Chapter Text
QUANTICO, VIRGINIA
FEBRUARY 9, 1978
“Didn’t think you’d still be here.”
Holden flinches and glances over his shoulder. Bill hovers over him, a cup of steaming coffee in one hand and a newspaper in the other. His tie is missing, and the first two notches of his shirt are undone beneath his sport coat. Holden scowls when he spies the cigarette dangling from his lower lip. He hunches in on himself and returns his attention to the case file. Bill rounds the corner and sits on the corner of Holden’s desk.
“It’s only six,” he replies softly.
Bill chuckles. “Forgive me. I forgot who I was talking to.”
Holden rolls his eyes.
Instead of feeding into Bill’s lines of bullshit, Holden re-reads the same sentence four times and still doesn’t understand what it’s saying.
They’re fresh off the Beverly Jean Shaw case. They interview Jerry Brudos next week. In the meantime, Wendy’s got them looking into a man named Kelvin Rogers, husband, father of three, and murderer of twelve. Holden’s been reading into his past and, so far, he’s found nothing that indicates how a man becomes a sequence killer. Rogers, now 53, was born into a good home. A hardworking father and a doting mother. An older brother who looked out for him. He married at 20 and had three children within the decade. Everything seemed normal.
Except for the fact that Rogers had been slaughtering college girls all over the state of Kentucky since 1959.
Bill reaches over and shuts the manila folder. “Come on. I’ll drive you home.”
Holden blinks. His reaction time slow, he doesn’t say anything when Bill leaves the desk and tosses him his coat. He clears his throat several times and inhales deeply. He doesn’t want to go home, not with this hanging over his head. Debbie is still at school, and his apartment is empty, and he can’t quite figure out why he feels so lethargic. The idea of getting up makes him nauseous. He wonders if he can reason with Bill on staying here.
“You’re thinking too hard again, kid. Kelvin Rogers will still be here in the morning.”
“I just want to –”
“Shh. It’s okay. We’ll look at it together tomorrow, alright?”
Holden nods. Slowly, he stands up. His world blackens momentarily. He clears his throat again.
“When’s the last time you ate?”
He shrugs. “Breakfast, I guess.”
“No wonder you look like shit. Let’s go get some chow.”
Holden sighs. Maybe he does want to go home. “I dunno, Bill. I just want to –”
“We can talk about Rogers tomorrow. I know you’re hyperfixated because it’s new and interesting, but there’s no use in stressing yourself out like this.”
Bill blows a cloud of smoke into the room. Holden closes his eyes and groans internally. He fumbles for the ‘L shaped’ container in his pocket, latching on to it tightly. He can’t use it. Not here. It’s not like Bill would stop if he knew. He can’t expect Bill to stop smoking just because of him.
“Nancy makes a mean BLT.”
Holden could barf. Not at Nancy or her BLTs, but food sounds like a dangerous gamble. There’s a knot in his throat that won’t go away.
“Okay, Bill. Let me use the bathroom first.”
Bill and Holden take the elevator to the main floor. Holden scurries away from Bill without a word, hurrying toward the bathroom. The moment the door is closed and locked, Holden takes his inhaler out and inhales two puffs of Fenoterol as if his life depends on it, which, really it sort of does; no one wants to see him have an attack, especially not Bill. He leans his head back against the stall and focuses on regulating his breathing. He coughs. His nose runs.
He doesn’t have this problem a lot. He can go weeks at a time without a flare up. If he’s in the car with Bill while they’re on the road, he rolls the window down, and he’s fine. But it’s different during the winter. He doesn’t want to insult Bill because his choices are his choices, but Bill doesn’t roll down the window when it’s cold out, and Holden doesn’t feel like he can. He hates smelling like smoke and really hates what smoke does to his lungs, but he feels… strange about the whole thing. It’s been months. He should’ve spoken up by now.
It’s embarrassing. Not only does he have a fair dose of anxiety, but people think he’s a freak. He was bullied from a young age, and asthma didn’t do him any favors. His father used to hide his inhalers. Holden would sob, and his mother would hold him, telling to calm down, to breathe deeply, to stop crying because it’ll just make it worse. He’s never told anyone at the Bureau about it, so why would he tell Bill? Debbie doesn’t even know.
No one needs to know.
But, at times like these, he wishes he had the courage to roll down the window. To take a few steps away from Bill while he smokes right beside him. To roll away from Debbie when she tokes – cigarettes or marijuana – in bed.
Still, really, it’s not a big deal. No. It’s not. He’s okay. It’s fine.
Holden takes an extra puff just in case, chest tingling and on fire. He shoves the inhaler in his slacks. He coughs several times while washing his hands. His lungs are tight, constricted. He wants to go home. Needs a hot shower. Needs to be away from the smoke and cold weather. He wants to call it ‘overexposure,’ but he’s not sure there’s such a thing. It’s very likely all in his head. But he doesn’t want to bother Bill, not when he just invited him over for dinner.
So, he shoves the aching chest and thoughts of Kelvin Rogers from his mind. He exits the bathroom to find Bill standing by the water fountain.
“Ready, Kemosabe?”
Holden nods.
They hit the road. It’s snowing fat, fluffy flakes. Bill lights another cigarette two minutes into the drive. Holden’s stomach folds in on itself, and he clenches his jaw so tightly he almost breaks a few of his teeth. He clears his throat. It’s a technique that normally works, but it’s not working today, and Holden just wants to go home.
But he can’t ruin his chances with Bill. Bill is letting him in, little by little each and everyday. Holden’s never had a friend before. He hopes Bill can be his first.
“You good?”
Holden nods, giving him a small, flat smile.
By the time they pull into the driveway, Holden’s cheeks are bright red from holding in his coughs. The winter air hurts his lungs and head, but he lets out a few splutters into his elbow while they walk up the driveway without Bill noticing. He just wants to make it through this dinner without anything going wrong.
Once he’s inside, Nancy takes his coat.
“Oh, Holden! It’s so nice to see you again!”
She hugs him, and he reciprocates.
Bill mumbles something about changing. Nancy goes back into the kitchen. Unsure if he should follow her and offer to help, Holden instead sits on the couch, soaking in the opportunity to let his chest rattle with no one around to hear. Brian sits on the floor in front of the TV with his Lincoln Logs. Holden almost asks if he can play too, but his head spins, and his stomach swirls, and his chest hurts so badly that there are spots in his vision.
“Hey, want a drink?” Bill offers; Holden jumps.
Holden nods. Bill brings out some scotch and two glasses. He watches with bleary eyes as Bill pours the liquid.
The scotch helps. The instant burn soothes his throat. It makes him forget for just a second.
Holden and Bill watch the news in silence. Holden fiddles with his tie until he gives in, loosening it and unbuttoning the top notch of his shirt. His skin is made out of blistering flames. He clears his throat over and over again, sinking into the couch until he’s practically melted against it. He lets his eyes droop closed.
“Dinner’s ready,” Nancy announces.
Holden blinks and goes to the kitchen table.
He doesn’t even get a chance to look at the food before he realizes that Nancy and Bill are both smoking.
And he almost hesitates before he sits down. He wants to leave. He doesn’t know why his asthma is flaring up this badly. But his skin hurts, and his chest is full of knives, and he needs to cough. He needs to cough. He needs to cough.
“Holden, are you okay?”
He snaps out of it.
Bill’s eyes are a little wide, and Nancy is staring a hole right through him.
He’s about to speak when it happens.
A bout of sharp, rattling coughs escapes his mouth, running away as if they own the place. He covers his mouth quickly with a napkin, but he can’t stop. Won’t stop. Doesn’t stop. Each time he tries to cut them off, they break free. He doubles over and throws up what little he’s eaten on the floor and a little bit on his slacks and right shoe. He inhales deeply, but a hacking noise fills the room. Saliva pools on his pants. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe he can’t breathe he can’t breathe and oh God Nancy’s going to hate him and Bill’s going to hate him even more he was supposed to get through dinner without a hitch go home take a hot shower and go to sleep he should’ve been fine in the morning but his chest is in knots and he doesn’t feel –
“Hey. Shh… It’s okay, Holden,” he hears.
Delicate hands are on his shoulders.
Tears stream down his cheeks. He can’t breathe.
Something cold is on his face. He hiccups.
“You’re okay. You’re okay.”
The voice reminds him of his mother’s.
“Inhaler,” he squeaks out. He can barely speak.
“You have asthma?”
Two voices. Not one. Two.
Holden nods.
“Where’s it at, kiddo?”
Hands trembling terribly, he clumsily yanks at the inhaler until it comes out of his pocket. He tries to bring it to his lips. But he can’t. He keeps coughing.
“I think you just press down,” he hears.
The tip of the inhaler is in his mouth. Cool, metallic air hits the back of his throat. He inhales quickly. Deeply. He needs more. The inhaler seems to understand because more is released, and he lets the medicine drape over him like a warm blanket. He coughs and hastily wipes at his eyes. His stomach still doesn’t feel right, but he gathers enough strength to open his eyes.
Nancy is right beside him, inhaler in her hand. She looks bewildered, as if she just saw a ghost, and maybe she did. Holden doesn’t know. Bill stares intensely from the other side of him. Holden wonders how disappointed he is. How irritated he is. How badly he wants Holden to leave his house. Brian is looking at him too, a French fry still in his hand. Holden’s cheeks redden. He tries to speak, but only small, hushed noises come out.
“Relax, honey. Take a minute to breathe,” Nancy says.
Holden immediately looks down at his lap. He wrings his fingers together. He nearly hitches forward toward the floor, but Bill stops him, a firm hand against his chest.
“I-I want to go home,” Holden manages to whisper, voice giving away near the end.
“No way, kid.”
“Absolutely not, sweetie. You’re going to lie down in our guest room for a while, and get some rest.”
Holden rapidly shakes his head. He coughs a few more times. “I’m fine.”
“You sound horrible,” Nancy says.
“You could drown in all the gunk you have in your chest.”
Holden pouts. “I just want to go home.”
“Bill, why don’t you find him some pajamas. I’m going to clean him up a bit.”
And Holden is powerless to it all. He doesn’t have an ounce of energy left in his body. He doesn’t say anything when Nancy washes his face with a wet cloth and does the same to the spots on his slacks and shoe. Embarrassment and shame run deep through his veins, straight into the bone. So much for nobody knowing. Bill comes back with a set of pajamas in hand, along with a spare toothbrush.
“Come on, kid. Let’s get you changed.”
Bill helps him stand up. His knees shake, and his legs wobble so much he knows he wouldn’t make it to the bathroom unless Bill were there, walking with him slowly.
“Need help in there?” Bill asks.
Holden shakes his head.
The pajamas are light blue and way too big. The sleeves dangle past his fingertips, and the pants go past his toes. He feels like a massively overgrown baby. He brushes his teeth, coughing and spluttering as he moves the toothbrush around. His throat is swollen. His brain is trying to kick its way out of his skull. He wants to go home. He doesn’t want to be a burden, and that’s exactly what he is. He should just… go. He didn’t want anyone to know, and now they do, and that’s bad enough. Tears swell in his eyes and stream down his cheeks, but he wipes them away hastily.
He breathes. In and out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.
And he’s okay. He’ll be okay. He’ll rest in their guest room for a couple hours, until his chest stops hurting so much, and then he’ll go home. He’ll go to bed. He’ll wake up the next morning and go to work, and Bill will know. Bill will always know.
“Holden?” he hears.
“Coming,” he rasps.
Holden gathers his slacks and button up in a small pile. He’ll iron them after he washes them later. He exits the bathroom and clicks off the light. Bill instantly takes his clothes from him. Holden goes to say something, but words fail.
“Nancy’s gonna wash them,” he says. “She’ll iron them too. Don’t worry.”
Bill ushers him down the hall. Holden shuffles his feet. He can barely keep his eyes open. He doesn’t feel well at all after attacks, obviously, but this is different. He’s more tired than he remembers being in a long time, and there’s something not clicking with how sore his entire body feels. He wants to be at home, where he can take some Tylenol and curl up in his bed without wondering what Bill thinks of him now that he’s screwed everything to hell.
The guest room is tiny and reminds Holden of his apartment in the sense that the room is void of decorations. There is a single queen-sized bed, complete with a white, flowery comforter and fluffy pillows. The mattress looks thick and inviting, and Holden shivers at the thought of lying down. A nightstand with a lamp sits beside the bed. There’s a dresser near the left corner. Holden hacks into his elbow and sways on his feet.
He looks at Bill, and Bill nudges him to get into bed. Holden peels the comforter back and sits on the edge. The mattress is pure heaven from what he can feel.
“Lay down, kid,” Bill says gently.
Holden’s never heard him be like this before.
He glances away and lies down. Without warning, Bill pulls the blankets over him and up to his chin. Holden shrivels in on himself at the sudden intimacy of the gesture. Bill is mad. Bill is disappointed. Bill doesn’t want to do this for him. Honestly, he doesn’t even know if Bill likes him. As much trouble as Holden’s gotten them into and as much as Holden already knows he irritates Bill, he knows Bill wants nothing to do with him after this.
“Bill, I –”
But Bill is already by the door. Holden coughs and hiccups and coughs again.
“Get some rest.”
The light turns off, the door clicks closed, and Holden is left alone.
Holden blinks heavily.
It’s pitch black.
A fierce, stabbing ache holds each and every one of his joints hostage.
He goes to sit up, to shake off this horrid drowning sensation, only to cough wetly the instant he tries. His chest still hurts.
And he remembers earlier. Having an asthma attack in front of Bill and Nancy.
Fuck him.
He’s so hot. He’s sticky and sweaty, and he kicks the comforter away. He breathes, in through his nose and out through his mouth. Exhaling makes him cough. He drags a hand over his cheeks, runs his fingers through his hair, kneads the flesh around his skull. He groans and hiccups, and his lungs are so full; they’re going to drip blood any second. He chokes back a sob and focuses on the next course of action.
He has to get out of here.
Without any concept of time, Holden gets out of bed and mentally tries to pull himself together.
He tiptoes out of the guest room and into the hallway. Light emanates from the living room. He wanders down there, stomach at his feet. He coughs into his elbow.
Bill notices him the instant Holden steps out of the shadows.
“You should be in bed,” Bill says.
Holden rubs the back of his neck. “I’m feeling a lot better…”
Nancy turns around from her spot on the couch. “You’re still really pale.”
“I’m a white male. I’m pale all the time,” he deadpans.
“Go lay back down.”
An order. A command.
"I’ve already troubled you both enough for one night. I really am okay. Thank you for the hospitality, but I’d like to get my clothes.”
“Holden, I really don’t think that’s a good –”
Nancy steps in. “Bill, if he says he’s okay, we have to let him go. We can’t hold him hostage because of this.”
She goes to retrieve his clothes. Holden avoids eye contact and tries very hard not to cough anymore. Coughing makes him appear weak. He can’t be weak right now. He is dizzy and shaky, and he wants to sleep for a full day without waking up once, but he can’t be a nuisance. A burden. He doesn’t want to put Bill and Nancy out more than he already has.
Plus, Bill hasn’t even talked about it. The asthma. He has to be wondering why Holden kept it from him.
And Holden is not prepared to have that conversation right now.
Mucus rattles in his chest as Nancy hands him his clothes.
Quickly, Holden changes in the bathroom. He gives up the oversized pajamas for his slacks and button up. They are freshly ironed, just like Bill said they would be. Nancy didn’t have to do that. She didn’t have to go out of her way for him. Holden ignores the urge to curl up on the bathroom floor, ignores the urge to go lie back down in the guestroom like this never happened, ignores the urge to apologize profusely to Bill for being irritating and a burden.
Bill has his shoes and coat on by the time Holden comes back into the living room. He glances away from Bill’s eye contact sheepishly.
The ride to Holden’s apartment is silent, save for a few rattling breaths.
Bill isn’t talking to him.
He doesn’t understand why, but maybe he does. He hid his asthma.
But he hid it to not criticize Bill for his choices. Who knows? Maybe Bill picked up a bad habit during the war, or even before, but he can’t quit now. Holden doesn’t judge. He doesn’t want to give Bill anymore of a reason to dislike him than he already does.
Bill pulls into the apartment complex lot.
Holden inhales, fully intent on explaining, expelling the truth and saying sorry until he’s blue in the face.
“Goodnight, Holden.”
He flinches. Gulps. Glances down at his hands.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “Goodnight, Bill.”
He gets out of the car and takes the elevator to the fifth floor. He unlocks the door. He kicks his shoes off. He curls up in a ball on the couch, a red and blue blanket pulled up to his chin. He coughs until his cheeks tinge red, until he’s convinced he’ll never take a proper breath again, until he is less of a nuisance, until he Bill isn’t mad at him anymore.