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It’s Abby who points out what Erin is doing. That’s always been a key part of their dynamic – Erin is very good with equations but not very good with her people skills sometimes, and on occasion that even extends to her own person. Since they were newly friends, Abby seemed to worm her way inside Erin’s head and undo the knots.
“You keep staring. You’re looking at her like she’s a freakin’ math problem,” Abby murmurs into her ear, breaking her out of her reverie. She was staring. She was staring because Holtzmann was working on something that created a lot of sparks and there was something compelling about that mad-scientist grin contoured by the short-lived bursts of light.
“I am not,” Erin answers, a flat out lie. Abby’s derisive snort confirms that it sounded just as phony as it felt.
“You are. You’re analyzing her. A little weird, actually.” Abby isn’t wrong. Erin has been trying to figure Holtzmann out since she put out a fire while lip-syncing to DeBarge, even if she hadn’t admitted it to herself. Erin shrugs, trying and failing to be nonchalant. It’s just that Holtzmann doesn’t fit into any box that Erin tries to mentally lay out for her. She’s ridiculously, fascinatingly, almost frustratingly offbeat, but in a way that feels natural and nuanced. That in itself is a contradiction. Erin grimaces, feeling the beginnings of a headache.
Abby just claps her heartily on the shoulder and moves on. If she understands any deeper reasoning to Erin’s fascination, she doesn’t say so. After that brief conversation, though, Erin’s studious observation becomes self-aware and just a little purposeful. There is so much to notice about Dr. Jillian Holtzmann.
Holtz doesn’t speak as much as you’d expect her to, for example. Her face is very expressive – always with the raised eyebrows, wide eyes, or comically upturned mouth – but she doesn’t always deign to speak her mind. She’s content with lingering in the background and only chiming in when the whim takes her. Of course, when she does chime in, it’s always a bit like she has an inside joke with herself. A little kooky, sometimes, a little odd.
“Wile E. Coyote,” Holtz blurts one evening, quieting the other three Ghostbusters from their weary debate on how to finish this goddamned job. Her eyes are lit up like she actually has a lightbulb on above her head.
“What?” Patty demands. She’s cranky when she’s tired.
“The cartoon. Wile E. Coyote sets up a fake tunnel in a brick wall and Road Runner still gets through. Coyote gets his face smashed in.” Holtz illustrates this by smashing her fist into an open palm. The four sit in silence for a moment.
“We’re Wile E. Coyote now,” Abby sighs, realization dawning. “Lovely.” Holtzmann clicks her tongue and nods with a rakish smile.
They end up catching the slippery ghost, who kept jumping into paintings and mirrors to escape all their usual tactics. It was Holtzmann’s analogy that gives them the right idea, and they trap the specter in an old- school illusionist’s mirror box. Beat him at his own game. Holtz is fucking triumphant, kicking the box and jeering at the “stupid little Road Runner” ghost.
Yeah, she uses her words in a pretty distinctive way. Patty loves her for it, if she finds it a little unsettling from time to time, and Abby just seems to have accepted it as par for the course. Erin is getting better at both of those, she hopes.
Actually, when Erin thinks about it, Holtz seems to be much more physical than verbal in general. She’s one for the big gesture, like two fists punching the air or shimmying her shoulders. And, of course, there’s the dancing. Erin has never met any scientist in her life who loves to dance so much, and especially in the middle of important work. It’s…endearing. Somehow. Even when it’s annoying.
Erin has filled six sheets of grid paper with her calculations. She’s on a roll. The numbers click into place like characters on a slot machine dial. This is why she loved this so much, this is it! There’s a rush, as painfully nerdy as it sounds, to the way numbers and letters seemed to knit into place. She’s rudely interrupted by the grungy twang of an electric guitar, which quickly morphs into a strong kick drum. Oh, god. Holtzmann’s oil-stained speaker is apparently returned for another showstopper.
Erin recognizes the song immediately – Def Leppard, really? – and rolls her eyes. Not that it makes much difference. It’s been made very clear by this point that Holtz doesn’t give a fuck. She will dance because the mood has taken her. It’s not necessarily graceful; Holtz flails her arms and plants her feet wide, so wide. She jabs her hands forward and mouths the words dramatically. Erin allows herself to smirk. It’s when Holtz hops onto a stool and then throws herself dramatically on Erin’s worktop that this whole thing starts to be a bit ridiculous.
“Seriously?” she demands, but Holtzmann doesn’t even hear her, because she’s too busy with the chorus. Her back is arched, weight supported by the line of her shoulders and then her bent knees, folding her into an improbable shape while she snarls around the words – “Pour some sugar on me!” Her arms pump circles like a locomotive to the thumping tempo.
“You’re crumpling my papers.”
Holtz bites her lip, too busy being a rockstar in her mind to care.
That can be pretty extreme. It’s captivating, though, whether Erin likes it or not. She finds herself humming or singing songs from Holtzmann’s playlist all too often, usually the catchy 1980s pop that is her colleague’s favorite.
Erin observes all of this and more, making her own little study of Holtzmann. It’s a pet project, something for when numbers are too much even for her. The body of information on her colleague grows, and so Erin makes a decision: A small black notebook. Spiral, wide-ruled, not very distinctive in any way. It doesn’t fit Holtz at all, but this is where Erin writes her down and tries to figure her out.
Erin works largely in numbered or dashed lists, with urgent, open-ended questions scribbled into the margins. She feels like a crazy person. She blames Holtz. She absolutely, absolutely can never let anyone see this.
For a long time, this method works. She keeps the notebook stacked with her other ones and it blends in. No one asks what she’s scribbling down, and no one notices how she tucks it into her bag with such care every day. She lives with her creepy, obsessive secret for months and tries not to feel like she’s becoming Rowan. Yes, this isn’t really in the realm of okay. She knows that; she just doesn’t care. The Holtz-book is a part of her routine and she is determined to come to some sort of conclusion, even if she has the sneaking suspicion that people can’t be solved for like x.
It comes out in the worst possible way, of course. The most ridiculously cliché, straight-out-of-a-bad-movie sort of way. Erin is rushing into the firehouse with her books cradled in her arms like she’s in college again. She’d gotten ectoplasm all over her usual bag, and not all of her things fit into the replacement. She races in, already trying to ride out a bad morning, and smacks right into Holtzmann, who was doing…something. Holtzmann things.
Books go everywhere. The bag falls and spills out pencils, lip balm, tissues, house keys. The Holtz-book, in its dog-eared, well-used glory, slides and comes to rest just barely touching the combat boot of its own subject.
Holtz reaches down to pick it up, and the desperate “Don’t!” that bubbles up from Erin’s throat cuts through the air like a gunshot.
Holtz has already flipped the damn thing open.
Holtz is reading.
She takes her time while Erin stares at the floor in ashamed terror. Erin does not look up to catalogue any wide, toothy smiles or bugged-out eyes.
A light slap sounds as Holtz slams the book shut. Erin finally glances up to see it dangling between the engineer’s thumb and forefinger, receiving a very pensive look.
“Didn’t know you were also a zoologist,” Holtzmann says, arching an eyebrow. Erin doesn’t get it until Holtzmann does a weird primate impression, scratching under her armpit and going ooh-ooh, ah-ah. Right. Erin is Jane Goodall or something and she’s the monkey, being observed. Erin flushes and stays where she is on the floor. To her utter surprise, Holtz plops down in front of her, folding her legs and putting her hands in her lap.
“Um…” Erin starts.
“You like my dancing,” Holtz interrupts. It’s teasing and undoubtedly smug. Erin just shrugs. “Oh, but you do. You like a lotta things about me, apparently.” She slides the Holtz-book across the floor like a peace offering, tapping the cover with her index finger. Her grin is huge, manic. It’s not pleasant, really, or all that sane. Erin knows this grin well, has documented it in her findings. Because, as it turns out, she made herself the relative expert on all things Dr. Jillian Holtzmann.
That’s why she knows that this harsh smile is the one for unadulterated delight. Holtz is excited about the book of herself, not freaked out as she by all means should be. Then again, Holtz is freaked out by marginally fewer things than most. She’s looking at Erin like she usually looks at a beautiful piece of circuitry, or at the aftermath of an explosive burst from a weapon of her own design. It’s wonderful to be on the receiving end of that attention. She’s fine with it, of course she is, because she’s Holtzmann and the rules of what’s okay aren’t so rigid anymore.
Erin has lists of her favorite songs, hypotheses on the reason for those yellow-tinted goggles, analyses on her disheveled fashion sense. She has a detailed guide on the nuances of all of those animated facial expressions. Still, when that grin turns slightly more manic and a bit hungry, Erin is shocked to the core as Holtz leans forward and kisses her.
Their first kiss is on the floor surrounded by what Erin uses to do the job she adores every day. The hands cupping her face smudge her cheek with grease. Erin can tremble and Holtz can bite too hard and it’s perfect, somehow, though it’s not as pretty as it is in the movies. It isn’t soft. It’s tinged yellow along the edges with bright energy, manic like Holtz’s smile and shaky like Erin on a bad day. It purrs and buzzes in their ears.
Really, it’s time for Erin to face facts: no matter what, Holtzmann will never stop surprising her.