Chapter Text
FREDERICKSBURG, VIRGINIA
FEBRUARY 10, 1978
Icy rain pelts against the window.
Holden coughs into a tissue and groans when he spies the green phlegm.
Great.
This is just what he needs right now. He and Bill interview Jerry Brudos next week. They’re currently examining Kelvin Rogers’ case, trying to dive in deep and figure out how his mind works, why he killed those girls, how he maintained an otherwise completely normal life.
Fuck.
He leans his head back against the arm of the couch and wheezes through a ripple of chest pain.
A squeaking rattle whistles through his breathing, matching the tightness he feels in his lungs. He manages to unearth his inhaler from his slacks; he never got up once he came home. The two puffs he sucks in refuse to make a difference. Sweat pools on his forehead. Each millisecond is discomfort shredding through his core. He doesn’t know why his body chooses now to rebel, but it’s fairly irritating, considering the circumstances and especially considering last night.
The events from ‘dinner’ at Bill and Nancy’s haunt him. It hasn’t been a full 12 hours, and he is permanently embarrassed by his behavior. He understands why Bill wouldn’t talk to him on the car ride to his apartment or when, more awkwardly, he tucked Holden into their guest bed. Bill is irritated; he has every right to be. Holden hid something important – potentially life-threatening during the right (wrong) moments – that could’ve changed the course of anything.
Absolutely anything.
Holden can’t plan the attacks. He could’ve had one on the road, choking and spluttering while Bill drove without a care in the world until boom: It just happens. He could’ve had one during an interview, and then what? Cancel with the perpetrator? Let him watch Holden use an inhaler? Show him his weakness? He could’ve had one and not have his inhaler on him. It never happens anymore, but it happened once when he was seven; his mom picked him up from school because, once the attack was over, Holden couldn’t calm down, shocked by his own negligence.
And the worst part is that Holden knows he could’ve hurt himself or Bill or someone else because he refused to admit something important.
His father used to smoke constantly, much more often than Bill. Holden can’t remember seeing Father without a cigarette or cigar in between his lips. It wasn’t a secret that Arthur Ford wasn’t overly fond of his socially awkward, soft-spoken, geeky son. Arthur Ford all but smiled when he blew smoke in Holden’s face, and Holden coughed. His mom would never say anything because she’d never say anything, and he learned from a young age to never question his father.
Father understood Holden’s asthma. During his childhood, Holden’s doctor said his case was particularly severe. It never stopped Father from smoking in the house, whether it was when he listened to the radio in his recliner or during dinner. His mother only smoked outside, cautious and deliberate, but not Father.
So, how can Holden just expect Bill to stop smoking around him?
It’s absurd.
No one should have to cater to him. Bend over backwards to accommodate him.
He is more than capable of handling smoke.
Or so he thought.
Last night’s attack was the worst one he’s had in years.
But, coupling that with how he feels this morning, he’s sure he’s under the weather. Chills. Mucus. Rapid heartrate.
That doesn’t make him feel any better. He gave up his chance at keeping the asthma from Bill the moment he neglected to go home after work. If he hadn’t stayed to go over the Rogers’ case, Bill never would’ve found him. He never would’ve gone to Bill’s house and thrown up from coughing in front of Nancy and Brian. He never would’ve taken a nap in the guest bed, curled up away from the world and buried in a scent that felt like home.
He should’ve avoided this. He could’ve avoided this.
It’s way too late to take it back now.
Holden slowly pushes himself into a sitting position, blanket falling to the floor. He thinks about calling the office and telling Wendy he’s sick, but he can’t give in that easily. If he calls out, Bill will think he’s a pussy and lose all respect for him, if there is any at this point. He isn’t invalid. He can handle an eight-hour workday with a little bit of a fever and a cough. Wendy doesn’t know about the asthma, but he guesses Bill will tell her, given it is of fairly high importance.
After cranking the shower water as hot as it’ll go, Holden steps in and shivers. He braces himself against the wall with his hands, letting the water race over him. It doesn’t do much to sooth his aching chest. He almost falls asleep standing up. He shampoos and scrubs and hacks openly, thick snot dribbling down the back of his throat. For a moment, he once again reconsiders calling out, but he can’t. He doesn’t want to do that. Bill just found out about his secret mere hours ago, one that Holden’s been hiding since he met him back in early September. No one at the Bureau knows he has asthma. His mom was the only one who cared, and she died last December.
Bill could tell Shepard. It’s more than simply frowned upon to have asthma as a federal agent. It’s even worse, though, if one lies about it.
Oh God.
Holden leans over the sink and tries to regain control of his breathing but he can’t he can’t he can’t he can’t Bill is going to tell Shepard Bill hates him and Shepard definitely hates him has a for a while now he gets it he is frustrating to be around but Shepard could tank his career because of this he could get fired because he lied he lied if they had known how bad his asthma could be he wouldn’t have stood a chance becoming an agent he could kiss his dreams goodbye
And he doesn’t want to kiss them goodbye he wants to work for the Bureau for the Behavioral Science Unit with Wendy and Bill he doesn’t want to screw this up but he already has and he’s paying the price and his chest hurts and he has to finish getting ready so he can catch Bill and explain before he sits down at his desk he wonders if he should let Bill get his cup of coffee first he’s tried to talk to Bill before he’s had his coffee before but Bill just lets out a series of grunts Holden can’t discern and then Holden asks more questions before Bill chucks folders at his head
Holden breathes.
He breathes.
He coughs, but he breathes.
Somehow, he manages to get dressed into a perfectly ironed and pressed suit, a long-sleeved shirt under his button up. He wears thick, black wool socks. He knows he’ll sweat, likely quite a bit, but that is better than freezing to death in the drafty basement. He yanks his nerves into a pile and tells them to shut up while he drives to work. The ride is long and cold, and he hopes he beats Bill there, but he doubts he will. He got up ten minutes later than usual, his internal alarm clock as congested as his lungs, and he had to relax on the bed for another five minutes before putting on his clothes. Socks and shoes were the hardest part; bending hurt his chest.
Holden pulls into the large parking lot of the Bureau. He drives over to the other side of the building, where the entrance to the basement is located.
There, he spies Bill’s car.
Fuck him.
Holden quickly parks, locks his vehicle, and practically sprints inside, narrowly avoiding slipping on ice from the wintry rain. The journey causes his lungs to shrink, morphing from adult sized to child sized within a matter of seconds. He coughs into his elbow the moment he enters the building. Thankfully, no one else is around. It’s perhaps the best perk of working in the basement. Holden isn’t big on crowds and chooses to ignore them to the best of his ability during road school or when he and a colleague grab drink. Being thrown into the basement isn’t what he expected when he started working with Bill, but he likes it better than hostage negotiation.
But he won’t be able to keep doing any of it unless he talks to Bill.
Except his lungs aren’t working. His chest is pounding outside of his body. He reaches for his inhaler and fumbles until he gets the cap off. The metallic medicine coats his throat, but, really, it doesn’t do much else. He slides down against the wall in the hallway mere feet away from the BSU office. His legs sprawl out in front of him.
“Holden?” he hears.
His vision blurry, he blearily looks up to find Bill hovering over him.
Not again.
“Kid?”
Holden wants to huddle in on himself, but his extremities are numb. He tries to curl and uncurl his fists, but they feel weak and resemble spaghetti with how flimsy the attempt is. He sniffles and coughs, and a shiver wracks his entire body. He should’ve have… He shouldn’t have come to work. Not like this. Bill’s gonna tell on him. Bill’s gonna tell…
“I’m not going to say anything, Holden, even though I sure as hell want to right now,” he hears.
Holden sticks his bottom lip out. Did Bill just read his mind? Does Bill have superpowers?
“Do you need to go to the hospital?”
Hospital? No. He doesn’t need that.
As he tries to tell Bill, he wheezes and hacks and coughs mucus into his palm.
Luckily, there’s a Kleenex wiping off his hand in seconds.
“Thanks, Kleenex…” he murmurs.
“Are you delirious?” Bill asks.
Holden shakes his head and chuckles. He coughs wetly.
There is a warm, meaty hand on his forehead and on his cheek and then on the back of his neck.
“You’re burning up, kid,” Bill whispers.
Holden smiles. “You sound funny… w-when you talk… whispery.”
“Talk whispery. Great. You are delirious. Is this normal with asthma? Or did your brain get dented in some time last night?”
“Not asthma,” he breathes out. “Sick.”
Holden sees that Bill is kneeling on the floor, a hand on his knee.
“So this isn’t asthma? I need to know what I should do.”
Holden shakes his head frantically. “Don’t tell on me.”
“I won’t say a word, kid.”
“Promise?”
Bill exhales loudly. “I promise.”
Holden sticks out his pinky. “Pinky promise?”
“I am not locking pinkies with you, but, yes, I promise.”
It’s enough. It’s enough for now.
“I need to go home,” Holden whispers, sticking out his bottom lip just a little bit further. His skin itches, and mucus rattles in his chest, and sweat pours off of him in tidal waves. The only thing that will even remotely make him feel better is to hole himself up in bed for a few days, at least until the worst of the coughing is over. “Please… Please…”
Bill nods. He gets to his feet, only to hunch over and slowly hook his hands around Holden’s waist. He hoists Holden off the floor; Holden hacks into his suit jacket.
“Inhaler. Inhaler. I n-need m–”
His inhaler is in his hand. Huh. Bill takes it from his grasp, with Holden still protectively in his arms, and proceeds to put the spout in his mouth. He presses down, and Holden inhales as deeply as he can.
He hears Bill let out a frustrated sigh after he pockets the inhaler. Holden shrivels in Bill’s embrace.
“Your lips are blue, kiddo. I gotta get you to the hospital.”
“B-Bill,” he manages to squeak out. Tears stream down his cheeks. He doesn’t know what is wrong with him or why he feels so scarily out of control of his emotions right now. “I’m sorry… I’m s-sorry. I should’ve… I should’ve t–”
“Stop,” Bill says. “It’s fine, Holden. But you’re going to have to let me call 911.”
“No!” Holden exclaims, voice broken and hoarse. “No. No. Bill, Shepard will f– ”
Bill cuts him off with, “Shepard won’t know a thing, okay? You just have pneumonia, got it?”
And that’s when Bill softly deposits Holden into a folding chair from the storage closet. Holden puts his head in his hands and hides his eyes while Bill calls 911. Something about chest pain and shortness of breath. He isn’t having a heart attack, but that’s what it sounds like. Now Shepard’s going to think he had a heart attack at work, and he’s going to get fired, and Bill will hate –
“I can hear you thinking, Holden.” He knew it; Bill has superpowers. “Everything will be okay.”
“But –”
“Shh. Stop talking. And sit up straight for me, alright?”
Bill has Holden remove his hands from his face and coaxes him until his spine is straight. The change in position makes it easier to breathe.
Tears swell in his eyes and pour down his flushed cheeks, but Bill puts his hand on his shoulder, warm and firm; Holden smiles weakly and waits for the ambulance.
It turns out to be a chest infection, which the doctor said is good. Good how? He isn’t sure, but he has a very low dose of pain meds running through his IV and an oxygen mask covering his mouth and nose, and that’s enough for now. He can go home tomorrow, but he’ll have a brand new supply of breathing treatments, just like always after he gets sick. He can handle that; it’s nothing out of the ordinary.
What is out of the ordinary, though, is Bill sitting by his bedside, flipping through a magazine.
He doesn’t know why Bill is still here, not after everything Holden put him through yesterday and just a while ago.
“Will you please stop overthinking?” Bill asks suddenly.
Holden frowns. Bill doesn’t sound happy.
But should he sound happy?
He’s sitting in the hospital with his sick partner, a partner he doesn’t even want or like.
“Why do you think I don’t like you?” Bill inquires. He closes the magazine.
Holden flinches. Freezes. The monitors he’s connected to start to beep.
“Hey hey hey,” Bill says easily. “It’s just a question, kiddo.”
Why does he sound so gentle?
Holden takes a deep breath. He moves the oxygen mask down to his chin with shaky fingers.
“Do you like me?” he questions.
“Put that back on. We can still talk, but you need that,” Bill instructs.
He rolls his eyes but does what he’s told. “I’m sorry…”
“You don’t have to be sorry, Holden. But there’s gotta be something else going on here. Let’s start with this: You have asthma. How come I didn’t know?”
Holden shrugs. “No one knows.”
“No one? Not even your parents?”
“My mom’s dead. I haven’t spoken to my father in almost ten years.”
“And I’m assuming you never told anyone when you joined the Academy?”
He shakes his head and breaks eye contact.
Bill sighs and crosses his legs. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Holden bites his bottom lip. It’s a complicated question with many possible answers, but it’s hard to funnel through all of them with Bill staring at him so intensely. What if he says the wrong thing? One wrong word, and he can fuck up whatever is left of their relationship.
“I didn’t want to bother you,” he breathes out.
That sounds so stupid and pathetic. Holden kicks himself internally.
“Bother me? Why would this bother me?”
“Because you’re a smoker. You like to smoke. I can’t expect you to stop smoking just because I’m around… And I’m around you a lot.”
Bill chuckles. “Believe me, I know,” Bill jokes; Holden frowns. “I think you should’ve at least given me the chance to decide that for myself.”
“I would feel bad if you quit just because of me.”
“Kid, I’m never going to quit,” Bill says. “I’m just telling you that now. But I can choose to walk out of the room when you’re around so I don’t bother your thing.”
Holden fiddles with his hospital bracelet. “You shouldn’t have to do that.”
“Hey. Look at me real quick,” Bill coaxes.
Holden glances up.
“I want to. I don’t want you to get sick when it’s easily preventable, and I don’t want you to have to hide from me this anymore.”
Tears swell in Holden’s eyes. “You shouldn’t have to edit your life for me, Bill. I’ll be okay. I can handle it.”
“Clearly not, kid. You’re in the hospital.”
“I was getting sick anyway.”
“Yeah? But the smoking makes it worse, right?”
Holden nods.
“So let me do you a favor, okay? I’ll leave the room if I need a smoke. If we’re on the road, we can stop somewhere real quick; I’ll go outside, and you can stay in the car. No more bars. There are all sorts of things we can do to help keep you healthy.”
“I’m really sorry,” Holden whispers, voice broken. Tears spill down his cheeks. He hiccups.
Bill instantly grabs his hand, the one without the IV. “There is nothing for you to be sorry for. You can’t help it.”
“You’re not gonna tell Shepard?”
“I swear. But we have to get this under control, and it has to stay that way. You have to tell me when you start feeling something, and we have to do what we can to fix it.”
Holden nods.
“Why don’t you try to rest? You’ve had a big day.”
Bill reaches over with his free hand and lowers the bed a bit; it’s much comfier that way.
Holden sinks down into the mattress as Bill pulls the covers up to his chin. He closes his eyes and lets out a small cough.
“Kid?” he hears.
“Hm?”
“It’s gonna be okay. Everything’s gonna be okay.”
Holden smiles. “Thanks, Bill.”