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BONUS CHAPTER:

Lift Your Spirits

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A/N: I've had a really tough time lately. A recent passing in my family has made wanting to write fluff-pieces very difficult and my depression and anxiety have once again gotten really bad. All of which, you'll notice, have heavily influenced this chapter. Regardless, this was something I wanted to get out there, even if it is a little all over the place. Sorry if it's not up to scratch. Reviews would be much appreciated.

Here is my little Christmas gift to all you lovely readers.

Disclaimer: none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language.

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It goes with saying: Christmas is not his favourite time of the year.

It's not even a little bit enjoyable. In fact, Mike muses, it's probably up there with all the classic 'Most Dreaded Days of the Year' - like the anniversary of his parents' deaths and their respective birthdays. Definitely deserves a place in the top ten. Hasn't quite earned the first place, but that's only because that coveted spot has long ago been secured by that little known accident after one drink too many that sent his whole world spiralling out of control.

As far as Mike's concerned, Christmas, and all related holidays, have no business taking up plots on his calendar. It's billed as a time for family, friends, and sappiness galore, but for him, sitting around a cramped, overfilled table - knocking elbows with rowdy cousins and squabbling over who gets the last roast potato - to feast on a home-cooked traditional dinner is the farthest thing from reality he could imagine.

The commercialism of the event doesn't faze him anymore, doesn't bury under his skin like seemingly innocent questions he'd answer with politely raised brows and a strained smile - …what's your plans for the holidays?… Your folks flying out or are you planning on heading out to them? …Oh. I just assumed… - and the inevitable looks of pity. Doesn't invoke pangs of longing like painful interactions with virtual strangers - best wishes for the holidays!…Have a good one!… - and twisting queues of bouncing children and hushing parents sprawling from Santa's grotto.

For god's sake, he worked as a corporate lawyer for some of America's richest and dearest, scamming your everyday Joe and dodging billions in taxes while pumping toxins into our polluted oceans and tearing down chunk after chunk of rainforest - and a fake one, at that.

He's lost any and all claim to the higher road.

But as a kid? That's a whole other matter.

Even in the golden years of his childhood, Mike was never well off, or even what you'd call comfortable. Their finances were unstable. Sometimes things were good, sometimes they were bad. His mom did her fair share of penny pinching, while his dad had a knack for bargain-hunting. They didn't have a lot, but they always had what they needed, and he was fine with that. Mike wasn't reared to be materialistic.

Yet, he wondered why Santa appeared to favour the rich over the poor. Why some kids got what they wanted, while others got nothing at all.

Not even a lump of coal.

At public school, his classes were pretty mixed in terms of social standing. It was easy to differentiate between who came from money and who didn't, himself included. Naughty or nice - both were irrelevant. The system was broken. The list lied.

Christmas was not an equal-opportunity event. It wasn't a free-for-all, miraculous day where all your wildest dreams came true - yes, you and you, and you.

It was a pressurized, stress-fuelled nightmare, and he knew it. More than that, he seen it.

In the cool kids who bragged about their spoils and showed off some trendy gadget or game consol, chiefly the latest craze that sold out almost before anyone had even heard of it - because obviously they snagged one.

In the quiet kids who brushed off pushy inquiries - "yeah, okay, you had a nice day, but what did you get?" - and self-consciously shifted their legs in class to hide the dog-eared tape that covered the hole in their scuffed shoes - because obviously they needed new ones.

No, not all dreams came true. Not even one so simple as a new pair of shoes.

The charm of Santa and his flying reindeers and helpful, hard-working elves had faded by the time he turned eleven (had been rapidly fading ever since he turned eight). But it wasn't until his parents passed that, well…the magic of Christmas was gone for good.

He hasn't had a proper one since.

Grams couldn't afford much in the way of presents. A pair of socks in conjunction with a reduced, chocolate Santa that had its body crushed somewhere in between the bumpy delivery, accidentally falling off a high shelf, or in the hands of an excitable toddler (-what? He liked to speculate) was a well-appreciated treat, and they were a little short on family to entertain, nevermind funds to lavish them with thoughtful gifts. To her credit, she tried, that first year or two, to keep their traditions going and salvage something not entirely depressing about the holidays, but neither of their hearts were in it.

He didn't see the point, and, quite frankly, neither did she.

Mike never did stop appreciating the extra chocolate, though. He always had a sweet tooth.

Then, later, Mike's Christmas's only continued to get even lamer. Yup - apparently that was possible. It was all downhill from there.

Trevor spent the holidays with Jenny's parents in Connecticut, which he never begrudged. They always invited him and he always declined. Before that, the two of them would order a pizza, tip their beers to each other and toast to another fucked up, unfulfilling year (or was that New Years Eve? He never could tell the difference, really), before getting so high that neither solitary stoner could remember if they had company.

No matter what he did, he never could stop being lonely. Alone in thought, alone in body. (He never could tell the difference.)

Christmas Eve he spent with Grammy. Checkers and tea, complete with fine china teacups used once a year and sugar cookies. You couldn't beat it.

On the main day, the nursing home prepared a Christmas lunch with a set menu and limited choices, and threw a party in the afternoon for all of the residents that his Grammy genuinely enjoyed. The last he wanted to do was to spoil for her. That, or put down the ridiculously over-hyped main meal, with supermarket apple tart and warm custard for dessert.

It let her forget for a moment all of the pain she carried with her, while he was the sole reminder.

If nothing else, the revelry and tacky tinsel strung along the doorways was a nice distraction. Mike would rather spend the day alone than mope around with her, dragging Grammy down to his level. Not that he ever told her that. It was easier to tell white lies and spin tales of accepting Jenny and Trevor's invitation and being welcomed with open arms into a family that wasn't his own. Still, Mike suspected she knew, that she always knew, and that saddened him. He could never fool her.

Despite his aversion to all things Christmassy, Mike wasn't a total Grinch.

He made some effort, however minimal. He'd splash out on a gift or two for Jenny and Trevor, save up for something nice to surprise his Grams, and put aside some weed to make the most of the special occasion all by himself. Nothing special.

The gifts were usually wrapped using a thin roll of wrapping paper he'd stumbled upon by accident, either leftover from the prior year or replenished at the cost of a dollar or two in change, and brown packing tape found under the sink. But it's the thought that counts, isn't it? Either that, or the quality of the gift, not the packaging.

He even went to the trouble of decorating his apartment. Or, made an attempt to.

On a day when he was least pissed off at everything and everyone and figured he wouldn't be overcome with the urge to flush a bauble down the toilet or something, Mike would rummage around for the dusty ornaments in his closet, chucked into a tatty cardboard box and shoved all the way to the back.

All he had was a ball of lights - no, really, an actual ball that he was positive would blow a fuse and start a fire faster than a match ever could if he were idiotic enough to plug it in; talk about safety hazards - with several cracked bulbs, an old reindeer plush toy from when he was little, and a bleached, washed out snow globe that looked like it had been left out in the sun too long. Oh, and a chipped, Santa mug. He'd drink from it at some point. Maybe. If he washed out the cobwebs first.

Sometime around midday, on the highly anticipated day itself, Mike would peel himself outta bed, pass on getting dressed - utterly guilt-free at his sweaty PJs, budding stubble, and total lack of pants with no-one around to shame him and not a modest bone left in his body - and amble out into his kitchen, scratching his chin and stifling a yawn/groan.

It wasn't a pretty picture.

He'd blindly claim a bowl from the cupboard, a spoon from the drawer; sometimes he'd eat it straight from the box if all his dishes were dirty and he couldn't be bothered to wash up. Scratch that - that happened a lot. One time Mike even crushed a bunch of granola bars and saturated them with milk, because he'd run out of Cheerios; the staple of his morning diet.

He'd eat his cereal, give the snow globe a shake and watch the glitter settle. He'd listen to the gurgle, then the clunk, and finally the low, drawn out hiss as the central heating kicked into gear.

Sometimes he'd lounge around watching black and white films. Sometimes he'd go for a walk only to come scurrying back to the blissful ignorance of his apartment at the first sighting of a Santa hat.

His 'delicious' dinner consisted of processed Wonder bread and dry, tasteless turkey from a deli store down the street, peeling back a corner and giving it a wary sniff just in case it's past its sell-by date. Then a cold bear to wash it down. Something stronger from the liquor store to tide him over until morning.

Light a joint and smoke out his apartment - what else was there to do?

Even Trevor had someone to go home to.

"Bottoms up," Mike would mutter to himself as he guzzled back tequila and slammed the drained bottle down on the table. 'Tis the season, after all. Every so often, he'd snort into the silence, just to hear an end it.

And each year he'd get a little more angry and a little more down in the dumps and a little more fed up with the world.

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The first sign of Mike's impending doom is the list that he spies one morning pinned to the refrigerator by a magnetic image of the two of them in Harvey's semi-decent handwriting - one he initially assumes is their weekly grocery list that's revised jointly every couple of days, before something catches his eye.

The forbidden word: Santa.

The note doesn't say much.

- x2 packets of batteries.

- x2 rolls of scotch tape.

- Consult Donna on Secret Santa present for Jessica.

- Gift for Pierce.

- Cinnamon.

- Flour.

- Ground nutmeg.

- Brown sugar.

- Whatever shitty candy Mike likes.

All fairly innocent.

But still…Mike swallows hard. He has to wrench his eyes away.

The last part almost causes him to smile, but he's too confused to do anything other than frown at his distorted reflection on the shiny steel.

What's with all the curious ingredients on their grocery list of - not 'maybes,' not 'possibly's' - but musts? The absolute essentials, that he must remember to get. Is his Dad planning on baking or something?

Harvey bakes only when he has to, and even then…it's dicey. The ingredients stick out like a sore thumb. But…what else could it be? What other possible use would he have for ground nutmeg and cinnamon?

An obvious answer springs to mind and Mike doesn't like it. Something heavy and unpleasant churns in his stomach.

The last thing - the absolute last thing - he expected was for Harvey, of all people, to put up much fuss about the holidays.

He thought he'd buy some stuff, maybe catch up on a game or two, depending on his work load, and drink some scotch, before ordering in hamburgers and fries like he usually does when he's too tired to deal with cooking and Mike's temperamental taste-buds. (Recently, you never know what he'll reject from one day to the next and Harvey's praying it's a phase, because, man, his patience is being sorely tested. And with Mike - when it comes to fast food in particular - it's always safer to go with the cheapest, greasiest actual fast food instead of his Dad's much preferred, sophisticated Indian restaurant that causes Mike to screw up his face every time he brings it up, because if he's going to be predicable at all, he'll be predictable like that.)

So, yeah - Mike didn't think his Dad planned on going all out for Christmas. Who can blame him? Donna once told him that following a relatively generous distribution of candy canes around the associates' bullpen, Louis had come to personally deliver one to the senior partner, and Harvey had deposited it straight into the trashcan, without even waiting for him leave first.

Or glancing up from his laptop.

On second thought…that could have been more of a consequence of the who rather than the what. Most likely a mixture of both.

In truth, he imagined they'd be pretty similar when it comes to a slightly more minimalist approach, which was ill-considered in retrospect, considering his father's flair for extravagance.

Ripping open a loaf of bread and slipping a slice into the toaster, Mike hops up onto the counter - even though, technically, he's prohibited from doing so - and ponders what this means for him and his tolerance levels.

A dehydrated husk of a tree? Tawdry garland strewn across the fireplace?

He instantly dismisses the idea.

While that may be the only kind of decorations he's conversant in, none of that screams Harvey. He wouldn't be so ordinary as to defile his contemporary condo with anything that could be considered an eyesore. Aside from Mike's Lego, that is. It's freaking everywhere.

No, whatever Harvey decides to go with will be tasteful and of the highest quality. Nothing extreme, or so Mike hopes. Please don't let this be one of those completely-over-the-top rich people things that maddens Mike, yet his Dad sees no problem with. He doesn't like to splurge on crap he doesn't need, even now when he knows he can thanks to his accumulating pocket money. Sensible spending had been drummed into him from such a young age that at times Dad's tendency to spoil him makes Mike feel uncomfortable and unworthy. And the last thing he needs righ-

Jumping at the sound of the toast popping, Mike's train of thought is thoroughly derailed, and he takes it out and spreads a thin layer of rapidly melting butter, before tearing off a chunk with his teeth and chewing thoughtfully.

But he can't quite recall what he was so panicked about. Harvey's not big on birthdays, the fourth of July, Halloween, or heck, even Thanksgiving. Why would Christmas be the exception?

It'll barely be mentioned in passing, Mike chuckles, shaking his head and smiling at his silliness.

Boy, could he be more wrong.

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On the first of December, Mike scowls as he observes his father pouring milk into his cereal.

"Daaaad! That's not the bowl I wanted!" he whines, kicking his feet. "I want my special red one."

Trying not to sigh, Harvey tips the bowl and transfers the soggy contents into another one which looks virtually identical, with the exclusion of the red border around the top.

He sets it down in front of him and Mike grins up at him, and it seems all is right in the world. Until-

"Why is there a Lego figure floating in your cereal?"

Mike merely shrugs and spoons another bite.

"You can't bring your Lego to breakfast. From now on, you play with them after you eat, okay?"

That gets his attention.

"But I want to play with them now."

His Dad gives him a cautioning look. "Behave," Harvey warns, "or you won't get your surprise."

"Surprise?" The boy's perks up, blue eyes brightening. "What surprise?"

"This one."

From somewhere behind him on the counter, Harvey produces an elegantly-patterned advent calendar and places it in his hands. For a moment, all Mike does is gaze down at it, wide-eyed, and traces the lined doors with his fingertip. But then curiosity gets the better of him and he has to see what's inside. Starting with the box marked the 1st, Mike pries open the flap and has to stop himself from gaping.

He swiftly flips it over to inspect the back, chocolate tumbling out onto the table, and, just as he suspected, there is an tantalizing guide to help decipher between delicacies.

One thing's for sure. This is no cheap, dollar store advent calendar like the kind he got as a kid.

No, this is the luscious confectionery of a gourmet chocolate store. Mike doesn't recognise the company's name. Something French, he concludes. One of those posh places he would never have had the nerve step foot into lest he run himself into the ground with debt for drooling all over the merchandise.

Smooth, pistachio marzipan, dark-chocolate bonbons, creamy truffles with sweet, berry fillings, and rich Belgian chocolate. His mouth is watering simply perusing what's on offer. Thoughts of gobbling up the yummy treats almost causes his blood sugar to soar based on pure desire alone.

He's tempted to poke a hole in the second day to peek inside, but Mike holds strong. He can't believe that this is his - all his - for the next twenty-four days. It's - it's too much.

"Where did you -? Why did y-?" With no small effort, Mike snaps his jaw shut from where it had fallen on the floor. There's nothing he can do about his bugged eyes though. "Dad, what the hell? Jesus, did you have this imported from Europe or something?"

"A simple thank-you would suffice."

"No - seriously, Dad. What the hell?"

Harvey merely smiles that mysterious smile and jerks a shoulder in a lazy shrug, lips pursed. "What can I say? I like the finer things in life."

"Finest, maybe," Mike stresses, still stunned. "What are these? Sixty… eighty dollars a pop? Man, they must have cost a fortune. Not to mention, they've gotta sell out - what? Months in advance?"

"I have a standing order," Harvey calmly explains, like it's no biggie, all in a day's work. Whatever.

"Seriously?"

"The fact that Pearson Hardman represents them helps," he confesses, lips twitching with amusement. "But they appreciate my loyalty. Even get an all-year round discount."

"That's insane. God, could you be any more pretentious."

"I'm assuming that's rhetorical?"

"Not really."

Harvey laughs. "Savour them, kiddo. Trust me, this isn't gonna turn into a regular thing. Don't get used to it."

And that's the last of it. Or, so Mike thinks.

About a week later, Harvey comes home with candy cane-flavoured ice-cream - yes, that's a real thing - after having attended the annual Christmas cocktail party at the firm, mingling with clients and co-workers alike while grabbing every flute of champagne he could get his hands on.

Mike, on the other hand, spent the evening at Pierce's, because neither father or son are ready for an unknown sitter that his scary attorney Dad hasn't grilled to the point of insanity as if it's the biggest deposition of his career.

They share a cosy, patchwork quilt on the couch, each nursing a bowl of freshly scooped ice-cream despite it being a direct violation of Dad's strict no-hyperactive-hopped-up-on-sugar-puppies-after-eight rule, while they swap stories of their night.

"The party was a complete bust," Harvey groans, dragging his hands down his face. "Jessica dragged me into the most tedious conversations going in the name of improving my less-than-stellar good guy reputation with the other partners. According to her, it's a work in process. Then Donna started getting bitchy and handsy, like she always does when she's on the wrong side of tipsy, and I had to save Louis from making a complete fool out of himself with beautiful women who are so far out his league, they barely count as the same species." He exhales heavily. "The usual."

"Did they have those fancy shrimp things?"

"They sure did. About a thousand of them. Believe me, it was no consolation."

Shaking more sprinkles onto his sinfully sweet ice-cream, he carves out another spoonful and sticks it in his mouth, garbling, "Ye'th?"

"It was one thing after another. Each year, I tell Jessica to call off the whole shindig before it's too late to revoke the invitations and remind her how excruciating it was the year before, and every year she insists they're good for the firm and goes ahead and hosts the damn thing anyway. Can't say I see the benefit. Recipe for disaster, more like. How about you?"

Mike shrugs. "It was alright. We mostly played on his X-box." He frowns suddenly. "But get this: we were just chilling in his room chatting about winter break, when out of nowhere, Pierce starts going on about Christmas lists and what's Santa's bringing him, and I'm sitting there like, huh? I mean, I didn't say anything, but it was super awkward, y'know? I couldn't contradict him, because that would make me the worst person in the entire world - never mind a horrible friend - but I didn't want to encourage him, either. It kinda killed the mood. After that, we just watched a movie." He licks his spoon. "Weird, right?"

Harvey doesn't say anything. An unreadable expression passes over his face.

Mike shifts to face him properly, frown deepening. "You do think that's weird - don't you?"

After a moment, with only a vaguely guilty look…he shrugs.

"Dad!"

"What? I think it's nice. Can't fault him for it, puppy." He shrugs again. "That wouldn't be fair."

"I'm not," Mike professes, sitting up and getting defensive. "But at the same time, you have to admit: it is weird. He's fourteen, remember? And so am I, for that matter."

Grimacing and obviously not wanting to offend him any more than he already has, Harvey gently reminds him, "Only half of the time, kiddo."

Unable to deal with this crap right now, Mike makes an effort to loosen his jaw and gruffly suggests, "Look - can we just drop this? It's stupid."

His Dad doesn't seem to mind. He agrees easily, "If that's what you want."

The conversation moves on to other things, and once again, Mike's ready to put the subject to bed, but it's only a matter of time before the forbidden word devotedly comes up again.

They're arguing. Well, he is.

His father kindly - and repeatedly - asked him to tidy up his toys before dinner, but Mike was busy - and what was the point of putting them away if he was just going to dump them out again, anyway? And, 'sides, he was in the middle of something. His Dad shouldn't interfere with his delicate creative process.

So, when Harvey comes back to find the living room in an even worse state than it was when he left it two minutes ago and starts to tell Mike off, it's not long before Lego pieces are sent soaring past his head.

"Blocks are for building," he scolds, not for the first time, "not for throwing. Stop it."

Bunching his hands into fists and flinging out his left leg - sending his toys spinning across the floor and under the couch - Mike sulks, "Hate you."

Rolling his eyes because Mike has been using that word so often lately that it's starting to lose any and all impact or meaning, Harvey noticeably takes a deep breath to warm up for the oncoming lecture.

The youngster 'hates' carrots, and peas, and navy sweaters, and zebra crossings, and elevators (but only when they're travelling upwards. Going down's okay). It's just a phase.

Doesn't mean he gets away with it.

Upholding his smooth expression, Harvey hunkers down and chastises gently, "Mike…you shouldn't say things like that. That hurts my feelings."

Stubbornly crossing his arms, he huffs back, "Don't care."

Thus, seemingly out of the blue…his Dad tosses out a casual, "Well, I hope for your sake Santa didn't hear that."

And Mike has to stop himself from staggering back and blurting out something about UFO's visiting in the dead of night and gullible pod-people that don't know the difference between real and fantasy when it comes to researching earth's customs for their premeditated takeover.

Rookie mistake, dude. Rookie mistake. Way to blow your cover.

Because Harvey Specter would never be so silly as to imply he puts any stock into something as ludicrous and far-fetched as some fat, jolly bearded dude that travels around the entire world in one night delivering pressies for approx. ages two and up out of the sheer goodness of his heart. No way in hell.

It's not that he has anything against the old man, but a belief in Santa Claus, however weak, is not something he wants his Dad to be actively endorsing.

Mike has a strong suspicion that that's a spell he will all-too-quickly fall under and pretty soon that 'fairly weak' will turn into 'an unequivocal abso-FRICKIN'-lutely.'

'Cause if Harvey says he believes it, Mike will believe it - beyond a shadow of a doubt. After all, his Daddy would never lie to him (discounting all the times Harvey has sworn to him that he did, in fact, call up every single pizzeria in New York City, and, oh, dear, would you look at that, they are all out of that stuffed crust pizza he likes so much, so he guesses Mike will just have to eat that strange, 'healthy' lasagne he wasted an hour of his life making. Oh - and if 'never' means every damn time Pierce comes over to play cops and lawyers and he says it's such a shame Mike's allergic to gun powder. And criminals. And danger. And guns in general. But - shhh).

Not about something so important.

It was one thing for Harvey to accept Pierce's unwavering faith. It's a whole other matter for him to poison Mike's mind with such childish fantasies.

"Santa's not real, Daddy," he informs him, rolling his eyes and putting his best 'Silly Daddy' voice to use. "That's stupid."

"Jellybean believes in Santa. Do you think he's stupid?"

"Well -" Mike blows out a dramatic breath that's made up of twenty-percent exasperation and about eighty-percent world-weariness. He swipes his forehead with the back of his hand. "Probably not," he admits, "because Jellybean is the smartest, like me, but he'll believe anything. Sorry - but he's wrong and you're wrong and I think I'd know if Santa Claus was real, because I know everything."

"Not everything," Harvey corrects, smothering a laugh and recalling one of the many, many times Mike has debunked that theory. "You didn't know which button to push to turn on the dishwasher last week."

Mike bristles. "That was different," he argues back stiffly. "That's doing stuff, not knowing stuff."

He shrugs, all casual-like. "Doesn't seem all that different."

"Well, it is," his son confidently assures. "So stop bringing Santa up. I know you're lying." But in the back of his mind that voice is whispering, Daddy would never lie to me.

Harvey sniggers at his attitude, but agrees. For now, at least.

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"Wanna help Daddy decorate the tree?"

After several touch and go moments, he's successfully wrestled their newly picked tree into the condo. The place reeks of fresh cypress and tangy pine, but he likes it. It's invigorating. Makes up for the hellish scuffle up the stairs…Kind of.

Harvey shakes his head and pin needles fall from his hair.

Preferring to play with his action figures while chewing on his thumb, Mike's nose wrinkles.

"I watch."

"Suit yourself. You sit there and relax, while I do all the hard work," Harvey snipes, smiling to let him know he's only teasing. Lugging over the box of decorations, he cranks up the Christmas tunes to get him in the right festive frame of mind - well, someone has to be - and starts off by stringing strands of lights in graceful arcs around the tree. Next, he drapes a cord of silver beads around the branches and infuriates himself fiddling with the threads of sleek baubles in the struggle to hang them up. Ribbon garlands are added and the tree is dappled with ornaments from the trunk to peak, spaced out and artistically arranged.

An hour and a flick of a switch later, and it's a job well done, if he does say so himself.

Their condo looks like something from a Hallmark card.

The soft, dancing colours lend it an intimate and homey ambience, and there's an undeniable surge of warmth that they never realised the space lacked. True to his word, Mike has been overseeing the proceedings and is currently staring in awe. He stands, lured in by the iridescent colours reflected on their pale walls, breathtaking and serene.

"Care to do the honours?" Harvey holds out the porcelain angel flaunting a striking gold dress and feathery wings.

Speechless, the youngster can only shake his head.

"Go on," he encourages, nudging him forward playfully. "You know you want to."

Standing on his tippy toes in order to reach, Mike wobbles slightly and bites down on his lip. A pleased grin breaks out across his face as he places the angel at the top, glancing back for Harvey's approval.

"Perfect," he pronounces, beaming.

And he means it.

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For Harvey, going home for Christmas was a complicated, yet unavoidable affair. No pun intended. A necessary evil, in his mind, so long as he didn't draw any attention to himself and his mother, and the tension so thick you could cut into it that crackled between them.

His terse replies and confrontational manner only tripled their record of awkward silences, but being there, with his brother and his Dad, made it worth it, even when it didn't feel like it, and he wouldn't trade that for the world. Looking back, Harvey's incredibly glad he forced himself to participate. If not, he doesn't think he'd ever forgive himself for missing out on creating those - albeit sundry and not necessarily positive - memories while they still could.

Because when his Dad died, so did their sense of duty.

That was that. Goodbye family.

He no longer had anyone to celebrate with and Harvey surprised himself by feeling disappointed instead of relieved.

All he had to look forward to was a printed greetings card signed impersonally by his mother and an E-card courtesy of Marcus in his Inbox.

One estranged mother, deceased father, and elusive brother later, and Harvey had nothing better to do on Christmas day than sit around doing more of the same (hint: work, work, and more work), leafing through the business section of the New York Times and staring down a scotch on the rocks. More often than not, he found himself wishing that his cell would chime, alerting him of some lawyer-type-deal-gone-awry emergency.

But that call never came.

It's Christmas day; people are busy. They have work to do, and it ain't work work. They're carving turkey for famished, lip-smacking relatives and trying not to aggravate age-old family feuds, and gorging on junk food in their underwear, watching reruns of The Price is Right with their cat or something. Whatever it is normal people do. He's not an expert in conventional Christmas's.

But this is his first Christmas with a kid.

And not just any kid, either. His kid.

Mike.

That's huge.

There is something preposterously appealing to Harvey about celebrating the holidays surrounded by his loved ones (even if it is only going to be the three of them), and creating some of his own distinctive traditions with his puppy.

It mightn't have been something to get excited about in the past, but he can make it exciting now.

So he didn't get any lovingly hand-baked goods as a child?

No worries. He'll remedy that this time round.

He couldn't open his presents 'til after dinner?

They'll dive into theirs first thing in the morning. Before the thrill of being together grows stale and everyone's sitting around checking their watches for whatever time they deem it socially acceptable to leave.

When Donna offers him an out, Harvey's proud of how little the prospect appeals to him.

"Want me to bake some shit and freeze it ahead of time in case you forget?" she poses one Thursday over lunch, stabbing her Caesar salad with an upturned lip and air of bitterness.

She eyes his bagel with interest.

"Thanks for the offer," he responds amiably, "But I'd rather do it the old-fashioned way." At her, quite frankly insulting, expression of disbelief, he adds, "I have to do this, Donna. No cheating. I want to do it the right way."

She blinks, nods her head, and tries to taper down her sprouting smile.

"Alrighty, then."

Yet as excited as he is at the possibilities, Mike's definitely not feeling it this year - likely hasn't done for quite a while. It's not something they've discussed. But, at this point, it's becoming clearer and clearer that it's something they need to delve into soon.

Harvey would have to be an idiot not to take notice of Mike's reluctance to partake in any form of festivity. While he doesn't grouch about Christmas and how much he hates it every second of every day like some haters (not that he takes offence when they do. Harvey isn't in a position to judge. He understands exactly where they're coming from; everyone has their reasons, he gets that), Mike's far from an advocate of it, either, and he's not afraid to show it.

He snorts at the Elf-themed costume Louis wrangles his poor, unsuspecting cat into and expresses little sympathy for the many, many scratches he gained in the process - though, to be fair, how could you not?

He flips through the channels, skipping every single commercial alluding to Christmas, and avoids all of his favourite music stations with their hourly countdowns to the ultimate Christmas number one.

If a Christmas movie comes on, Mike wastes no time changing it over.

He scoffs at Miss Connie's proposal that their small group of 'students' perform a Nativity scene, rolls his eyes when the festive street lights go up, and complains that everyone at school won't shut up about who lucked out in Secret Santa, trying to decipher who drew whose name, with some even setting up betting pools for who'll give and who'll receive the worst gift in their grade.

One day while they're on their way back to the firm, this guy is handing out glossy flyers on the street and passes Harvey an advertisement for Toys 'R Us as he brushes past, but before he can even glance at it, Mike snatches the flyer out of his hand, crumples it up, and disposes of it in the nearest trashcan, like he can't bear the sight of it.

It strikes Harvey as a tad extreme. Hence, the dire need for that conversation.

He's not entirely sure how to bring it up, though. Jump right in or ease him into it?

Turns out, he needn't worry, because, when the time comes, it happens entirely naturally.

"So," he broaches offhandedly one afternoon while putting away dishes. "When do wanna start decorating the place?"

"Oh." Mike's eyebrows scrunch. "We don't need to do that."

"You sure about that?" Harvey probes, that niggling concern coming rushing back as he turns around to frown at him. "Don't you have any traditions you'd like to continue? Something you've always wanted to do, but never had the chance? We can try anything you want. All you have to do is pitch it to me."

"Honestly, Dad. I'm not that interested. You can do whatever you want. Doesn't matter to me."

But the pain in his blue eyes and stiffness of his posture accuses the matter of mattering very much.

Out of curiosity, he questions, "When's the last time you hung up a stocking?"

"Do socks count? 'Cause if not, then…"

"Never?"

Mike shrugs in discomfort. "Never."

"I'll get you one this year," Harvey promises. Immediately, he starts mentally compiling a list of possible stocking fillers.

The teen doesn't reply and mostly acts indifferent, but there's a restrained twitching of his lips that causes the father's heart to squeeze tightly.

He has to take this slowly. Introduce one thing at a time. Mike is highly emotional at the best of times and at present, he becomes overwhelmed at a speed you wouldn't believe; dazzled by the bright lights and tentative in the face of the sudden influx of tourists and whirlwind of harried shoppers, as if he hasn't lived in New York his whole life.

He has to make this Christmas a good one. For both of their sake's.

Not perfect, not mind-blowing.

Harvey only has to make it enjoyable enough that Mike's stomach doesn't burn with dread at the thought of rehashing it all next year…Piece of cake, right?

The next day he hangs up, not one, but two velvety, red stockings, with furry, white trims, and MIKE and JELLYBEAN sown in fancy gold lettering.

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The holiday blues are swiftly taking root.

Store windows filled to the brim, with plenty of stock to shift. Each establishment announcing the most outrageous price cuts and advertising the best deals.

Among buzzing neon signs and flashing reindeers, between blow up stars and inflatable snowmen and floods of consumers hitting the shops, there's a brutal clarity settling over the city that Mike could do without.

It's easier, he thinks, when his younger mindset takes over.

The blinking, festive lights are addictive. They draw you in against your will; convince you anything is possible. At this time of year, New York nightlife is so achingly beautiful. So magical. It's a sensory overload that often leaves Mike swinging somewhere between wired and dazed, clamping onto his Daddy's arm in the middle of the sidewalk, without a clue what to make of it all.

Either way, toddler or teenager, he's looking at a splitting headache and a quiet night-in watching Avengers under a knitted throw with Jellybean and Harvey. (He knew Donna's ban wouldn't stick.)

It sucks. All of it.

Everywhere he turns, there are business men toting heavy carrier bags on their way home from work and mothers concealing their holiday loot amid teething toys and sippy cups in buggies.

Even at day care, there are sparkly fairy lights and a small, synthetic tree glittering with the power of the complete spectrum of a majestic rainbow over in the corner.

There's no escape from it.

Miss Connie, of course, prides herself in being a dedicated contributor to the rather forceful invasion of red and gold and mistletoe that saturates New York each glacial December, joining the ranks of devout Christians and dear St. Nick, and a sizeable selection of the city's population, who are obnoxiously jolly in their efforts to spread good will and endless holiday cheer, and shove happiness and humility down the remaining populace's throats. During arts and crafts, she coaches them on how to make snowflake paper chains and educates the class on the importance of creating cute, glitzy ornaments to take pride of place year after year on their lavish trees in their enormously idyllic homes.

She takes it all very seriously.

"Oh, heaven's!" she had cried, hand pressed against her chest and looking absurdly teary. Mike had looked down at the gluey mess in his hand and wondered what all the commotion was about. All he did was paint a spongy sphere blue and plunge it into a bowl of glitter. "Mikey, it's beautiful! Just you wait until you take that home to show your Daddy. He is going to LOVE it!"

And, yeah, sure, when he found the stupid thing rolling around in the bottom of Mike's backpack a week later, dented and ink-splattered (thanks to his wealth of busted pens), along with a nasty, shimmering surprise tucked into the folds of the fabric from his excessive use of those pretty, shiny flecks that every parent everywhere knows are the literal embodiment of evil, Harvey was beyond thrilled.

By then, the bauble was not half as 'impressive' as it once was, minus the benefits of artificial lighting, delusional, bubbly middle-aged ladies, and an obscene amount of glitter - battered and beaten and ugly as hell - but nevertheless, his Dad positioned it right near the top of their picture perfect tree where you'd have to be blind to miss it, grinning from ear to ear.

Mike just rolled his eyes and continued playing.

Now, red hot and bitter cold, he scrapes together a lump of snow, clawing at the ground with broken fingernails, and shapes a hard, crunchy snowball.

It's mostly slush and ice at this point, but he makes the most of what he's got.

Mike shields his eyes from the glare of sunlight glinting off yesterday's thawing snow and pulls his arm back. With a guttural shout, he lobs the snowball at the window of their condo.

It smashes in an explosion of white flakes, and his chest is heaving, his hands are shaking. The glass can take it.

Grey skies, tattered, frosted leaves skittering at his feet, a shuddering breath lost in the wind.

Temperatures have been falling fast.

Mike's cheeks are wet, and it could be tears, or dripping icicles overhead, or the softly falling snow landing in his hair. He doesn't care.

Fingers throbbing with the cold, seeping into his bones, and the chill cutting into his ears, Mike dusts snow off his shoulders with hard, angry slaps. At some point, he doesn't know when, it starts snowing heavier and heavier, until his hair is wringing wet and the jacket he hastily shrugged on is caked in snow.

Unbeknownst to him, recently returned from the store, Harvey watches from the other side of the window with a tight throat and gritted jaw.

Finally, he can't take it any more. Harvey yanks open the door to the balcony and steps out, aware his shoes are a long way from the most suitable footwear for this weather. His little boy is glaring down at a withered potted plant, scarcely more than dense soil and a single stick; it could never have survived this climate. It didn't stand a chance.

He doesn't look up.

"Mike," he says quietly. "Come inside."

The little sniffle he produces almost breaks his heart.

Voice thickening, he speaks through vocal cords that feel as if they're twisted into a rock-solid knot. "Come on, puppy. It's okay. Time to come in." Harvey loops an arm around him quaking shoulders and cuddles him close. "A nice bowl of soup will warm you up."

Mike lets his Dad lead him to the couch and wrap him up in appropriate winter gear of the indoor variety. From the refrigerator, Harvey fishes out a container of his signature soup to heat and empties it into microwaveable-friendly bowl.

Then he leaves with Mike's sodden clothes.

And Mike's back to staring out at the murky skyline, holding back a dam of tears.

Behind him, the microwave dings.

A memory resurfaces - from over a decade earlier - of stirring canned soup and letting it go cold, even as his stomach grumbled and his Grammy hovered, radiating anxiety. Face stony, tear ducts dried out. He's been here before. It was the first Christmas since they-

Much as he strives to ignore it, there's a cramping in his chest, a lump swells in his throat, crushing his windpipe, and neither will be willed away.

No tree, no gifts, no stockings, or joyful thoughts. Burrowed under a woollen blanket his Grammy knitted herself, barely summoning the will to reach for the remote, every lift of his chest feeling like it weighed a ton. He'd watch anything so long as he didn't have to move.

Mike clears his throat, suddenly aware of his Dad's dark, worry-filled eyes locked on him, and moves as if in a daze. Open door, remove dish, close door, sit down. Eat?

He no longer feels like it.

Watching the steam twirl as it rises, Mike soaks a piece of crusty bread in the hot soup until it collapses under the weight of all it has absorbed and plops onto the counter with a wet splat. And, that. That sound. That's what makes him crack.

He gets up, robotically shakes the crumbs from his hands, and retreats to the bathroom for a long, searing shower with a bland look tossed behind him that falls a little short of, I'm fine. By the time he steps out, wrapping a towel around his waist and padding up the hall, the mess has long since been cleared away.

Mike sighs, silence ringing in his ears.

Ah, yes.

Christmas cheer strikes again.

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"I never shop this time of year. Too many assholes, too little patience," Harvey had declared completely un-ironically sometime in November, not knowing that in little over a month he'd have to recant the words. "Never have, never will. There's no call for it."

"Then…how do you organise presents?" Mike wondered, perplexed. "Order online?"

"No," he'd scoffed, like it was embarrassingly obvious. "Donna. She takes care of all that shit."

And that was true, back before he made that damn sacred dad promise to himself.

No cheating.

He can't rely on Donna to handle his son's presents - not when he'd turned down her offer of baked goodies. He has to know he's capable of managing this himself.

Which is why he finds himself hunching his shoulders with his phone wedged under his ear, as he juggles four overstuffed ego-bags, seeking Donna's advice on whether or not the band tees he's been mulling over are something Mike would approve of. He's been snapping pictures all day to forward onto the redheaded Goddess for her opinion before he considers purchasing anything, as is their customary retail strategy.

Like his own personal wall of shame, she archives the most horrendous pickings to torment him with later - which is stupid because everyone has brief lapses in judgement when it comes to their fashion taste every now and then - and likes to whip the images out whenever she thinks he's getting too cocky or is bragging too much about his impeccable taste. She relishes any chance to take him down a notch or two.

"It's purple. But not, like, a girly purple. Not that there's anything wrong w- …Well, how about the green one? He likes green, right? Yeah, it's a little bright in the picture, but that's the goddamn lighting in here…Says it's machine-washable, already checked the label….Hey, I can tell the difference between all the little symbols, okay? It's not that hard….Fine, I'll take another look at the other one, but I'm telling you now, Mike is not going to want to wear a baby panda t-shirt no matter how cute you think it is."

He reflects on the panda artwork Mike had in his old apartment and second guesses himself for a brief second, before he remembers the cutesy, cartoonish character adorning the blue tee and shudders. That bear was creepy as hell.

Lowering his cell to note the time, the low battery sign flashing catches his attention and Harvey butts into Donna's impassioned rant to remark, "Hang on - I've gotta go. Phone's about to die...No, I swear, it really is this time. I learned my lesson last time. If you still want to plead your case later, we can resume this conversation then. I'll see you back at the office tomorrow…- Got it. Bye."

Leave it to Donna to end a phone call brightly rhyming off a random date that somehow manages to sound like a not-so-thinly veiled threat.

This shopping thing's certainly no picnic.

Before he'd started, Harvey had waited in line for a cup of overpriced coffee to prepare himself for the horrors that were sure to come - but, honestly? It doesn't seem to have done him much good.

He's tired and grumpy, and not one bit happy.

Navigating Manhattan mall was a much greater ordeal than he ever could have thought. The sheer volume of people has been staggering and there's no reprieve from the festive music blaring out of every speaker within a ten mile radius on loop, and the longer he's there, the more it pisses him off.

Hit by a blast of warm air as he'd strolled inside, getting a whiff of vanilla and spiced plum - ooh, how he had been fooled. For a second, it had seemed like, hey, maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

Harvey was set straight soon enough.

He'd braved the jostling crowds and Christmas soundtrack, and tried not to look too irritated when the jaded cashier fumbled as they scanned his items, politely thanking them afterwards because he would never, in a million years, trade places with any of them.

Not with the mechanical dancing polar bears, radiant lights showering down everywhere you look, and glowing wire reindeers hanging from the ceiling.

And that's just the décor.

Harvey takes his up to the check out and glares when another inattentive customer, who needs to watch where they're goddamn going, bumps into him with their trolley for the fourth time today. Massaging his temples as he stands in line, shifting his weight and cursing himself for not charging his cell beforehand, Harvey is nearly comatose by the time it's his turn.

The store clerk rings up his purchases, ends up having to enter the code manually, punching in random numbers, before bagging his shit and informing of the amount due. He hands her his card and she swipes it, taking her damn time with it, too.

Christ. He just wants to leave. In this instant, it feels as if he'll never make it outta here. It takes all of his self-control not to start impatiently tapping his foot.

At this rate, he'll need another double-espresso just to revive himself.

At long last, he's free to go, and Harvey doesn't hesitate to flee. There are a few more bits and pieces he needs to pick up, but to hell with it, they can wait for another day. He cuts across an electrical company's stall where they're out trying to recruit new customers, circumventing the free samples of lotions, vibrant bath bombs and scented candles to dodge the overly keen sales assistant with the free-flowing tongue, and further down, the shiny platters of temptation piled high with mince pies and fresh brownies.

Once outside, he breathes a sigh of relief.

Finally.

The sky is purple and stunningly smoky in this frosty winter night. It's refreshingly freezing out after being coped up in department stores for hours, and while goose-bumps may prickle on his forearms, Harvey can only appreciate the fleeting sense of liberation.

On his way home, he picks up take-out and stops at a drug store to stock up on batteries, buying an extra packet just to be on the safe side. He comes in, kicks off his shoes, walks over and envelops Mike in a fatigued bear hug, pecks his forehead, before collapsing onto the couch with the greasy bag of take-out.

He's been on his feet all day and he's definitely feeling it now.

"Long day?" Mike asks, smirking.

Eyelids slipping shut, Harvey murmurs something unintelligible.

Mike leans over him and snatches up the paper bag, unwrapping his hamburger and pinching a salty fry. He munches on it slowly as he struggles to tear a corner off his ketchup sachet.

"Well, since you're clearly not in a chatty mood, I'll do the talking. So…I've been thinking…You know what we should do this year? Buy a bird feeder. I know - not your style. But think about all those poor birds out there scavenging for worms. Don't you think they should deserve a nice dinner on Christmas day, too-?"

"Hmhm," the older man hums, only half listening.

Mike halts temporarily to scratch uselessly at the impenetrable squashy packet.

He's now resorting to biting to try and rip it open.

Exhausted as he is, Harvey chuckles weakly at the pathetic little growling noises his son's emitting and without opening his eyes, holds out an open palm for him to drop the sachet onto. It's wet and slimy, but he splits it apart with ease.

Mike pouts, but thanks him.

Lifting off his bap and squeezing ketchup onto his burger before taking an ambitiously large bite, Mike continues blathering on and on and regaling - hopefully - fabricated stories of this dead bird they hit upon behind a dumpster at school that everyone took turns poking with a stick, until Harvey eventually dozes off.

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"I just wanna see what the next one looks like!"

"Uh-uh. Sure." Harvey's voice is shrouded in about ten distinct layers of sarcasm. "And after you're done discovering that it is, indeed, the same as all the others you've eaten, I bet you'll wanna find out what it tastes like, too, am I right?"

"I won't. I swear I won't!"

"I know you think that now, puppy," he counters semi-sympathetically, "But the temptation might be more than you can handle and you'll be more upset tomorrow if you don't save any for then. Besides, the point of an advent calendar is that you only open one per day. That's how you keep track of when Santa's coming."

"I already know when he's coming. I don't want him to come," is Mike's smart-ass answer, neither rejecting nor accepting the bearded man's existence. It's what Harvey has come to expect.

But, slowly, gradually, Mike's attitude changes.

He starts watching A Charlie Brown Christmas religiously before bedtime and catching Harvey off guard by quizzing him on the ins and outs of Santa Claus's iffy occupation at the most inopportune times. On one particularly memorable afternoon, Harvey is walking down to Mike's room with a basket of clean laundry on his hip when he pauses at the door as the sound of Mike's quiet, melodic vocals reaches his ears. "I wanna hippopotamus for Christmas," he sings adorably, stumbling a little over the tricky word. "Only a hippopotamus will do. No crocodiles or rhinoceroses. I only like hippopotamuses. And hippopotamuses like me to."

Harvey hangs back to listen, the goofiest of smiles plastered across his face.

He's hard at work setting up his race track, so sometimes he pauses for a big breath or to concentrate extra hard on which car should go where in the line up, only to restart a beat or two later. Mike only knows about half of the words, often repeating the same line about six times over, and there's a verse or two of improvisation that somehow trails off into Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Only then does Harvey announce his presence. He deliberately bangs the rim of the basket against the door as he enters.

Mike starts, and glances up at him in surprise. And then - to his shock - his little budding singer relaxes his shoulders and launches into a remediation of Rockin' around the Christmas Tree, returning to his game and soon forgetting he's even there.

It's quite the turn around, if he does say so himself.

Eventually, Mike writes a Santa list "for Jellybean" since "his paws are too fat to hold a pencil," and informs Harvey - utterly straight-faced, bless him - that if they 'plant' red hots in the snow during the Christmas season, come morning they'll have grown into full-sized candy canes. Swears by it, apologises to Jellybean for ever doubting him. Pierce did the same thing last week and he has all the candy canes in the world to prove it.

Harvey promises to test it out sometime soon.

"Daddy," Mike begins sweetly, while he's in the middle of tucking him in. "What do you think would happen if we planted jellybeans? Would we get more Jellybeans? Because I already have one Jellybean and I don't think I want another one."

Thank heavens Harvey has enough experience with this kind of talk to follow that baffling speech.

"I don't know, puppy." Smiling softly, he smoothes down his hair, lets his hand rest there. "Guess we'll have to wait and find out. But I can promise you this: candy only ever grows into more candy. Nothing and no-one will ever be able to replace your Jellybean."

Mike nods, massively relieved, and hugs his stuffed wolf closer.

Looks like he's buying another half a dozen bags of candy canes and a heck of a lot of jellybeans to boot. God knows how many times Mike'll want to put this neat little trick to the test once he's obtained his own evidence that it works.

And, by God, he can't let him down. Not now. Not ever. Not when it comes to this.

He pulls out his phone and dials Donna's number as soon as he's left the room. "Okay - quick question. Say I were to plant them in a jar on my balcony, which candy do you think jellybeans would be more to likely to turn into: tootsie rolls or twizzlers?"

"Hold up - what? Context, Harvey. Context."

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As the day draws nearer and Mike's excitement heightens, Harvey resorts to storing his presents in one of his vacant suitcases for fear that he'd go hunting them out.

"If I put these under the tree early, do you promise not to 'accidentally' poke any holes in them?" he asks.

"Those ones?" Mike peers over, squinting. "Nah. It's just a bunch of clothes. I can tell."

Harvey can't even find it within himself to be offended. Kid's got a point.

"So long as we're clear." He tucks the squashy bundles under the tree and while he's doing so, it hits him.

Only two days to go.

If he wants to go down the home-bakery road, he'd need to start baking soon. So…why not today?

Mike has told him, repeatedly, that he's fine with the store-bought stuff, but Harvey is adamant that he has to do this hard way. Besides…how hard can the hard way be?

Famous last words.

"Hands," Harvey reminds before they begin, and Mike scurries off to the sink to find the handwash, while the lawyer skims through the recipe one more time, even though he's fairly certain he has the shit in the bag. The youngster lathers up his hands with about three pumps too much soap, but Harvey lets him off the hook in the name of it being the season of good will and all that.

"And your sleeves."

Mike rolls up his long-sleeved t-shirt with a very serious look on his face. It's adorable.

They settle on making both sugar and gingerbread cookies, and Harvey's pragmatic enough to keep his expectations low. Yet, one of the biggest challenges, he's surprised to learn, is simply taking a back seat and letting it happen.

Harvey's always been of the opinion that he's quite a laid back parent when it comes to Mike making messes, but this is difficult even for him.

Eggs are splattered across the floor, flour spews everywhere.

It feels as if Harvey bought the icing sugar for the sole purpose of creating their own little winter paradise inside their kitchen, rather than to dust over frickin' cookies.

Mike's a floury catastrophe.

A large part of Harvey suspects he's enjoying the excuse to get filthy more so than the father-and-son bonding bake-a-thon.

"…Yes, the recipe does say you have to mix until it's fluffy, but that's not the kind of fluffy it meant…We'll use a sheet of baking paper later so the cookies don't get stuck to the pan." Harvey explains as they go along, mixing together the dry ingredients, while tossing out the odd favour or two to keep him on task. "Pass me the ginger - no, not that one…yes, that's it, thank you. You're very good at this."

Once everything has been mixed together, he binds the dough in a plastic wrap, tucking in all the corners and checking for air holes, and balances it on top of two jars of jam and tomato sauce to chill in the refrigerator.

While they wait for the dough to firm up, the worn-out pair curl up on the couch to watch a movie and Harvey manages to squeeze in Mike's nap, before he's past the point of tiredness.

Then it's back to rolling out the sticky dough and cutting out shapes. Mike's approach is more punch-based than smooth rolling (he's inclined to favour his hands over the rolling pin; it's more amusing that way), and he grinds the cookie cutters into the counter pretty hard, but it's all in good fun. They get there in the end.

The tray is slid into the oven and - while somewhat misshapen - overall, the cookies are coming along nicely. He sets a timer and takes them out fifteen minutes later. Though he expects the first batch to be burnt to the point they're declared inedible, they turn out…pretty alright. Not great, but impressive for a first attempt. A shade darker than the recommended 'golden brown,' but, whatever.

A positively heavenly aroma of vanilla and cinnamon wafts from the kitchen and Harvey has to thwart several assassination attempts on the gingerbread men's lives while they cool on a rack.

A few limbs are lost to the boy's nibbling, but sacrifices must be made. Even Harvey's guilty of stealing a bite or two. So long as they don't devour all of them, he figures they're on the right track.

According to Mike's ruling, no two cookies are permitted to look the same. This results in a great deal more chaos when it comes to the decorating process than he predicted, but maybe that would have happened regardless.

Mike's aim's not very accurate while shooting out white frosting and he really splashes out on the jellies and gum drops. Not to mention how generous he is with the red and green sprinkles. They were never going to look like the picture in the cookbook.

An entire packet of Reese's pieces is unloaded onto one cookie, for Pete's sake. Mike calls dibs on that one, and, hey - he's not objecting.

There are stars and trees, jingle bells and angels. Plus, a few crafty robots snuck their way into the gang after Mike got his hands on the robot-shaped cookie cutter.

The clean up is a pain in the ass (Harvey finds a jug of gloopy paste where Mike obviously just blended together a blast of frosting, crushed M&M's, and marshmallows while his attention was elsewhere. He isn't even surprised), but it pays off in the end. The cookies are delightful, filled with ooey-gooey deliciousness and crumbling beautifully in your mouth - just the way he likes them.

Both males have more than enough reason to feel proud. Despite some small hiccups, they actually pulled it off. Enough that Harvey doesn't feel at all guilty about gifting them to everyone he knows because he couldn't be bothered to go out and buy them anything.

They bake a batch for Louis, another for Jessica, a third for Rachel; saving the last batch for themselves.

The cookies are packed into starry boxes with sparkly bows pressed on top and deemed instant masterpieces.

And they truly are, by Harvey's estimation, the ugliest, yummiest, most precious cookies in the whole wide world.

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Christmas Eve's quiet, despite the buzz in the air.

They drop by his Grammy's nursing home, take her out for lunch at a snazzy restaurant where she has a good laugh at Harvey's failed attempts to keep Mike in line, and return in time for Louis to drop off a gift for the disruptive youngster. The two bonded after his brief babysitting stint a while back, and it always unnerves Harvey to see them acting so chummy.

"You all set for Santa coming tonight?" Louis enquires with a good-natured grin, after a lull in conversation. He's pleasantly genuine, not a trace of a sneer to be defected on his face.

Biting his lip, Mike glances back at Harvey, a touch panicked, so he quickly steps in.

"Sure are," Harvey confirms whole-heartedly, perhaps overdoing it a bit. "Can't wait."

They present him with his share of cookies. To which, he responds with the appropriate amount of aww's. Then Mike gives him a quick hug before bidding him farewell.

After that, it's a matter of convincing Mike to nap before they go to pay the other lucky cookie-recipients a quick visit. Thanks to their big lunch, Harvey is free to throw together a PB&J for Mike's dinner when they get back and a health shake for himself. Before he knows it, they're knee-deep into the evening.

To him, it feels like the day has gone so fast, though he's sure Mike would beg to differ. He's been doing more than he's fair share of complaining.

"Daddy, you can't leave the plate there!" Mike gasps. "How will Santa find it? It needs to be beside the balcony."

Harvey restrains an eyes roll and lugs the stool over to the large window. "Happy?" The boy nods at last, to his relief. This is the fourth time he's had to revise the placement of those goddamn cookies. "Good. Now all we need is the carrot." He reaches for the bag, but Mike intervenes.

"No, no, no. I want to pick it!"

Mike shoves his hand into the bag and Harvey swears he picks the most deformed one on purpose.

"There," Harvey breathes, adding it to the plate of goodies. "One cookie and a glass of cola for Santa, and a hideous carrot for Rudolf. We done?"

"Nuh-uh." Mike shakes his head insistently. "I want to give my carrot to Comet. Daddy, you have to make sure he gets it."

Quirking a brow and pressing his lips together to cover his smirk, the father echoes, "Comet, huh?"

"Yes."

Harvey dimly recalls a conversation they held in the past about the most 'underrated' reindeers. Comet and Cupid were right up there. He nods. "Great idea, puppy. I'll write Santa a note to tell him to give it to Comet. How's that?"

"You better not forget."

"I won't," he chuckles. His son gets so bratty when he wants things to go his way.

Yet, it's great to see him so invested in this after so many weeks of apathy. Mike had gotten so accustomed to running and screaming from all things festive that it's been strange for him to embrace any holiday traditions. It took some getting used to, but he's definitely warmed up to it.

Maybe even a bit too much.

"I'm gonna stay up forever and ever and ever," the boy confidently tells him, but the amount of cookies he managed to scoff down before Harvey cut him off means he'll be crashing soon.

They slip into snuggly pyjamas ahead of their usual bed-time schedule. Well, Mike does - pulling on the new set of snowman-themed pyjamas Harvey picked out for this very occasion.

Harvey, on the other hand, has to root around for a pair of bottoms since his sleepwear typically consists of a tee and boxer shorts. Close enough.

They decide to put on a movie and Harvey lets the youngster pick it out, secretly praying it won't be either Avengers or A Charlie Brown Christmas.

It's the perfect chance for Mike to wind down, even while being plied with more sugar, and for Harvey to take a much-needed breather.

Mike insists they sit in the dark to get the full benefit of the lights on the tree. The boy's fascination with them hasn't diminished even slightly. This leads to Harvey burning a red, cranberry and vanilla candle and lighting a roaring fire in the hearth. Already, he can see Mike's lids drooping as he admires the flickering flames and becomes accustomed to the sporadic crackle.

Hands cupped around warm mugs of cinnamon hot cocoa, they settle in to watch Elf, a bowl of popcorn slanting on Harvey's lap.

Mike blows on his frothy beverage and pokes a marshmallow bobbing at the top, before taking a long sip. It's so thick that he can't finish it. He's full by the fourth mouthful, on the verge of being sick by the sixth. That's when he sets it down.

Getting drowsy, Mike slumps into Harvey and yawns.

The condo is so warm and cosy that he struggles to make it to the end of the film. Eventually, he closes his eyes, just to rest them for one second, and instantly falls asleep against his Dad's shoulder, slobbering over his thumb. Harvey sweeps him up, carries him down to his room, and gets him settled. Hopefully that'll be him down for the night.

He stays up peeling vegetables for tomorrow, putting the finishing touches to the presents, making tomorrow's dessert and wondering why on earth he decided it was a good idea to do this on Christmas Eve. What was he thinking?

He's waiting for light pattering up the hallway, a soft voice asking, 'Is he here yet?' But it's…quiet. It's… nice...

Harvey puts Charles Bradley on low, because the silence is making him uncomfortable.

There's a lingering smokiness as the fire dies down. Mellow jazz playing behind him, he downs room-temperature cola that's already gone flat and sprinkles a pinch of crumbs. The carrot, he puts back.

A contented warmth flutters in Harvey's stomach.

He's feeling nostalgic, remembering his own childhood. When the chill of the crystallized blanket of snow outside crept indoors and the house was so silent you could hear a pin drop, he and Marcus would hush and shush and tiptoe down the stairs to try and catch a glimpse of the magic, but somehow always ended up getting caught themselves.

Harvey smiles at the memory, chuckles and shakes his head.

Then he sets to work straightening the cushions, collects their mugs, drops any stray corn kernels or pieces of popcorn that may have fallen between the cracks into the empty bowl.

Yawning, he carries the bowl to the kitchen, sticky-rimmed mugs hooked around his thumb and clinking against one and another with every step. Harvey stacks them in the sink, which is already home to a couple of dirty plates and glasses. Then he racks his brain for anything else that he needs to do, running through his mental list.

Homemade, cream-filled Yule log chilling in the refrigerator? Check. Vague understanding of the instructions for Mike's toys? Check…ish. Stuffed stockings? Check. Half-eaten food for Santa? Check. Glitter sprinkled over parcels at Donna's insistence to add a little 'pizzazz'? Unfortunately.

That verified, Harvey smiles sluggishly and unplugs out the lights, before retiring for the night.

Best to steal some beauty sleep while he still can.

God knows, he needs it.

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He's woken by someone squashing his cheeks.

Harvey groans, but the sound is muffled by icy hands, now digging into his chin.

Coral-tinted sunlight streams in the windows, bathing the room in the blush of dawn. Outside, New York is steeped in snow.

"Come on, Daddy," Mike moans, pulling at his arm. His face is all but glowing with excitement. "I've been waiting for ages."

Another deep-throated groan and he rolls outta bed. Bare feet touch down on the cold, hardwood floor and feel around until they slide into comfy slippers. Harvey throws on a rumpled hoodie over his tee lying at the bottom of his bed and yanks on a pair of pants, combing his fingers through his hair in a half-assed attempt to tame it.

He's groggy, half-sleep. In no way prepared for this.

But, as it so happens, nothing could have prepared him for the unbridled joy that courses through him while witnessing Mike open his presents. It makes all the goddamn paper cuts he acquired from folding all those evil, razor-sharp edges totally worth it just to see to the disbelieving look in his eye and utterly blinding smile.

Rather than lunge at the presents, Mike digs through his stocking first, unearthing a sticker book, colouring book, pair of Marvel socks, a finger-sized flashlight, milk straws, more hot wheel cars and new ear-buds.

"Look, Jellybean!" he gasps, tossing the wolf's stocking aside. "This is for you." He holds up a heavy jar of jellybeans for, yes…Jellybean. Harvey never claimed to be creative. In addition to that, there is a netted bag of chocolate coins enclosed in golden foil and a chocolate Santa that, for some reason, causes tears to well up in Mike's eyes as if it meant more to him than everything else combined.

He'll have to remember to ask about that later.

Then, before he can blink, Mike tackles him in a hug.

"Thank you," he whispers, burrowing his face in his chest.

Harvey almost blurts out, what for? But he stops himself. He doesn't need to know.

Grabbing a beautifully-wrapped parcel, Mike holds it up to his ear and shakes it curiously. Something rattles. He unfastens the ribbon and tears through the paper. Inside lies a box of…you guessed it. Another Lego City set to add to his collection, because - as stated by Mike - one can never have too much Lego. Ever.

Harvey begs to differ.

Taking his time with each one, Mike makes his way through the present and in the process, uncovers a huge train set, a lumpy, microwaveable puppy, baseball tickets for spring, an engraved baseball bat and glove, and several limited edition, vintage comics. He pores over each one, feeling unbelievably overwhelmed by gratitude, and shedding a few tears. But when it comes to the last one, Mike hesitates, and he's not sure why. It's much smaller than the rest and oddly light. It could be anything.

Holding his breath for reasons he has yet to define, Mike pushes the inner tissue aside to reveal a lone receipt.

Mike's brows knit in bewilderment. "What…?"

Then he sees it.

It's a receipt, dated months back.

And it's for Jellybean.

"W-wh…-Why are you giving this to me?"

"Because," Harvey says, taking a deep breath and producing a small smile. "As far as I'm concerned…the second I bought that stuffed animal…you became my son."

Mike has no words.

Instead, he throws his arms around him and he cries, because that's the single greatest thing his Dad could possibly say on a day like today.

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For breakfast, after Mike's calmed down and is ready for it to be Christmas again, they go halfsies on a tasty cinnamon roll baked from scratch, sitting on the floor amongst scattered toys and passing the roll between them.

Although at the time of wrapping, it had seemed like a heaving pile of presents, staring at them now, it's actually a fairly modest amount. Mike already has so much stuff that any more one would obscene. Truthfully, he doesn't like having to share credit with Santa, but Harvey can't complain. Not when he's the one who insisted bringing him into it.

Then, having perked up significantly, Mike demands his train set be set up, and Harvey knuckles down and puts his skills as self-taught toy engineer to use, cursing toy trains and the twist ties that keep them stapled to the damn box. It takes most of the morning to construct it all.

By the time Donna arrives, he's swapped out his hastily thrown together outfit for a dapper, dark raspberry dress shirt and slacks, thinking she'd want him to be presentable. Turns out, he needn't have bothered.

She has her own ideas.

"Uh…yeah…no - I'm not wearing that." He quickly steps back, holding up a hand. "Nuh-uh. No way. I won't do it. You can't make me."

It's a green, tree hat.

With multi-coloured bobbles that jiggle, sprouting from every angle.

"Oh, grow up, Harvey," Donna bites, rolling her eyes as if he's being childish. "Of course I can make you."

And if that isn't enough, there are the hideous, matching sweaters that she yanks over their heads. Mike's is a size too big, hanging off his shoulders, and Harvey's is, well - it's just so hideous.

Mike pouts and squirms and pulls resentful faces, while wriggling around as if, by doing so, it will miraculously slip off. It would be hilarious if Harvey weren't right there alongside him, fighting the urge to do the same.

The first picture snapped features an unimpressed Harvey with his lip raised, glaring at something off camera (Donna), and agitated Mike arching his back, arm twisted behind him trying to rip the goddamn tag off.

Donna exhales noisily. "Guys…you've gotta give me something to work with. I know I'm, like, a gorgeous, red-headed Goddess with borderline superpowers, but even I have my limits."

"It's itchy."

"Oh, boo hoo," she exclaims unsympathetically, adjusting the lens and aligning the camera. "You can take it off after. "

"Why are we doing this again?" Harvey protests.

"Because I know things about you that are worth so much more than anything I could milk from these photos-" Her tone is sugary sweet and she's all but baring her teeth. "-and Mike is incredibly easy to bribe. So shut up," she grins, shark-like "-and smile."

Twenty gruelling photographs later and it's like they're dealing with a whole other person.

"Awwww!" Donna coos. "You two are so adorable! Why don't you two dress the same all the time?"

"Probably for this exact reason," Harvey mutters. He thinks if he hears one more shutter going off, he's going to scream.

"Hmm. Well, maybe we could-"

"Get started on dinner," he quickly cuts in. He schools his face into Sensible Dad Harvey and not Grumpy Bored Harvey. "We have a lot to do."

The senior partner's never been so thankful for the time-consuming intricacy of Christmas dinner in his life.

Chopping and parboiling and flitting around each other like a well-oiled machine, Harvey and Donna labour in the kitchen until well into the afternoon, with their thyme-filled turkey sizzling in tin foil inside the oven all the way through.

Even after all of their hard work, neither care much about how the table looks, so all they end up with are red napkins, polished cutlery, and Jellybean as an unintentional centrepiece - who needed to be close enough to the action to be included, but not so close as to get sprayed with airborne mashed potatoes and gravy.

"Ready to stuff your face with my divine cooking?" Donna eggs Mike on with daring wriggly brows while serving up dinner. "Behold…I'm even wearing my special stretchy pants." She snaps the elastic waistband to illustrate her point and grins, totally unapologetic. "And I still look fabulous." She really does.

"Yup!" He flashes a dimpled grin. "I ready for lots and lots of chicken."

"No, sweetie-" Her smile wavers. "We're not having chicken today, remember? We're having tur-."

Harvey hastily shakes his head.

"Go with it," he mouths, and she quickly snaps her mouth shut, fixing her bright smile back in place.

Most of the meal is spent chasing Mike with a washcloth, mopping up spills, and rescuing food from the floor. They hit a slight snag when Mike frowns, spears a slice of carrot with his fork, and narrows his eyes at it, announcing,"This is the same carrot I left out for Santa," and Harvey has to feign confusion.

"What are you talking about? Santa's reindeers ate that one, remember? Comet, specifically, if I recall correctly."

"No, it's this one," he persists, not buying it for one second. "I know it is."

Seriously? How does he do that? "Mike," Harvey's not sure how to get out of this one (it's not like he can prove it), so all he says is: "eat the damn carrot."

They eat until they can eat no more.

At the end, Mike presses his hands down on his bloated tummy, and Harvey and Donna laugh heartily - and inwardly coo - as he giggles at the sound of masticated food sloshing inside.

While Mike drags Donna off to play, Harvey scrapes off the scraps on the plates, rinses off the damn gravy, and pulls out the tray to slides them in. There's not really not that much to clean up. They did most of the washing up as they went along. He jabs the button to start a new cycle and that's it.

Time to relax.

A messy pile of discarded wrapping paper and curled ribbons cover the floor and the living area looks like a tornado flew through it. But that's Boxing day's problem.

Cracking open a bottle of red wine to enjoy, the two adults put their feet up and watch Mike play with his spoils. This time next week, Harvey bets, sharing a smirk with Donna that shows she's thinking the exact same thing, at least half of those toys will be lost or broken.

About an hour later, sleepy after dinner and having missed out on his daily nap earlier, Mike climbs onto Harvey's lap, sucking his thumb and clutching his blankie.

Amusement plays along his mouth as Harvey snakes his arms around his sluggish son and rests his chin on his head. It's been a long day of animation and over-stimulation for the youngster. This was long overdue.

"By the way," Donna remarks as she picks through the box of chocolates. She pops one in her mouth, instantly spitting it out into a paper napkin. "Pecan," she explains, at their bemused looks, then goes on, "Your cookies were seriously good. I'm a bit disappointed I didn't get any, but you were seriously generous this year - really out-did yourself - so I'll excuse you this time. But next time, I call dibs on no less than three boxes of snickerdoodles, which you will make, by the way. I'll disown you if you don't."

Harvey smirks. "I was generous? That's news to me."

"Oh, yeah." She nods seriously. "My wardrobe and shapely ass thank you."

"You know what? I'm not even going to ask."

"Oh, get your head out of the gutter," Donna laughs, smacking him up the back of the head. "There's just this one dress that, well -" She whistles. "You'll see for yourself. The sheer number of whistles and catcalls I got sporting that baby, you would not believe."

She shakes herself. "Anyway - I should be off. I've still gotta call in with my mother and you know how well that goes."

Harvey makes a face. "That I do." He's never been a fan of that woman.

Bending to hug Mike, Donna pecks his forehead and smiles tenderly. "Nighty-night, sweetheart. Sleep well."

"Ni-night, D-Donna," he yawns, blinking fuzzily and returning her hug.

"Bye, Harvey." She blows him a kiss. "Try not to miss me too much. I'll probably drop by tomorrow."

"Good luck," he calls, only to have a chocolate thrown at his head. Pecan, if he had to hazard a guess.

Suddenly, Mike tugs on his sleeve. He looks down in surprise.

"Daddy, you forgot about your present."

"My present?" He frowns.

"Uh-huh." His smile is shy and sweet. "From me." Rummaging for something at the other side of him, Mike passes him a single sheet and the beam that blossoms on Harvey's face is instantaneous.

It's simple. Beautifully simple.

A shiny picture and little else.

He must have asked Donna to laminate one of his drawings and glued it onto a coloured sheet, then stuck on a print off of next year's calendar below. Signed it at the bottom with an irresistibly cute:

To the bestest Daddy ever. Lots of love from,

Mike x

And...voila.

Instant masterpiece.

His cheeks hurt smiling as he takes it in, drifting an almost reverent finger over little details.

Long, squiggly red hair for Donna, wearing a blocky, purple triangle for a dress and blue pointy shoes she would gladly burn to a crisp with a blowtorch. He smirks at the large, asymmetrical ears protruding from Louis' potato-shaped head, smile softening as he takes in Rachel's curly spaghetti arms and flat, disproportionate body.

Jessica is fortunate enough to be spared from the mad oh-my-gosh-there's-so-many-colours-which-one-should-I-choose-first-Red?-no-Blue!-wait, Orange!?-oh, screw it-I-LOVE-THEM-ALL-okay-phew-back-to-work crayon frenzy that spurred Mike's ghastly fashion choices, but isn't quite so lucky when it comes to evading the weird, lanky style that plagues all of the females in his drawings. The managing partner does maintain some allusion of class, at least. And her twig legs seem to go on for miles. That's gotta work in her favour, right?

And then, of course, smack bam in the centre, is an awkward illustration of Mike himself.

Not tiny enough, in his opinion, but noticeably smaller by comparison. It pleases the father immensely to see that Mike's judgment of himself - although not wholly accurate - has changed significantly since his first drawing all those many months ago. It's a subtle reduction in height, but it shows just how far they've come. And how Mike truly is becoming more accepting of himself and his altered body.

To his immense pleasure, the most realistic portrait is probably of Harvey himself, who, although the brown hair is a touch too spiky for his taste, is at least clothed in what appears to be a suit and crooked tie - with a silk pocket square tucked into his breast pocket.

The childish rendering of their little firm family is incredibly endearing, but that little attention to detail strikes him as particularly heart-warming, and Harvey feels his eyes stinging before he knows it.

He is floored by the love he feels for this little boy. He can't remember a time in his life when his heart hasn't felt so full.

"Merry Christmas, Daddy," Mike grins, craning his neck to plant a big, sloppy kiss on his cheek, mouth smothered in melted chocolate.

In that moment, he swears, they've never felt more like a family.

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Thanks for reading. Happy holidays, everyone x.