Archive of Our Own ^beta

Harvey Greenwood is thirty-three years old when he enters Pelican Town, deep in the heart of the Valley. He is thirty-three years old when he decides to stay.

Harvey is thirty-six years old when he meets Pelican Town's newest member, the old farmer's granddaughter, the rightful inheritor of Smokey Pines Farm.

Stop me if you've heard this one before.

When Harvey turns thirty, his life looks vastly different than what he had imagined. Since he was a teenager, Harvey has had a vision of what kind of job he would work towards, where he would settle down, who he would marry - he has had a fantasy of the success of his life that would invariably determine the totality of his existence.

(Harvey is a dramatic kid, in his own right - internally, more than anything else. His dramatics may not be outlandish displays but they are enough to drastically alter how he perceives himself and the world around him.)

Harvey used to buy into the picturesque vision that had been sold to him. Career, marriage, kids - all of it informed how he would construct the perfect life, the perfect existence. And perfect would ultimately have to mean that he was happy.

When this trajectory starts to falter - slowly at first and then all at once - Harvey adapts so that the vision doesn't have to change too much. Tries to adjust so that he can still feel some semblance of control.

(Control, for Harvey, is something he's always warred with. He did not choose the medical field for the control it would offer, because he wasn't stupid or egotistical enough to consider he had any power over death. But in the way he lived his life, control was something he could strive for. Order and control. It didn't leave room for surprises. For letdowns. For disappointments.)

The thing is...well, the universe often has other plans.

Harvey arrives in Pelican Town, deep in the heart of the Valley, and for the first time he feels like giving up. Not totally, not earnestly. But the life he so desperately tried to create is no longer possible. What he thought would make his life full no longer holds the same weight. So for a while he thinks, what's the point of trying?

(And here's the difference between Harvey and the farmer that he hasn't learned yet, but will.

When the farmer arrives in Pelican Town for what feels like the hundredth time in her life, she is not thinking about failing. Not entirely, at least. Because she can't. The farmer appears and knows that this is her last resort. She gave it her best shot in Zuzu City, put all of herself into a life that she really, truly believed was what she wanted. What would bring her fulfillment and excitement and happiness. And when she opens up the letter from her grandpa and sees he has left her a Hail Mary, a second chance, she acts impulsively for once in her life. And when she settles into the old farmhouse, she knows there are no chances left. It is here, or it is nowhere.

When Harvey arrives in Pelican Town for the first time, he is not thinking about failing. Failing happens sometimes, whether you want it to or not. Whether you tried hard enough or not. Sometimes the universe decides to shit on you, without any rhyme or reason, without an control or input from you. Harvey knows this, Harvey believes this. What Harvey won't admit to is how utterly terrified he is of failure. Of failing again. He's lost his way so many times before - and, sure, he's found his way back as well. But this time feels...different. Harvey is too old, too desperate, too tired to collapse again. He doesn't have it in him to face the 'after' if he does. There are no second chances for Harvey either - but his limitations are self-imposed. It's the hope that's missing, this time.)

Harvey claims this to be a 'go with the flow' period of his life; in actuality, Harvey feels like he's drowning. He does good work here, he knows that. He helps people and it helps him stay grounded, tethered back to reality.

But it's not enough. It's not what he's looking for.

Harvey remembers a feeling when he was working in Zuzu, when all that he planned for himself first fell to the wayside and he was left alone to clean up in the aftermath. The itch in his chest, the tingle of his fingertips. The yearning for something that drove him crazy.

This feeling is still present, still active here in the Valley. In a way, it's only gotten louder and more persistent. The buzzing grows, the aching hurts deeper. Because he's getting closer, or so he tells himself.

Getting closer to all that Dr. Bhatti promised him when he entrusted those keys and assured Harvey he would find what he was looking for.

The problem is that he still isn't sure what the fuck that is.

(This in particular is increasingly frustrating to the Harvey who always had a plan. To the Harvey who knew how to adapt and adjust, whatever came his way. To the Harvey who spent so long knowing who he was and what he was about. The jarring nature of looking in the mirror and not recognizing your reflection? Harvey slowly grows accustomed to this, much to his dismay.)

Harvey had given up on that picturesque narrative he was sold long ago. And it's okay, most of the time, because he's realized what a load of shit it was. But it's the little moments that get him. When he's trying to fall asleep in his too small bed, in his too big apartment. When he can't quiet the cruel voice in his mind that sounds too much like his father. When he blinks and three months have passed and he has no idea what to show for it.

So Harvey makes a decision to wait. He has spent so much time with A Plan that he's run through over thirty years of his life with his eyes wide shut. Maybe waiting is the next phase. Maybe waiting can offer him something, can bring clarity.

It has to. Because something has to give, right?

(Something has to change.) 

Shockingly, waiting does not come easy to Harvey Greenwood. He is a steadfastly patient man - it’s part of the gig - and he understands the necessity of time, particularly when it comes to healing.

But you know what they say. Doctors make the worst patients, and all that.

His impatience is inextricably linked with his control. If Harvey has an idea of how he wants things to go, about how to fix something within his means - why wait? The solution is before him, within his grasp.

Unfortunately, thinking you have a solution to a problem usually means you're wrong. Usually means you're trying to fix something not so easily fixed.

So Harvey learns to wait. He learns patience, outside the parameters of medicine. He learns the merit of listening and trying to feel and giving yourself time and grace to make a decision. And to stick with that decision.

It is not easy, most of the time. It is not easy when he is trying to make sense of the reason why he is here, deep in the heart of the Valley. It is not easy when he sleeps in that too small bed, in that too big apartment. It is not easy when he is alone and he is lonely. It is not easy when waiting feels like giving up, giving in.

But it is necessary.

(What do I want? This is not a question Harvey has often asked himself. Not since he was a teenager. Not since his first dream crumbled before him in the blink of an eye.)

Harvey waits and waits. And then he meets the farmer and his life changes.

Not in that exact moment, no. In fact Harvey's life remains relatively consistent for some time after meeting her. Things are a bit more frustrating, of course. He's a bit less patient, if he's completely honest. But the day-to-day remains the same.

And so Harvey continues to wait.

Perhaps it's on his birthday that things shift, but that wouldn't be the whole truth. It could be her first check-up, or when he caught her expression seeing the moonlight jellies. Or - no. There isn't one moment. Rather a series of occurrences in which changes stretch out at a glacial pace. 

Except that isn't the honest truth either.

There is a moment, in hindsight.

(It isn't the moment. Harvey doesn't believe in the moments. Harvey believes in hard work and dedication and a lot of elbow grease and a little bit of luck. Harvey believes in the universe and its strange, cosmic powers at times. Harvey believes in the culmination of many moments, building and shaping a picture before his very eyes.

But Harvey also doesn't doubt the power of his own memory, of remembering an instance where the shift was palpable, where things began from there onward.)

It is small and it is nearly insignificant. It is in the after of the apology and her acceptance, in the fragile space they co-construct in the 'in-between.'

About two months before Harvey turns thirty-seven years old, he finishes up the last of the flu shots. It's usual for him to be rundown during the season, but this year weighs on him painfully. He feels his bones aching, feels his skin pulling tight, feels the bags hanging heavy under his eyes. Feels the passage of time haunting him like a specter.

There are two saving graces. Every Friday night, he finds himself in the saloon with Elliot and Leah - shooting the shit and listening to Elliot's convoluted plot lines for his new work. The farmer joins them occasionally and it is still tense at times, still strained at the edges. But alcohol does wonders for anxiety, if you let it.

So when things get particularly rough, he looks forward to Fridays. Fridays and the cans of pickled vegetables delivered every week.

Weeks ago, Harvey spotted the jar of pickles at the front of the general store and any self control left him instantaneously. He put them in his fridge and promptly forgot until the weekend, gorging himself on them within three days.

They were the best pickles he's ever had.

He inquires to Pierre on his next grocery run and the owner agrees to inform the farmer when she makes her rounds.

And then a random Thursday. Maru hands him Evelyn's chart and casually mentions a drop-off. Pausing, he glances over his shoulder to see the swinging of the clinic door. Strange that Pierre would deliver. Strange that he wouldn't demand payment immediately. Harvey shrugs it off, planning to sort it out on his next day off.

This time it's pickled potatoes - not something he'd necessarily choose, but surprisingly delicious. He wonders if the farmer takes requests. (Not yet, of course, their provisional status flashing starkly in his mind. He doesn't have the leverage nor the want to push for anything more. He'll take what he can get.)

He forgets, because life is hectic and overwhelming sometimes. And another delivery happens. Even stranger, since Maru isn't working that day. He walks Penny to the door, assures her that he can run any blood test she wants but he's quite sure she's alright. And when he turns around, there is a jar of pickled radish sitting pretty on the reception desk. There is no one else in the clinic. He hadn't heard the front door at all.

The mystery continues, until it comes to an abrupt and pleasant end.

Harvey scrawls his signature at the bottom of the file, finally catching up on his notes. He pushes the door in and almost drops the folder when he comes face to face with the farmer.

Her hand is outstretched, jar nearly level until she promptly drops it. Nothing shatters, but there is a bit of fumbling and a zing of delight runs through him as he notes the tinge of pink coloring her ears.

"Uh." Is what she manages as she gets the jar upright.

Harvey just stares. He glances between the can and the woman, wheels turning slower than he's willing to admit until it hits him.

"Those are from you!" It's far more accusatory than he means and he quickly affixes a smile to his face. The farmer looks like a deer caught in headlights, but he reaches out a hand tentatively, grabs the gift and holds it up to the light.

"It's..." Trailing off, Harvey realizes he has no idea what's in the brownish fluid.

"Pumpkin." Blunt and direct, she glances away. Her plan to be in and out surreptitiously has obviously been foiled.

"I thought Pierre was dropping these off." In retrospect, the pieces make a lot more sense. There's no way that Pierre wouldn't demand payment (or a payment plan) immediately. There's no chance that Pierre would deliver, not so close.

Harvey surveys her, fidgeting and inching her way towards the front door.

"I'm just gonna -" She starts, but he cuts her off.

"Why?" Again, he instantly regrets the critical tone but he can't get over his confusion. "Not that they're not appreciated, of course, but why..."

The farmer blinks and then shrugs. "Cause Pierre told me you asked about the pickles."

(It can't be that simple.)

"And so you decided to leave them here for me?"

She shrugs again, jerkily this time. "Yup. Figured I'd cut out the middle man." She gives a wave and then makes a more earnest bolt for the door.

"Wait!" Harvey pats down his pockets, searching in vain for his wallet. "Let me at least pay you for the ones you delivered."

"What? No." She shakes her head adamantly. Opens her mouth to say something else then closes it. Seems to gain a sense of resolve and stands her ground. "They were gifts, Harvey."

She says his name, that's the first thing he registers with a goofy smile on his face. Then the rest sinks in.

"Gifts?"

"Yes, Harvey!" Exasperated, she tosses her hands up. She obviously hadn't planned to be here so long, wasn't expecting this grueling of a conversation. But there's something adolescent about it all - the going in circles, the naivety, the lingering questions and avoided eyes - that makes him feel giddy.

The goofy smile only grows - she took time out of her busy schedule to bring to him, personally, pickles. Because she knows he likes them.

She's flustered, he thinks, as she swipes some curls behind her ear. "Don't make that face."

"What face?" But he's still grinning and she huffs out a laugh as she slams the clinic door shut and Harvey feels buoyant as he rolls the jar around. Sweet and savory, he can already taste them on his tongue.

(What do you want?)

There's another moment, in hindsight.

A bit more cliched, perhaps, but what he remembers is the feeling. Because what Harvey remembers about her is how infuriating she was - continues to be, in so many ways. It's why she gets lodged in his brain from the very beginning. Harvey considers himself mild-mannered, able to get along with nearly anyone. Whether he actually likes them or not is another story; but Harvey prides himself on his amenability, on his compassion, on his empathy.

But with her - she's fucking infuriating. Stubborn, short-sided, elusive, blunt, distant. All the things Harvey considers himself the antithesis of. (Whether this is true or not - well, he never claimed to be a reliable narrative, did he?)

She bulldozes into town with her curly hair and injury-prone nature, an apparition constantly at the edges of his vision. Her provocations change from outright antagonism to something more subdued after his apology, after her acceptance. They way she'll joke at his expense as if she knows him, the way she and Leah will gang up on him in their teasing, the way he'll catch her looking at him with this something in her eyes that he can't quite figure out, but it's infuriating because Harvey hates not knowing.

He seethes and ruminates - all of his own making - and questions why the farmer has him in such a tizzy.

And then Harvey turns thirty-seven on a day in winter, where the snow is still thick but the clawing cold is beginning its thaw. He turns thirty-seven years old and she is kissing him and he must reluctantly acquiesce that, ah. Okay. That was it. (He won't admit it for a long time, the embarrassment at getting all excited over a crush like he's in middle school - and not recognizing it, that's the worst part. He should be past this by now, shouldn't he?)

She is kissing him and he is kissing her right back, and something deep within Harvey slots into place. Something he didn't know was missing. Something he was too cowardly to look directly at.

Harvey has been, for so much of his life, just really fucking lonely.

(What do you want?)

There's another moment, in hind-

Okay. There are no exact moments. But maybe, just maybe, this is the culmination of all of them together.

There are no exact moments, except he's had an astonishingly crappy day. These are few and far between, but when they hit - well, they hit hard. It's a call from his sister at sunrise, asking when he's going to visit their father. It's a letter from the bank, inquiring about his loans. It's a desperate visit from Alex because Evelyn fell again. It's a burgeoning headache that starts deep in the recesses of his brain and pulsates out. It's his bad knee giving him hell because it's going to rain soon. It's -

It's the uncertainty. It's the exhaustion.

It's everything, all at once.

(He's got a second to himself in his office when he blinks at the stark white wall, and he's suddenly back in that hospital break room ten years ago, and he's breathing heavy, and he feels like he's going to die and it's only Maru's voice from outside the door that snaps him out of it.)

Harvey doesn't remember the rest of his day. He stands in the small bathroom of his apartment, scrubbing at his hands, the lingering smell of antiseptic making him sick like it never has before.

And that's where she finds him. Planted at the sink, palms long since dry after being rubbed raw. She knocks at his apartment door and he must call out to her, he doesn't think she'd barge in. (Except maybe she senses something, maybe she can tell something's off -)

"Harvey?" Her voice is like a balm to his aching chest. He blinks himself back into his body, brow furrowing as he catches sight of her expression.

"Yeah?"

She swallows. He watches her throat bob. "What happened?"

He's silent, unsure what exactly she's asking. He's not sure what happened. It was a day, like any other. It was a long, hard day - but he's had those before.

(So why do his hands still feel dirty, why is his head still pulsing, why does he feel like he can't catch his breath -)

"What can I do, Harvey?"

And isn't that a question.

She doesn't wait for a response. Steering him towards the couch, she turns the radio that sits next to his recent plane model on low. And then there's a mug of steaming tea in front of him and she's cross legged on the cushions, fingers resting gentle but firm on his thigh. She eyes him carefully as he brings the mug to his lips and smiles blankly at the smell. It’s his favorite.

They sit in silence for a long time, her palm a solid weight. Her other hand comes up to the back of his neck, cupping hesitantly, but it's a nice pressure. Grounding. He lets his eyes fall shut and feels his bones unlocking one after the other as his body melts.

"I don't know...I don't know what I can do for you." Her voice is low in the empty room and he should open his eyes, should reassure her, should pull himself together. It's just -

He's really fucking tired.

Instead, he drops a hand on top of hers and squeezes. He hopes it communicates what it needs to, at least for right now. Because her being with him, that's good. That's what he needs. That's enough.

Harvey is content with what he is given. Because Harvey knows intimately the ways in which your life can turn so abruptly. Harvey is familiar with the uncertainty of life and the universe. Harvey is not keen to repeat previous mistakes.

Harvey takes what he is given, and he is grateful for it. That's gotta be enough.

(Except that isn't the truth either, is it? He's still unmoored, still bone-tired. And he isn't expecting her to fix that, of course not. But there's - there's something missing. The problem remains that Harvey has no idea what that is. So how is he supposed to ask for it?

It's good, what they have together. She surprises him and not in ways that make his anxiety spark and spiral. She lets him in, in certain ways, and he's grateful for what she gives him. He does not ask for more.

But a part of him does wish for it. Not for more than she's willing to give, but the clarity of it all.

What do you want?)

And then.

Harvey is closer to thirty-eight when he is reminded of his past. His med school friends return to him, find their way to the Valley at his request, and the melding of two lives together is as disjointed as he expected it to be. He's not sure how to act, not sure which version of himself to be. It's not that he feels like two different people, but the Harvey that his friends knew feels like he existed decades and decades ago. Ages have passed since he had the dreams of his youth.

And she is different too, though she won't admit it. She presses close and then retreats - a game, he'd say, except there doesn't seem to be any end goal, any prize. She puzzles him but even more interesting is the way that she seems to be puzzling herself.

He doesn't puzzle out Vanessa until it's too late. She likes him - a fact that shocks him - and when she leans close at the clinic, so small and put together, he indulges for a second. He lets his eyes drift shut as she kisses him softly and when he opens them again, he sees the farmer transposed over Vanessa. And then he sees her across the waiting room and it slots into place. He wants to be kissing her - and that isn't fair to anyone.

She doesn't run away though, doesn't leave. (She tries to. She is poised to run, but he asks her and she stays. This has to mean something, he thinks. It must.) She turns around and offers him a bouquet and Harvey's world turns slightly on its axis because this -

This wasn't written into the plans.

(He didn't have plans anymore, in fact. Had long since given up on them.)

Receiving a bouquet - a long-standing, quite antiquated tradition in the Valley that most have done away with - was never on the docket for Harvey Greenwood. Sure, he might have dreamed of giving one to someone someday. But to be the receiver? What made him worthy?

(This question pings at his heart and twists his gut and he refuses to analyze it further.)

Harvey is smitten, though this is not new information. And yet, as she walks out of the clinic and winks at him, nodding at the flowers in his grasp as if it's a sight she wants to commit to memory, he flounders. Not at his decision, no. He is elated, he is ecstatic, he is beyond words.

He also has no idea what comes next.

She wants to be with him, and he sure as shit wants to be with her. The flowers mean more than she will ever understand - that she learned the practices here, for him. What a relief it is to meet someone in the middle. What a relief it is to be seen, even if for but a moment. What a relief it is to not feel forgotten about.

And yet.

Harvey waits. He waits for the other shoe to drop, waits for a retraction. He waits, inside of his apartment, flowers held limp between his fingers. He waits and waits and a whole twenty minutes goes by before he deems it safe to move. She doesn't return to laugh in his face, or to call him a fool. Instead, she texts him - something he doesn't see until later that night - about how excited she is to see him again tonight. When she's just left the clinic.

It doesn't compute in Harvey's mind, not entirely.

But he does place the bouquet in a makeshift vase from his kitchen counter. He places it ever so lightly on the coffee table and plops down on the couch with his hands on his knees. And he waits and he thinks and he wonders if this, this, was what Dr. Bhatti was talking about so many years ago.

(He found life here. Not a life, but the only life he could ever have been able to live.)

Is this what his life was supposed to be, this whole time? Not just her, not just him. But all of it, in its totality, here and now. Him, helping the townspeople, providing them some semblance of safety, doing a job no one else here can do. Her, recreating that farm, working with the community to refurbish their homes and bring life back to the Valley.

(Births and deaths and comings and goings and life.)

What has he found here, Harvey wonders. What has she helped him find? And what can he help her find, in return?

It will be months later when he gets the opportunity to ask these questions. When she is sitting in front of him, tears in her eyes and frustration bubbling under her skin. (He can always tell when she gets too frustrated to speak, when the anger she tries so hard to tamp down boils to the surface. She thinks it's a weakness, this anger. She thinks it's best for no one to see it.)

Harvey Greenwood, at thirty-eight years old, will understand two things in quick succession:

1. She has helped him figure out what he wants. What he deserves. This is a query he has danced around since he was a child, one he has always been too afraid to look squarely in the face. Because this question - what do I want? What do I deserve? - it makes him question things about himself, about what he values, about his purpose in this world.

Harvey asks himself what he wants and whether what he deserves is more than what he has already received. Not in lieu of, no. Not in spite of, no. But he does wonder - if he can give so much of himself to others, why would he not accept that in return? If he loves - deeply, irrevocably, with his whole soul and being - then does he not deserve love as well? And it is not that he is missing love. It is not unequal. 

It is just not clear. Not yet.

And Harvey - through his uncertainty, through his waiting, through his listening, through his loving - comes to believe that he deserves some clarity.

2. He can help her understand that an abundance of love and joy does not necessarily precede loss. Not every time. Not with him.

She is pulling away from him again, he can tell. And she thinks that if she pulls hard enough, if she fights viciously enough, she will lose him once and for all. (He knows she does not want this. He knows this is a way for her to protect herself from what she has deemed inevitable. But it still fucking hurts.)

He can show her that he still loves her - because that's what this all is, isn't it. It's love. Always has been. He can show her he still loves her, even as she pulls and pushes and fights. It may not be easy, for either of them. It will take time, for both of them. And it may feel like a falling apart, in the interim.

But it is necessary.

Two things can be true at once, Harvey Greenwood uncovers: he can stand true in what he believes he deserves. And he can also show her she's wrong, about the demise of her and him and their future.

(What do you want, Harvey?)

What do you want?