Chapter Text
Erin doesn’t curse. It’s a resolute part of who she is. Maybe it’s because she used to teach or maybe it’s because she’s a prude at heart or maybe it’s a bit of both. Either way, she doesn’t curse. A ghost knocks her off her feet or she winds up right in the line of ectoplasm fire? She mutters “shoot” and moves on. She’s never understood the point in cursing. It doesn’t serve any purpose. It doesn’t make her any less angry or take the bite out of anything.
That’s not to say she has sensitivity to other people cursing. If that was the case, she’d have shed Abby years ago (well, she sort of did, but that isn’t the point).
When Holtzmann lets out the longest string of curse words Erin has ever heard, mixed with a bunch of nonsensical words, it makes her laugh, nervously. She worries, of course, but somehow that many expletives in one constant stream gives her the impression Holtzmann is probably a-o.k. She’s more of a “yikes” gal the majority of the time, but still, it isn’t anything to worry about. Erin glances over at her and, yep, she seems to be more or less in one piece, even if her machinery isn’t.
-
Holtzmann notices that Erin doesn’t curse but then that shouldn’t be a surprise because Holtzmann notices everything Erin does or does not do. She notices the way she always folds her paper bags from the deli neatly into quarters before she puts them into the trash, how she likes to have her marker pens lined up along her desk, perfectly side by side, in colour order. She notices that she never turns the corners down on book pages, never eats near her computer, and never writes in the margins of her notebooks. Not cursing is just another one of her adorable quirks, as far as Holtzmann is concerned.
That’s what Holtzmann’s mission has been since day one, she supposes: to undo Erin. To move her out of her comfort zone. Not because she doesn’t like her the way she is, doesn’t enjoy every last one of her strange little rules, but because it’s a fun pastime. It’s what she does best: taking things apart and putting them back together again. She’s wanted to do that to Erin for a long time.
Even without Holtzmann’s interference, there’s an obvious change in Erin from when she first walks into their office at the Kenneth P. Higgins’ institute, all high-heels and tightly buttoned suits, and when she arrives at the Firehouse for the very first time, dressed in jeans and trainers. It isn’t just her physical appearance, though. Her whole demeanour is different. She’s almost completely let her guard down, and it inspires Holtzmann even further.
It starts with the pens. Holtzmann is attracted to chaos like a moth to a flame and she can’t help but bat at the neat row of pens when she sees them sitting there on Erin’s desk. Simply knocking them around isn’t enough though. Tongue between her teeth, she picks up the collection of pens - markers in neat alignment, biros and highlighters and even a fountain pen tucked neatly away in a pen holder which she upends immediately - and moves them around the desk methodically, before stepping back to admire her handiwork.
“Who did this?” Erin groans later, though she already has her suspicions.
Kevin rounds the corner of her desk and stares at the pens in puzzlement.
“NIRE-OLLEH,” he says, aloud, each sound painfully slow, and Erin barely suppresses another groan, “is it French?”
She doesn’t bother explaining to him that it’s upside down.
A few days later, Holtzmann swings down the fire pole and heads straight to the kitchen. She appears a moment later with goodies from the fridge: a yogurt, a cheese stick, and a carefully wrapped sandwich. She doesn’t think twice before dropping down into Erin’s desk chair, swivelling around in it once, and then making herself comfortable, feet up on the desk, barely an inch away from her keyboard. She unwraps the sandwich, tossing the wrapping aside in a flurry.
“Ugh!”
Halfway through the delicious sandwich, Holtzmann looks up to find Erin standing over her.
“Hey, sweet thing,” she says around a mouthful of salt-beef.
“You’re in my chair,” Erin says patiently, “and is that… yep, that’s my sandwich.”
Holtzmann wrinkles her brow, as if she has no idea what Erin’s talking about, as if it isn’t painfully obvious that she’s at Erin’s desk, and that she’s eating Erin’s sandwich, a sticky label with her name scrawled across it now stuck in the space between her keyboard and her mouse.
With a smirk she digs into the deep pocket of her overcoat and pulls out a freshly wrapped toasted bagel, tosses it onto the desk.
“You are intolerable,” Erin says, picking up the bagel, obviously about to toss it back to her.
Holtzmann can’t help but grin, “check it out, an Absolute Bagels - the best bagels in New York City - nova and cream cheese bagel, fresh from the store, and oh, is that,” she reaches into her pocket again, and plucks out something else, “a Madagascan vanilla and coconut cookie from the stand that Erin has been making moony eyes over for two weeks? I think it is!”
Erin’s cheeks flush and she rolls her eyes, accepting the cookie. She unwraps the bagel and takes a bite, unable to stop the sigh of pleasure that slips out as she sinks her teeth in.
“Okay, I will let you off, but you’re taking that sandwich away from my computer,” she murmurs, pushing Holtzmann’s boot-clad shoes down from the desk.
Holtzmann salutes her with two fingers, “aye aye captain.”
-
What happens a while later is actually a complete accident. They get called to a bust at Hudson Park Library, after a ghost attacks a school group, one hot and sticky afternoon in June. Even with all the modifications she’s made to the Ecto-3, Holtz hasn’t quite managed to get the air conditioning functioning properly with the nuclear weaponry stacked on the top of the vehicle, and its hotter than hell as they zoom through the streets of Manhattan, even with all the windows open. There’s no wind outside to circulate through the car, only hot air, which just serves to make the tin can they drive in even hotter, especially with two of them cramped into the back with Holtzmann’s new toy.
“It is not a toy,” Holtzmann huffs, when Abby refers to it as such, “it’s a heat regulator, and you’ll be thanking me for it when your proton packs don’t melt to your bodies.”
“If it’s meant to regulate heat, then why is it hotter than satan’s asshole in this damn vehicle?” Patty asks, waving a crumpled Pizza take-out leaflet as a make-shift fan.
“Because I can’t turn it on until we are outside the car. Nuclear reasons.”
Suited and booted, they head inside the public library, Patty and Holtzmann struggling to carry the large hunk of metal from the backseat, Abby and Erin carrying their proton packs in addition to their own. The sun beats down heavily on them, and by the time they’ve made it inside, they’re already dripping with sweat. Holtzmann pushes the sleeves up on her coveralls, unzips it a few inches from the top, and wipes her forehead on the back of her hand. She’s already discarded her leather gloves in the heat.
“Doesn’t that sort of defeat the purpose of coveralls?” Erin says, gesturing to Holtzmann’s dishevelled suit.
“I don’t care, I need to breathe,” Holtzmann says, shooting her a look.
“I’ve put ice packs in my bra,” Abby announces, grinning smugly, and Erin gives her two thumbs ups, a look of disbelief on her features.
“How does this thing work?” Erin says, pointing to the new contraption, admitting defeat over the coverall situation.
“I’m not going to lie to you, it’s not entirely been tested,” Holtz drawls in that voice she always uses when she’s not 100% convinced something isn’t going to blow up, but doesn’t want Erin to panic, “but, in theory, it ought to suck the heat from our proton packs away from our bodies. The packs themselves, as you know, were built to avoid overheating and power outages - sort of like a heavy duty hairdryer - but with this heatwave, I’m not entirely convinced… this ought to take care of it though. I just put it together incredibly quickly, didn’t have time to make it more… portable.”
As such, it has to be plugged into two sockets and wheeled around the building, which Holtzmann takes care of. The library has been closed to the public, and there’s no sign of the librarian besides a note at the front desk with an email to send their invoice to. Fortunately, it being a public library, it has air conditioning, albeit a little old and rickety. It momentarily feels good, until the weight of their proton packs and the labour of moving stealthily through the old building makes the difference in temperature feel like barely anything at all.
Naturally, when they find the ghost, and he eventually spews ectoplasm all over them, on the rare occasion that it misses Erin, its target is Holtzmann. Holtzmann, whose suit is unzipped, meaning that the majority of the green goo goes straight down the inside, and straight through to her underwear. She grunts, tossing out the containment unit, and the four of them trap the ghost. Altogether, the bust takes less than ten minutes.
Patty lets out a woop, and Erin gives her a look that says ‘I told you so’. Holtzmann, tossing the container unit aside, quickly tugs the zipper down and steps straight out of her coveralls. She mops absently at the string of green goo dripping down the length of her body, covered only by a sports bra and boxer shorts.
“Hey hey hey, this is a public institution Holtzy, I don’t think they need’a be seein’ your skinny white ass down the aisles near the classics,” Patty calls after her, as Holtzmann starts to gather up their equipment.
“Relax,” Holtzmann rolls her eyes, “there’s no one here. And we’re all friends.”
“Nothing we haven’t seen before,” Abby points out, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
“Maybe some of us,” Holtz thinks she hears Erin mutter under her breath. She turns to look at her, and she’s bright red, looking like she has no idea where to look.
Holtzmann can’t resist it. She turns away, glances purposefully over her shoulder, shaking her boxers-clad butt, and makes sure she locks eyes with Erin.
Then, she winks.
Slowly, and with a sly grin, one dimple perfectly visible.
Before she can really enjoy the full effect it has on Erin, she returns to what she’s doing. And maybe it isn’t a calculated part of this whole wind up routine she’s got going, but she knows its worked. Mostly because on the way home, despite being dressed now in an over-sized Waffle House t-shirt, Erin won’t look at her, won’t meet her eyes.
When she does, she blushes profusely and looks away, and, for Holtzmann, it's almost a Eureka! moment.