Chapter Text
“So you’ve… noticed?”
“Why are you— of course I’ve noticed. I just don’t get why you’re being all weird about it.”
The conversation should have ended already, as far as you’re concerned. It’s not that you don’t wanna talk about it, it’s just— there’s literally nothing to talk about.
“But you know that he doesn’t do it for everyo—”
“Leah, for Yoba’s sake, what is this all about?” You look at Elliot in the hopes of finding support, but they’re both looking at you like you’re the one talking nonsense. For several minutes now, you’ve been perpetually confused about their chosen topic, which has started with a question by Leah:
“Does Harvey always open the door for you?” It’s possibly the strangest question anyone’s directed at you since you moved to Pelican Town, and you’re friends with Abigail.
Incidentally, he does.
And yes, you’ve noticed. Why wouldn’t you? Harvey is famously prone to having kind gestures, and you’ve considered him a friend for almost three years now. You’re mostly trying to figure out whether they’re just teasing you or poking some innocent fun. They are more than aware that you’ve found him attractive since you met him, and it was not so long ago that you admitted that you might perhaps like him in other ways too. Possibly. Maybe.
They are set on giving no straight answers, however. Elliot takes a last swig of his wine before making a suggestion, “I believe you would benefit from examining that particular custom of his more thoroughly.”
And just like that, the conversation comes to a very much desired end.
You would love to be able to say that you forgot about the weird interrogatory pretty quickly. You very obviously haven’t.
The more you think about it, the weirder it seems to be. You’re overthinking it, you’re aware; it’s given way to the nagging thought that something strange must have happened at some point for them to not only notice but also ask you about such a minor, insignificant thing.
Is it something Harvey has said? Or done? Does it have to do with someone else?
You have never spared more than two seconds to think about such a gesture, and that's saying a lot. You sometimes worry that you spend too much time thinking about Harvey. Yet you appreciate his gesture the same way you do any other thoughtful demonstration.
To be honest, you’ll probably just ask him. Worst case scenario, he’ll think you’re weird for questioning such a thing, but you’d be lying if you said you aren’t even a tiny bit intrigued by the whole situation. Whatever the reason is, it’s not like it’s going to change your life.
So… perhaps it is going to change your life. A little bit.
You have not spoken to Harvey. Well, you have— you are, right now. He’s invited you over to his place. You just haven’t done so about that. Recent… developments have made it a difficult task for you to bring the subject up.
Since you spoke to Elliot and Leah, you’ve seen Harvey several times. You’re proud of yourself; you haven’t let your preoccupation get in the way of your weekly visits to the clinic, and everything has gone as usual so far.
Until a couple days ago, that is.
Two days ago; Friday 19th of Spring. The first ‘door opening’ since the infamous conversation plaguing your mind. Your visits to the clinic hadn’t been fruitful for obvious reasons. But Fridays were Saloon days, and with the opportunity to get plastered also came the chance to ask Harvey about his customs.
The thing is— you’d looked back. You were so sure that he wouldn’t be doing anything out of the ordinary when he opened the door for you that you almost tripped and fell when you realized.
He’s probably been opening doors for you to look at your ass.
You could be wrong. Maybe it had been a coincidence; maybe he’d dropped something or had just looked at the floor and you’d mistakenly thought his gaze was aimed at your— well.
But that’s the problem. He’s done it again today.
Should you be offended? Or— angry, perhaps? Is this what Elliot and Leah have noticed?
Should you be embarrassed that you don’t mind it in the slightest? You may have done, if it were someone else. But it’s not like he wasn’t being a bit discreet about it at least.
The problem is that you’d like it even more if he didn’t have to be.
You try to push those thoughts out of your mind before you do something stupid. There’s little doubt in your mind that your face has gone all shades red every time you’ve remembered how his eyes had dropped those two times — Yoba, and how many more? — to focus on your backside as you made your way in. What are you supposed to do with this information?
“Are you sure you’re feeling fine? You’ve barely said a word since we got here—”
“Why do you always open the door for me?” Amazing stuff. Great job. Incredible.
“I— beg your pardon?”
Emily’s dress would turn green with envy if it saw the shade of red painting your face right now. You’ve outdone yourself, really. He’s looking at you like he doesn’t know whether he’ll need to take you to the clinic any second now. “I’ve, uh, noticed. That you— do that. Yeah.”
The color starts draining from his face, “I’m— does it bother you? I didn’t realize it could be a problem—”
“No! No, no. Uh. No.” Your communicative skills shine through, as always.
“O… kay?”
“Just a— a stupid thing someone said. Forget about it, sorry. It’s more than okay.”
“No, please, go on. If something’s bothering you—”
“Why do you do it?” You should really try to let him finish a sentence from time to time.
The doctor averts his eyes briefly before answering your question, “No particular reason. You—” he clears his throat, “I consider you a friend. I was only trying to be nice, I guess.”
“No, no, I get it.” Much like him, you’re also finding it increasingly difficult to maintain eye contact.
You never really thought you’d be in the middle of this conversation. You could end it here, hope that whatever you think you’ve seen turns out to be a product of your hopeful imagination and call it a day. But you’re almost sure that he was looking— and if he was, then that probably means something, doesn’t it?
There’s the possibility of saying something about it. Getting it over with. If he wasn’t looking, then— that’s that. You can apologize, maybe blame Elliot and Leah. But what if —
“It’s just that—” A nervous laugh escapes you. You try your best to sound casual about it, “someone, um, thought they saw, like…” You are now gesturing randomly, and you’re pretty sure you look like Lewis when someone mentions Marnie’s name in his presence, “It’s stupid. They thought you were looking at me or something. Hah.”
The next few seconds see Harvey’s face losing any of its remaining color as his eyebrows rise and his eyes widen slightly. Yoba, how green can a pair of eyes be?
You’re not sure what the silence means, and you’re about to bolt when he opens his mouth again, “So, someone has— has said that I’ve been… that they’ve seen me…?”
There’s no point making this more difficult, actually. You look away as you blush yet again before answering, “No, that’s…” You take a deep breath, “I thought I saw you looking. Which doesn’t make sense, I’m sorry. We should just leave it, forget about the whole thing.”
“I’m— so sorry. I never meant to make you uncomfortable—”
“No, no, it’s not that. Really. Can we just forget about this?”
For a weirdly intense moment of silence, he looks at you like he’s searching for something. “What if I have been looking?”
“I’m— sorry?”
He clears his throat, and judging by his expression, he’s not too sure about how to proceed. Running a hand through his hair—which has no business being as attractive as it is—he repeats the question, “What if I have been looking?”
You’ve embarrassed yourself enough for the day, in all honesty. You’re not about to tell him exactly where and how he should have been acting instead of looking, if that’s the case. It’s starting to feel like you’ve never held a conversation before in your life, too. You realize his question has gone unanswered, and throw another one back at him, “Why… would you do that?” It’s a stupid question, you are aware. His only response is a raised eyebrow.
“Don’t do your eyebrow thing.“ It’s endearing, you don’t say. Attractive.
Thankfully, he seems to relax ever so slightly at the comment. He huffs in amusement before he responds, “One would think it’s obvious, that’s all.” His voice is quieter than before.
You want that to mean what it sounds like it means. You keep staring at each other, and the room is starting to feel heavy with everything you’re not saying. “What’s obvious?” And you mean that, because you like him way more than you ever let on, and none of this feels obvious to you.
“Come on, don’t make me say it.”
You really want to hear it, though.
There’s a hint of a bittersweet smile under his well-kept mustache as he removes his glasses. His eyes always look impossibly greener when he’s not wearing them. “I should have said something. I know.”
“No, no. I’m not saying–” You can only huff. Long gone are your skills of finishing sentences and coherent thoughts, and after a nervous chuckle, you muster the courage from somewhere inside you say something that will clear a bit of this mess up, “If anything, I’d just like to know how long you were planning on keeping that up before doing something about it.”
It’s both of his eyebrows that shoot up this time. There’s just no room for doubt anymore, right? There shouldn’t be, at the very least. Your words are telling, but so are the darkening eyes looking at you right now.
“Who says I haven’t?” It’s a valiant effort, the one he’s making to look as collected and nonchalant as he can right now. He wipes the glasses with the hem of his shirt, avoiding your eyes once again.
What are you doing?
You’re not sure either of you care right now about the logistics of whatever is happening. A metaphorical door has opened—funny way of putting it, sure—and you’d be a fool to let it close because you’re busy thinking, “I’m not sure how many people would count looking as doing something about—”
“One does not need company to do something about it.”
The fact that you’re in his place is doing absolutely nothing to help your case. If confronted, you’d swear you’re trying not to think of him ‘doing something about it’ on his couch, right behind where you are sitting now. Not to be dramatic, but you feel like you might combust, collapse and die if you let your head paint the full picture of this man pleasuring himself while he thinks about how you look and lets his imagination do the rest of the work.
A deep, shaky breath, “One might still prefer to do so with company.”
His eyes find yours again, as he puts his glasses back on, “Hm. I do.”