Chapter Text
1.
March doesn’t care for psychology. His wife used to say that psychology's the most important part of the job–that the why tells half the story. March finds that, nine times out of ten, as long as he finds the when, the how, and the who, the rest doesn’t matter all that much.
Holly tells him he should read a book about it. She says that Jessica's mom is a shrink and that it means Jessica’s been learning how to read minds, and wouldn’t that be helpful dad, or whatever. March thinks it's a load of crap but he promises he’ll get on it, just like he promises he’ll build the new house or that he’ll stop drinking on week days.
“The why is never important,” Holland whined, once, leaning on the platform in the backyard with his arm dangling over the edge. The wet-warm wind sinked under his Hawaiian shirt. Healy had shrugged, then, and argued something about how things aren’t always black and white. “The why is never important,” he repeated plainly, and probably fell asleep, since he can’t remember how the rest of the conversation went.
Now, having just placed a gentle kiss on the crown of Healy's head, the only word running through Holland March’s mind is: why?
It started, as most things do, with a case.
It wasn’t anything exciting. Old man, nearly eighty, hired them to find his granddaughter that ran off without notice a couple days prior. Routine shit. If he had to guess, the girl was fed up with her parents and would be back before the end of the week–but they were being paid up front for three days' work, so he wasn’t gonna complain.
The first day was boring. They ran around asking her friends and tracing back any leads they could find, mostly coming up empty except for a bar she was definitely too young to be a regular at. The majority of the day was spent driving, with March up at the wheel, playing crappy jazz on the radio and slapping Healy’s hand away any time he tried to change stations. At some point, after they visited the bar and March drank a bit too much, they switched.
It was boring, but it was..nice. His head tilted back in the passenger seat since he was too shit-faced to drive, feeling the wind tussle in his hair while his partner grumbled next to him (probably complaining that he shouldn’t be drinking on the job or something equally dumb), he couldn’t help feeling grateful. If he had taken this case just over a year ago, he would’ve been driving by himself, the music quiet and his fingers anxiously drumming against the wheel to distract himself. Instead, he gets this. More than he deserves, definitely.
The second day, they get shot at.
Yeah. Maybe he should’ve held back on the whole gratefulness shit.
It’s a long story. Something involving drugs and a couple of dirtbag teenagers and a protective boyfriend and a whole bunch of things that March doesn’t care about remembering. What matters is that they found her and reported the whole mess to the police, and that the only injury was on March’s part when he fell face forward onto concrete and broke his nose while trying to run from the sound of gunshots.
They were driving back in March’s car. It was getting late, the sun already dissipating and leaving the LA sky a dusky purple mixed with orange and blue.
“Holly’s making dinner,” March said, when they stepped out of the police precinct, his nose already taped up. “Lasgana. It’s pretty good. I taught her how to make it.”
Healy raised his eyebrows. “You taught her?” March nodded. They got into his car, Healy up front, March in the passenger seat. “Yeah, I think I’ll pass, then.”
March frowned, but Healy was already driving home, where Holly would undoubtedly be making dinner and waiting for updates on the case.
It was an unspoken agreement. Hard days meant dinner at March’s house. A new chair was even placed at the table, just for Healy. Holly would cook something simple and quick, and they’d turn the TV on and watch whatever terrible show was on. Sometimes Healy would help out with homework, and Holly would nod along, copying whatever answers he told her. It was normal.
What wasn’t normal was Healy staying the night.
They had dinner. The lasagna was pretty decent. Holly bragged that the changes she made to her fathers recipe improved it tenfold, and March argued despite the fact that she was probably right. When she asked about the case and the bandages on her dads nose, they recounted their high-stakes chase.
“That’s pathetic,” Holly said, when they got to the part where March landed on his face. “You were being chased by people with guns and you got hurt because you..flailed around?”
Healy laughed. March crossed his arms. “I did not flail around. I ran. And what's really pathetic is the guys that shot at us.”
“You kinda did flail around,” Healy said, poking at his food and avoiding March’s glare. “And it was kinda pathetic. In hindsight.”
“Wha–that wasn't my fault,” March tried to argue. “It was the adrenaline, man. I’m telling you.”
Holly giggled. “You totally flailed around. I wish I could’ve seen it. Mr Healy, take pictures next time.”
Healy smiled and promised that, if he wasn’t actively being chased, and if he had a camera on him, and if there wasn’t any real danger, and if March wasn’t at risk of getting seriously hurt, that he’d take pictures. Holly frowned because the odds of all those “ifs” coming true were depressingly low.
The conversation went on for over an hour. Then the TV went on and Holly laid on the floor to watch while the adults stayed at the table, switching between talking about the case and pausing to watch the poorly acted CBS show and making comments on the plotline.
“I should probably go drive Mr Healy home,” March said, once night enveloped the city and the window only let in moonlight and the faint flickers of stars that cut through the air pollution.
Holly looked up at him. Looked at the time. Back at March. “But it’s almost midnight.”
March checked the time himself and cursed under his breath. “Fuck. I lost track of time. We can probably get you home before 12:30 if we leave now,” March offered. Healy shrugged.
“It’s fine. Don’t have much I gotta do back home anyway.”
“Maybe he can stay here tonight,” Holly said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
When March opened his mouth to protest, he found he had no reason to. After all–this was saving him the drive to Healy’s and back, and he was already feeling his back protest to the idea of staying up for an extra half hour of driving. Healy seemed to agree as well.
March offered to take the couch, but Healy insisted that if he was already staying, then he wouldn’t impose any further. So it was all settled. Nothing went wrong and it sorted itself out easily.
Until the morning.
Healy got up before the rest of them and was reading the newspaper on the couch by the time that March got up (with only a minor headache from yesterday's adventures) and offered to drive him home.
Holly, who got up moments later and was already waiting at the door to go to school, tapped her foot on the floor impatiently. “Dad, we’re gonna be late!”
Three things happened in quick succession. First, March rolled his eyes. Then, he made his way to his daughter, ruffled her hair and crouched down to kiss her on the forehead, like he does every morning before school. Finally, he picked himself up to his full height and, without thinking, did the same to Healy.
The world freezes.
And now, we’re here. With March’s hands inches away from where they were on Healy's shoulders. March's face in abject horror, his lips tingling a bit. Holly still tapping her foot on the floor. And the only thing March can wonder is why?
He opens his mouth to apologize.
“Let’s get you to school,” he says instead, and curses his inability to communicate.
The worst part is that Healy has this look on his face. It’s not that he’s unfazed. It’s just that he doesn’t seem to care all that much. Surprised, sure, but nothing at all like March’s undignified terror. Healy waves them goodbye and says something about waiting for March to come back, and March barely has the time to nod before he’s shoving Holly out the door.
And he’s left to think.
Why?
And stupidly, pathetically, horribly, his brain comes up with nothing. Maybe his wife was right. Maybe he really did need to study the why, because nothing irks him like the fact that he has absolutely no answer.
After dropping Holly off at school, March replays the whole thing. How his head was still half fuzzy with sleep and a not-quite hangover. How Holly hadn’t mentioned it after they walked out and how Healy’s face remained placid. How Healy’s hair was surprisingly soft in the mornings when it was tussled from a night of sleep and how, despite everything, March can imagine it–can imagine those gentle morning kisses, being a normal part of waking up.
He nearly crashes at the thought, and has to stick his hand up in apology to the poor woman crossing the road that he almost ran over.
When he gets back, Healy is waiting outside. March doesn’t even get out of the car. Healy slips into the passenger's seat and March tries to ignore that his heart is beating out of his chest.
It was a stupid mistake. But fuck, it was a weird mistake. And what was weirdest is that March still doesn’t understand why.
The car grumbles under his feet. He takes a breath in. Healy sighs. “March. About the whole..y’know, forehead thing. You’re fine,” he says, and maybe Holly was right. Maybe there are mind-readers out there. “I get it. You’re probably just used to doing it on the way out with your daughter, and you probably used to do it with your wife too. It’s instinctual. Nothing to be embarrassed about.”
And March nods. He nods, but it doesn’t quite feel right. And as they drive away to Healy’s house, he decides that that answer will have to do. Of course it was just instinct. That's why it felt normal. He can accept that. He accepts it, because Holland March will always accept the easy way out. He accepts it, and ignores that it feels so entirely wrong.