he nor Mike would trade the last few years for anything.
END