Prompt: For Harvey: walks. He never saw the joy, but with Donna, he can spend endless afternoons strolling around the city. For Donna: baseball. She never cared before but now owns her own Yankees jersey Harvey got her for her birthday because she's so into it.
I. Walks
A Cheshire cat grin beams across Harvey's face as he approaches Donna. She's kneeling by a brightly colored flower bed, and he takes a lick of his chocolate fudge, soft-serve ice cream as she stands back up, her yellow floral sundress unfolding as she pouts sheepishly.
He points the cone in her direction with a smirk. She keeps maintaining that calories from his food don't count, and he gives her a taste, using his thumb to wipe the sauce that clings to the edge of her mouth. "Good?"
"Mm-hmm," she purrs, reaching up on her toes to give him a chaste kiss.
She hums again, and he chuckles, threading his fingers through hers, and clasping her hand. "Is it me or the ice cream you like?"
"Why can't it be both?" she teases, leaning her head against his shoulder as they continue walking. It's a beautiful summer's day, and they stroll leisurely through the park, in no rush to do anything or be anywhere. With the busy lives they live, finding an afternoon to meander around the city is rare, but to her surprise, Harvey suggested they go out and, this time, leave their phones behind. The latter took some convincing. But he was right. It's nice not being beholden to anyone except themselves.
They stop at a park bench overlooking the lake, and she sits down, expecting Harvey to do the same, but he lays down, stretching out on the seat. His head falls into her lap, and she brushes his stubble with a smirk. "See? I knew I could get you into this. Fresh air, peaceful meditation."
He snorts, not ready to call himself the Dalai Lama just yet. But he can admit she's changed his mind about the concept of casual relaxation. Before they started dating, he would unwind with vigorous cardio, or a glass of whiskey at night. Walking, unless he had a purpose or destination, felt like freely throwing away valuable time. But Donna has taken him on ventures all over the place, and while he was hesitant at first, moments like this—her smile and the sun's rays beaming down—are more precious than anything he previously worked to find.
II. Baseball
Donna throws herself back on the mattress with a frustrated shout, angry at the pile of laundry heaped in the center of the bed. More than anything, she's annoyed with herself, and when Harvey appears in the doorway, she covers her face with a groan. "Go away!"
He hesitates at the threshold. He's learned when not to disturb her, but unlike his past relationships, whenever Donna's upset, his first instinct is to comfort her—find out what the problem is and fix it. "Hey," he says cautiously. "What's going on?"
When she doesn't answer, she hears his feet shuffle into the room, and heat blooms across her cheeks as she pulls away her hands, blinking back tears. Sitting up, she takes a deep breath. Even around Harvey, she hates being vulnerable. But there's no judgment in his gaze, only concern as he perches on the mattress. Giving in, she points to the pile of washing. "Look."
He turns his head and finds the laundry she went down to do is all a consistent shade of pink, and a rush of relief twitches the corners of his mouth.
"Don't you dare laugh!" It might not seem like a big deal to him, but she digs through the ruined clothes, pulling out the item she's upset about—the Yankee jersey he got for her birthday. "I ruined it."
She flops the garment in her lap, and he feels bad for finding the situation funny, but he conceals his amusement. After all, when he gave it to her, she claimed it was 'the best present he's ever given anyone'. Considering how much he's spent on other gifts, he might have been offended. But he's terrible at buying things for other people, and they both know it. Fortunately, the jersey wasn't one-of-kind or imported from overseas. If she wants, they can go get a replacement this afternoon, and he reaches out, squeezing her knee. "It's okay. We'll buy you a new one."
"That's not the point," she huffs, swiping her eyes. She's never been into sports, and the first Yankees game Harvey thinks he coerced her into attending was meant to be a way to leverage seeing a Broadway show together. But after one inning, she fell in love with Harvey's enthusiasm and humble appreciation for the game. Instead of the luxury box suite she was expecting, they sat in the crowd like everyone else, eating hotdogs while he bantered with complete strangers about players and stats. Now, whenever they have tickets, she trades her Manolo Blahniks for sneakers and does the same.
Which is why the jersey means more to her than any of the lavish gifts she purchased on his behalf over the years. It's the first sentimental thing he ever bought her, and she fists the material, shuddering with a sigh. "This one was special."
Her tears well up again, and suddenly, he gets it. Like with his mother's painting, there's a difference between something being authentic or a replica, and he shifts closer, softening his expression. "It's still special. We'll find one for the games… But I can think of some other places I'd like to see you wearing this one."
He raises a suggestive eyebrow at the bed, and a small laugh catches in her throat. He always knows just what to say to make her feel better, and he's right. She can get a new shirt. Going to games together, having him comfort her, those are the things that can't be replaced. "I'm sorry I snapped at you."
She smiles sheepishly, and he chuckles. "I'm sorry, too." A quizzical look furrows her brow, and he comes clean. "I hid my Harvard sweatshirt when you said you were doing the laundry."
"Harvey!" She slaps his arm, but his beaming smile makes her grin. He's a terrible gift-giver, and she's horrible at domestic duties, but there is something they're both exceptionally good at, and she kisses him deeply, laughing as he hungrily pushes her down on the mattress.
He turned her into a Yankees fan.
But she'll always be a bigger Harvey fan.