Chapter Text
It was a typical Tuesday morning at Pearson Hardman. Mike ran around like a madman to settle an important case, there was a merger threatening to fall apart over the liberal use of semicolons, and a junior associate cried in the break room because she accidentally CC’d the opposing counsel on her email.
Then, a very sweaty man started screaming about “injustice” and “corporate bloodsuckers” outside the building. Upon realizing that none of the lawyers and paralegals entering the office were listening to him, he picked up a brick and threw it blindly into the crowd, hitting a junior associate squarely in the shoulder.
The associate wailed like he had been hit by a truck. He spun in a circle, stumbled to the ground, and started threatening to sue everyone in the vicinity. By the time security apprehended the brick-wielding maniac, three lattes stained the floor, an intern was hyperventilating under a desk, and Jessica had to personally sweep into the chaos to get everything under control.
Although the injury turned out to be nothing more than a light bruise, the drama was, unfortunately, major. Within an hour, Jessica held an emergency meeting in the conference room. By the middle of the day, she made an announcement over the intercom:
“In light of recent events, Pearson Hardman is now offering complimentary self-defense classes to any staff interested in basic combatives. Classes will be offered twice a week on the sixth-floor gym, taught by a certified instructor. Sign-ups are at reception.”
Mike, halfway through a sip of burnt Keurig coffee, perked up immediately. He’d always wanted to learn how to fight. Sure, he’d gotten into more than a few scraps back in the Trevor days, engaging in altercations at bars, defending his honor in questionable poker night disputes, and participating one truly regrettable brawl involving a guy who only went by the name of “The Midnight Barber." But those had all been messy, instinctive, and fueled by bad decision-making.
Now, Mike had a legitimate opportunity to learn some cool moves: arm bars, chokes, heel hooks, maybe even this nasty kimura move he’d seen online. He'd look great doing that, especially if Harvey was watching. Not that he cared if Harvey was watching. Obviously.
He glanced around the bullpen, but no one else seemed excited. One employee was overtly Googling “Do self-defense classes count as billable hours?” The desk where the victim of the brick incident sat was empty after he had demanded two weeks of paid vacation for his “emotional trauma.”
Mike grinned, rolled his pen between his fingers, and mumbled to himself, “Hell yeah. Let’s do this.”
As soon as he finished work, Mike jogged to the front desk and scribbled his name on the sign-up sheet with what could only be described as alarming enthusiasm.
“Look at that. Signing up to get your ass handed to you?”
Mike jumped and turned to see Harvey standing just behind him, coffee in hand and a smirk plastered on his face.
“Jesus, Harvey,” Mike muttered, clutching his chest. “Do you just appear behind people for fun, or is this a Specter family trait?”
“It’s a secret,” Harvey said, taking a leisurely sip from his cup. “Passed down from generations of people who don’t need beginner-level self-defense classes.”
Mike turned back to the sign-up sheet with purpose and circled the words at the top. “It’s not beginner-level. It says all skill levels welcome.”
“Translation: you’ll be sparring with Janet from accounting, who just had her third kid.”
“Better than doing nothing while you slowly creak into old age.”
Harvey narrowed his eyes. “You think you could take me?”
“I know I could take you,” Mike said, full of bravado that absolutely exceeded his fighting ability. “You’re all bark, but I’ve got youth and raw instincts. Not to mention my scrappy underdog energy.”
“You got winded chasing down a witness two weeks ago.”
“And I had just eaten a very dense sandwich,” Mike snapped.
Harvey looked entirely unconvinced. “You’re going to get absolutely demolished.”
Mike shrugged, handing the pen to Harvey. “Then sign up. Let’s find out.”
Without breaking eye contact, Harvey set his coffee down, took the pen, and wrote his name beneath Mike’s in comically larger, stylized letters, as if branding the page.
“I did Brazilian jiu-jitsu in high school,” Harvey said casually, handing the pen back.
Mike’s smile faltered. “Wait, what?”
“State finalist. Medaled. You know, while you were out... doing whatever it is you did in high school.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that before you signed up?” Mike huffed.
Harvey leaned in, his voice low and dangerous and irritatingly attractive. “Don’t start something you can’t finish, rookie.”
“I’ll have you know,” Mike said, puffing up tall, “I once tackled a guy in a Chipotle parking lot because he stole my friend’s Vespa.”
“That’s somehow the most on-brand thing I’ve ever heard.”
“You’re just scared I’ll take you down,” Mike said, poking Harvey in the chest. “I mean, I get it. You were good at jiu-jitsu… in high school. Back when cell phones had antennas and dinosaurs still walked the earth.”
"You’re not even creative with your insults anymore.”
“Oh, come on,” Mike said. “I’m in my prime, practically in peak physical condition. You, on the other hand…You’ll probably blow out your back trying to fight me.”
Harvey gave him a dry look, clearly unimpressed by Mike’s increasingly amazing jokes. “You’re going to regret this.”
“I doubt that. Honestly, the only thing I’m worried about is whether your joints will make it through the warm-up.”
“Just make sure your insurance is current, Karate Kid.”
“You better hope they have a defibrillator, Specter!” Mike smirked as he turned away, trying to push down a sudden flicker of nervous energy.
Harvey watched him go, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “This is going to be fun.”