No, he didn't have a secret crush on her. He wasn't five years old and in the preschool playground, tugging on poor Christina Hatcher's pigtails. And yes, his mother has photographic evidence of this incident and never lets him–or any of the girls that he brings home to meet her–forget it. "This is how he treats you when he likes you!" she would say in that lovely, sing-songy but accented voice of hers. Ah, he loved his mother…
She also got to see him at his best, when he wasn't being outright rude or sarcastic or otherwise...well, an a**. But then again she raised him and also knew better; in fact, she knew him better than anyone had ever bothered to try. No one ever seemed able to scratch the surface–that rough, outer exterior he put up for various reasons of his own making–at least until he met Melody. There was just...something. Not an attraction something, or a friendly inclination something or even a hateful rivalry something. Just…something, and the sort he still had yet to give a name to or even put a finger on. Just something about her caught his attention.
The not good kind at first, but somehow they wound up roommates and suddenly there she was, working her way through him like that outer exterior of his was nothing but butter. And his insides? Forget about it! So the question then becomes, did he just let her? Hell no! He had a reputation to keep, so day in and day out since moving in he'd fought with every fiber of his being this invisible war against Melody Weber. A war to keep his reputation alive and well and intact beyond the walls of their apartment.
So there it is, the "why" behind the harsh words and the frowns and the unpleasant expressions. It was an endless cycle with them, really; an exchange that both he and Mel seemed to actively take part in (in his mind), but still there was another side to it that he didn't want to get out.
He didn't want anyone to know that, beyond the scowls and the insults and the teasing and pranks, yes...yes, he actually cared about his roommate.
He cared that she didn't catch a cold or just in general got sick, he cared that she got good deals on fabrics and that she never got gypped by any vendor at any event that she bothered to invite him to. He cared that she had a bad day and, despite wearing a scowl, just to make her feel better he would cook up some sort of comfort food for her. If not cook, hell, he'd go to the store to get her something. He cared, he really did...but these displays were never out for anyone else to see.
No, he worked in secret.
Like that night.
It was a cold, rainy spring night and there she was, sprawled out on the couch. Careless, he thought at first when he saw her as he stepped out of his room, yet as he walked back from the kitchen, cup of water in hand, he glanced over at the couch again and heaved a sigh before walking over.
"Seriously, you're how old?" he asked in a low, whispery tone of voice. He didn't want to wake her and risk being seen doing something nice for a change. Still, Harvey grabbed the blanket that they kept draped over the couch–it was really just for display, but it did have another use–and carefully covered her up, going so far as to actually tuck her in and, as he stood back up, brush a stray strand of hair out of her face so she didn't end up chewing on it overnight.
With another sigh he stepped back and picked the cup of water up from its place on the coffee table, the small ring of moisture it left behind being the only evidence that it had been there at all.
"Night, roomie," he said, then turned and headed back to his room, knowing full well that he wouldn't hear a word of thanks in the morning, or at all, for what he'd just done. And he was perfectly fine with that; he worked in secret, and he liked it that way.
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