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After a long day of interviewing people just about as sharp as rubber, only one thing hits the spot: the shittiest, cheapest, greasiest fast food Holland and Healy can find. They try to mix it up so they don't get bored, but sometimes nothing can do but a Happy Meal. Along with his food, Holland orders a Coca-Cola just to pour the remaining liquid from his flask inside. Healy rolls his eyes and turns the wheel, rounding the corner with one hand while rummaging the other through the takeout bag reaching for stray fries.
"Hey! The fuck are you doing, putting your dirty sausage fingers all over our food?" Holland jabs playfully.
Healy rolls his eyes and keeps fishing around in spite of Holland's comment. "Please, you've got enough alcohol in your system to sterilize you from any germs I might have."
Holland would have a really quick and clever response to that if he wasn't busy sucking down his handcrafted mixed drink through a flimsy straw. He's finished it by the time they pull into his driveway--about a six minute journey--and almost throws the empty cup at Healy when he doesn't take the curb carefully and nearly sends Holland through the windshield. Healy argues it's his fault he doesn't wear his seatbelt.
They're both already a bit touchy upon entering the house.
"HOLLY! DINNER!" Holland shouts with all of the power in his lungs, for whatever reason.
Slow footsteps lead into the kitchen and Holly plants herself, arms crossed, in front of her father. She grumbles, "I was right in the living room. Geez, could you be more loud and annoying?"
Something's off about her, Healy can tell right away. Holland thinks she's just being a pissy thirteen year old, but he's a little too drunk to notice the slight flush to her face as he tosses the McDonald's bag onto the kitchen table. The grease stains seeping through the paper make Holly's stomach flip. She gulps.
"Oh, come on. Don't do that. Don't make that face." Holland shakes his head, not in the mood to have to cook up whatever random shit he can find in his fridge because his daughter doesn't want her goddamn burger. “You love this shit, you eat it all the time.”
He’s clueless. “No, you buy it all the time and the only other food we have in the house would be pretzels.”
“Pretzels are great, they…they’re salty, they’re filling, they’re-”
“They’re expired.”
About to make his point, Holland puts a hand on the counter, almost falling when his palm slides on a mystery liquid coating the surface. Somehow he catches himself.
“Nice recovery,” Healy chimes in.
As previously mentioned, it’s been a long day. One thing Holland loves doing after a long day is taking his frustrations out on everyone around him. “Hey, don’t you—! Listen, can everyone just shut their goddamn mouth and eat their stupid fucking Happy Meal without throwing a fit? Alright, can we do that?”
Holly, however, is not in the mood to argue with her father, which is decidedly unusual. She loves proving to her old man just how dumb he truly is. "I don't want it,” she speaks plainly.
Always the drama queen, Holland throws his hands in the air and scoffs, "I just went out of my way and bought you dinner and you're gonna sit there and stare at it like I--it--like it's fuckin' gross or something?”
Healy jumps in. "Correction--I drove and I bought it-"
"That's what I'm saying, we just bought you dinner and what now? You're just gonna trash it? We just paid for that!"
"Again," Healy interjects, "I bought the burger."
Holland does not have the patience for this. He swivels unsteadily on his feet, hair flopping in his face as he points an angry finger at his partner. "Would you cut that out?"
"Me? Why would I cut it out? You're the one acting like an asshole."
"Oh, I'm acting like an asshole?"
"Yeah, you're acting like an asshole."
"Alright, well, to each his own. I suppose you are entitled to your wrong opinion, or whatever.” Holland continues loudly over Healy's attempts to corral him. "Holly, you're gonna eat your dinner. I'm not having you go to bed all pissed off at me and wake up all pissed off at me 'cause I didn't make you dinner, 'cause I got you dinner and then, so, I'm gonna be pissed too, if you do that. So eat your dinner so neither of us has to be pissed!"
Holly shoots daggers at her father and pulls a chair out from the kitchen table, dragging it awkwardly so the skidding couldn't get any louder. What she doesn’t expect is how much it exacerbates her pounding headache. “Fine, give me the stupid burger,” she mutters.
There we go. Holland smiles and takes a burger out of the bag, tossing it in front of his daughter then pressing a kiss to her forehead. As usual, he reeks of booze. Holly nearly has to pinch her nostrils shut but fortunately he steps away quickly. “That’s my girl.”
They all dig in to their meals, Holland and Healy scarfing down every last morsel while Holly picks at her fries and takes small sips of her Sprite. Healy can tell by the look on her face just how hard it is for her not only to get the food down but to keep it there too. He’s thinking about saying something when Holland opens his big fat mouth again, speaking while he’s chewing. His daughter and his partner look away.
Holly can only take the combination of factors increasing her nausea for so long. Her half-eaten meal remains on the table as she leans over the paper bag on the table empties her stomach into it. Immediately, Healy’s by her side, putting strong hands on her bony arms, noticing how warm she is. “Shit, kid. Alright, let’s get you to the bathroom.”
Once Healy has her situated in front of the toilet he rushes back to the kitchen to fetch some water and a dish towel. He’s not pleased with what he finds, which is Holland bent over losing his lunch (dinner, really) into the trash can.
“What the hell, March?! The fuck is wrong with you now?”
Holland can only respond with another gag.
There’s not time for this. Holland throws up all the time from his countless hangovers anyway—Healy figures the man can deal with an upset tummy on his own for the time being. Holly’s his number one priority right now. She’s curled up in the bathroom with her elbows on the toilet bowl. Every so often her body wrenches forward as she gets sick again. It’s a sad sight to see. Holly is the sweetest little girl, and-
“Motherfucker,” Holly growls, spitting into the toilet.
Okay, she can be the sweetest little girl. Healy gives her a few pats on the back that seem to calm her nerves.
“Thank you, Mr. Healy.”
“You don’t have to thank me for this. You’re sick. Someone should take care of you.” Healy keeps running his hand up and down Holly’s back. She’s so little he swears he could snap her spine in half if he truly wished to.
The nausea settles after a few more retches and Holly gently leans her shaky body against the bathroom wall. Healy allows her a few moments to collect herself before asking what’s been on his mind since this started.
“So…what’s wrong with your dad?”
Holly scoffs, “What isn’t wrong with my dad?”
While she’s right, Healy’s seeking a more specific answer. “That’s fair. But what’s going on with him right now?”
This seems like a sore subject and Healy’s just about to retract the question when Holly sighs and tucks a piece of sweaty hair behind her ear. “Dad can’t be around people who throw up. He’s a sympathy puker.”
“A what?”
“Seeing or hearing other people puke makes him puke. It’s really annoying, actually. Always have to keep a trash can by him whenever we’re in the waiting room at the ER. He just can’t help it.” Her voice is sad and Healy wonders why. He keeps silent, waiting to see if she’ll keep going. “Mom always used to take care of me when I was sick like that, y’know, because Dad couldn’t. I’d have to help her when she was sick too. I…anyway, now that’s she’s gone, I…”
She doesn’t have to finish her sentence for Healy to know the rest.
Now that she’s gone I don’t have anyone to take care of me.
It breaks his heart right in two, and it makes him want to punch Holland in the face for leaving his little girl alone whenever she’s sick. Holly can detect the frustration on his face and she shakes her head.
“It’s not his fault,” Holly says softly. Healy can’t tell if she’s trying to convince him or convince herself.
It’s gotta be hard, having Holland March as your father. Sure, he cares about Holly more than anything in the goddamn world, but he’s so fucked up he can barely take care of himself, let alone a thirteen year-old girl. Healy knows that this one thing really isn’t Holland’s fault but it pisses him off anyway.
Then Holly speaks up once more, “He tries his best. Sometimes he’ll sit by me and just look away and hold his breath as long as he can before splitting. He tries to make sure I’m okay.”
Well…that’s admirable. At least Holland has some redeeming qualities. Healy doesn’t know how his daughter turned out so well-behaved and respectful and smart and driven. He wonders what her mother was like. Neither of the March’s really talk about her. Healy doesn’t even think he knows her name. Holland doesn’t like to say it. Every so often Holly will relive a memory and share it if it fits in the conversation, but Holland never does. Healy’s still unsure if Holland is aware that he knows how his wife died.
“Could you go check on him?” Holly’s weak voice brings Healy back down to Earth.
“Sure, kid. You need anything?”
“A new stomach?”
“I would if I could.” Healy ruffles her hair and leaves the poor girl bent over the porcelain bowl. On the short walk to the kitchen he contemplates how hard it must be for Holland to be raising Holly on his own. The thought crosses his mind from time to time but Holly’s just so independent that he doesn’t often think of her as the little girl that she is, and how little girls can be hard to raise on your own. He hasn’t even taken half a step into the kitchen when his blood starts boiling over and all of his sympathy for his partner is gone. “Are you fucking kidding me? March!”
Splayed out on the floor in front of Healy is a woozy Holland taking a sip from his flask before leaning over the trash can, as if to test the rocky waters that are his upset stomach. When he looks up and meets Healy’s eyes he doesn’t seem to understand his partner’s appalment. “What? I yakked up all the progress I made.”
The next few seconds are nothing but a blind rage. Healy stands back after a moment and realizes he’s snatched Holland off the ground and thrown him into a chair, as well as chucked his flask into the trash.
“What the hell, man? Now it’s all covered in vomit!”
That’s what his problem is? Healy swears he could just pick him up and—no, no. Now is not the time for that. “Your daughter’s in the bathroom puking her goddamn guts up and all you care about is getting your fucking fix? This is a new low, even for you.”
That doesn’t sit well with Holland. “Hey! I’ve tried—listen, she knows I can’t go in there, okay? It’s not, of course I want to make my daughter feel better. You think I want her to be in there all alone while’s—while she’s shaking and fucking crying and feeling like shit? All by herself? No! No, I don’t fucking want that, actually! So, so she sits in there by herself, and I take care of my own business out here, so I-”
“Your own business,” Healy scoffs. It’s almost laughable. Until it’s not.
“I take care of my own business out here so I don’t have to think about how I’m the only person here for her anymore and I still can’t fucking do it!”
That one stings. The room falls silent until there’s a bit of commotion coming from the bathroom. Both men turn their heads for a moment before swiveling back to look at one another. Holland drags his hands down his face and it’s in this moment that Healy can truly see how much it’s tormenting him knowing that his little girl is in there all alone and he can’t do a goddamn thing to help. He would even consider pouring the man another drink to help drown his sorrows but after another slight gag from Holland, he hesitates.
“I’m good. I’m fine. Would you, could you just go and, y’know?” Holland scratches the back of his head and gestures vaguely in the direction of the hallway.
No more words need to be spoken. Healy’s got them both now.