Work Text:
Holland March woke up with the kind of headache that was worse than a hangover but not as bad as a tumour, if he had to guess. He groaned and blinked into the darkness. The only light came from a crack in the blinds, illuminating a smog of tobacco smoke. He was in his own bedroom, on top of the bed, although he couldn't remember how he'd got there. He stretched; all fingers and toes accounted for, no obvious sign of injury (if he made exception for his broken left arm, already immobilised in a dirty white cast). He was still dressed in a white singlet, open shirt and trousers but he was missing his shoes. Holland felt like they had been removed for him. It wasn't a memory but -
There was someone else in the room. He wasn't alone.
Holland sat up. In a chair, that belonged in another room of the house, sat Jackson Healy. If Holland had been half-asleep, he was fully awake now.
“What are you doing here? Why are you in my house?”
Healy reclined with his legs outstretched, one ankle crossed over the other, smoking casually as if he was in his own home. His jacket was draped across the back of the chair. On the sideboard was an ashtray with several butts stubbed out in it. Healy inhaled from the cigarette between his fingers then ground it out, adding it to the pile. He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, his steely eyes never leaving Holland.
Instinctively, Holland inched back on the bed.
“You took a knock.” Healy pressed two fingers to the side of his own head. Holland touched his temple and winced when he found a bruise there. “You were out cold so I brought you back here. The keys were in your pocket.”
Healy picked up his pack of Marlboro from beside the ashtray. He withdraw a cigarette and placed it between his lips. He offered the pack to Holland, who shook his head dumbly. Healy shrugged and lit up. The flame from the match illuminated the hollows of his eyes. As Healy exhaled and blew smoke across the room, Holland's hand, flat against the sheet, slid under his pillow, moving back and forth.
“Looking for this?” Healy said, his voice gravelly and deep. He reached down into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small gun. Holland’s gun.
Holland's mouth went dry and he was suddenly very aware of his bladder pressing against his belly.
“What are you doing with that?” Holland said, in voice steady in spite of his heart banging against his ribs.
Healy popped open the barrel of the gun then snapped it closed again. With nowhere else to go, Holland moved further back on the bed. Oh, God. Was Healy going to shoot him with his own fucking gun?
“Do you even know what to do with this, March?” Healy spun the barrel and it rattled loudly. Holland was reminded of the sound of his arm breaking.
He swallowed thickly. “Sure. Point and, um, pull the trigger.”
Healy stood and, still holding the gun in the palm of his hand, stepped towards the bed. Holland stiffened.
Healy handed him the pistol. “Remember the safety,” he said.
Holland took the gun and exhaled shakily. “Do you always have to be so fucking menacing?”
Healy smiled like a shark. “I wouldn't be very good at my job if I was a nice guy.” He shrugged on his jacket. “Take it easy, March.”
It only occurred to Holland after Healy had let himself out that a not-so-nice guy would probably not have brought him home and taken off his shoes.