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“Ow!”
Harvey looks up from his coffee just in time to see Donna rubbing the side of her head, her fingers pressing against the faint red mark blooming on her skin. The offending object—a bright red fire truck—lies discarded at her feet.
“Cooper Ray Specter,” she says, voice dangerously sweet, “what did we say about throwing toys?”
Harvey’s lips twitch. “Did he just…?”
She turns slowly, her eyes narrowing in a look he knows all too well. The I can’t believe you’re amused by this glare. “Yes, Harvey. Our son just weaponized a toy vehicle.”
“Okay, but—” he tilts his head, studying the trajectory from Cooper’s spot on the carpet to Donna’s head. “Solid aim. From that distance? That’s a bullet throw.”
Cooper giggles, clearly pleased with himself, and hurls the fire truck again—this time at his Harvey’s shin.
“Oh, so now it’s war?” Harvey chuckles, scooping up the toy before the toddler can reload and holding it just out of reach. Cooper lets out an indignant squeak, tiny hands grasping at the air. His face scrunches in outrage, as if personally betrayed by gravity’s limitations.
Donna sighs, but there’s a sparkle of amusement in her eyes now. “Well,” she says, crossing her arms, “what do you propose we do about the misdemeanor he just committed?”
Harvey considers this, tapping the fire truck against his palm. He glances at their son, who has now resorted to army-crawling toward a stuffed bear. “Trial by jury,” he declares. “Due process for the accused.”
Donna raises an eyebrow. “You just want an excuse to play lawyer again.”
“And you,” he counters, “just want to see me in a tie.”
She smirks. “Guilty.”
Ten minutes later, the living room has been transformed into the most prestigious courtroom in toddler legal history.
Cooper blinks up at his parents from his “defendant’s chair”—a mini beanbag—chewing blissfully on a teething ring, the fire truck cradled in his lap. His socks are mismatched, one striped, one dotted, a result of Donna surrendering to a five-minute standoff that morning.
Harvey has dragged the coat rack to the center of the room and clipped one of his silk ties to the top, letting it drape like a makeshift judicial flag. Donna wears her emerald-green silk robe, tied dramatically over one shoulder like a judicial sash, her glasses perched low on her nose. She’s also commandeered a wooden spoon as a gavel.
The “jury” is a motley crew of plush animals, a paper plate with a lopsided smiley face drawn in marker, and—because no trial would be complete without him—a Louis Litt bobblehead, placed front and center on the ottoman as the foreman.
“All rise,” Harvey announces, then amends, “Or, you know, stay seated. We’re working with a limited judiciary here.”
Donna clears her throat. “Your Honor,” she begins, “on the morning of June 22nd, at approximately 9:17 a.m., the defendant willfully and with reckless disregard threw a plastic fire truck at my face. I submit Exhibit A: my temple.” She gestures to the faint pink mark. “And Exhibit B: my wounded pride.”
Harvey scoffs. “Your Honor, the defense would like to state for the record that the accused is not only extremely cute—” He pauses to ruffle Cooper’s curls, earning a delighted squeal. “—but also completely unaware of the alleged crime. He’s barely two. He throws everything.”
Cooper, as if on cue, blows a raspberry at Donna.
“That sounds like motive to me,” she replies, deadpan.
“I object to that characterization!” Harvey whirls toward the jury, gesturing at the stuffed animals. “This is a clear case of circumstantial evidence. My client is simply experimenting with cause and effect. Is he a delinquent? No. He’s a scientist. A misunderstood genius!” He points at the Louis bobblehead. “Did Einstein not drop things from windows? Did Newton not get hit with an apple?”
“Those geniuses didn’t launch objects at their mothers’ faces,” Donna retorts. Then she turns to the jury, her expression grave. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, don’t be swayed by this little man’s charm. The victim demands justice.”
The toddler chooses this exact moment to topple sideways onto the carpet, giggling madly as he rolls onto his back, legs kicking in the air like an overturned turtle.
Harvey sighs. “Your Honor, I move for immediate dismissal… on the grounds of overwhelming cuteness.”
Donna wavers, then shakes her head. “No, no, no,” she wags a finger. “The defendant is actively bribing the jury with adorableness. That’s a violation of courtroom decorum.”
After a dramatic five-second pause, she lifts the wooden spoon. “I hereby sentence the accused—”
Harvey blinks. “Wait, you’re the prosecutor and the judge?”
“Harvey,” she says, voice dripping with faux solemnity, “he hit me with a fire truck. Conflict of interest be damned.” Before he can argue—not that he has much of a case left—Donna declares, “I hereby sentence the accused to… tickle torture.”
She swoops down, scooping her son into her arms as he shrieks with laughter. His tiny fists flail, but she’s relentless, peppering his face with kisses and tickling his ribs. “Repeat offender,” she says, laughing, as Cooper's giggles dissolve into breathless hiccups. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” Donna murmurs, tickling his tummy one last time before dropping a kiss on his curls for good measure.
Harvey watches them with a wide smirk. “Same could be said for his father.”
Donna doesn’t miss a beat. “Objection.”
“Overruled.” He picks up the wooden spoon and taps it against the coffee table—whack—before leaning in to press a kiss to her temple, right beside the fading mark. “The Specter boys remain… devastatingly charming. Case closed.”
Cooper, a giggling puddle of joy in Donna’s arms, blows a raspberry in agreement.