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The last Parent-Teacher Conference weighs heavily on his mind. Holland cannot believe Holly's teacher—Mr. Grave, was it?—mistook him and Healy for a couple. There is no fucking way. Absolutely no shot.
Something warm stirs in his chest at the thought—and it's not the burn of liquor. What if they were a couple? Is it so impossible?
He shuts down the idea immediately. Holland knows that his own feelings for Healy have stretched far beyond what's considered plain ol' platonic partnership. He's in love, goddamn it, and he knows Healy just doesn't love him back the same way.
He dumps the contents of the liquor glass down his throat.
Holland is fine with it. He'll just bottle up his feelings, and stuff them somewhere in a cabinet—hidden with all his other bottles of alcohol.
He'll trap his feelings in a bottle, and it'll be the one and only bottle he'll refuse to drink from.
★
Holland is very, very confused—and a little worried—when Holly comes back to school one day, her face permanently set in a grimace.
"Hols?" he ventures. He'll beat up whoever caused that unhappy expression on his daughter's face. He'll recruit Healy for help; Holland is sure that Healy won't mind assaulting others for Holly.
Holly pulls out a bottle of Yoo-hoo from the refrigerator, before turning to look at him. "Mr. Grace has been absent from school for a while, and no one knows what happened to him," she says. "Even the substitute teacher says he didn't leave any teaching plans for her."
"Is that weird?"
Her lips pull into a frown. "Yes, dad," she says, rolling her eyes. "Mr. Grace is rarely absent from school. When he is, he leaves detailed plans for the substitute teacher."
Then Holly suddenly perks up, visibly straightening. "The Agency has no cases right now, right?" she asks excitedly. "Why don't you and Mr. Healy find out what happened to Mr. Grace?"
Holland blinks. This whole situation does sound like one of those missing person cases he and Healy would pick up. "How do you know we have no cases right now?" he asks instead.
"I'm your secretary, dad," she responds, deadpan and faintly annoyed with him. She shuffles closer to her father. "Please…? Dad, please."
Ugh. He can't ever say no to his daughter.
"Fine," he says, resigned, pretending that he doesn't see Holly's look of relief.
Holland hopes that Healy is free today for some investigation.
★
It's not too difficult to figure out what happened to Mr. Grace.
(Holly'd repeated his name so many times, emphasising that his name is Grace, not Grave, that it's now ingrained in his head. Whatever.)
Holly tells him that the student who last saw Mr. Grace in school was one of her classmates—Kevin. But Kevin refuses to say anything about the encounter, claiming that he doesn't want to get involved in "shady government shit".
So Holland slides him 10 bucks, and the kid spills.
"He was here," the kid says, gesturing to the bike sitting innocently behind him. There are a few sheets of an unmarked assignment tucked under the wheel of the bicycle—as if a student had placed it there. "I walked past him and he told me 'no running'." The kid crosses his arms. "I wasn't even running."
"Did you see who he was with?" Healy asks.
"I told you already, it's the government. There were like black vans and shit," Kevin says, sounding bored. "There was a man and a woman. I didn't really see much 'cause I was walking away, but they were escorting him into the van. Like he did something illegal." The kid huffs. "Can you imagine Mr. Grace committing a crime? Hell nah. He probably got arrested though, since his bike is still here."
Kevin's right, Holland cannot picture Grace committing a crime.
"Did they say anything to each other?" Holland presses.
"Wasn't paying attention," the kid says lazily. "I don't know why you're questioning me. There are other people who saw what happened. Bunch of teachers. Maybe they'll know more."
Holland notes down the names of the teachers Kevin mentions. He nods at Healy, then prepares to leave. But Kevin clears his throat, as if wanting to say more.
"Are you gonna rescue him from the government?" Kevin asks, brows raising. He looks down at his feet, before admitting in a subdued manner, "Can you guys find him? I'm gonna fail science without him."
"Of course," Holland says. "It's our job."
★
The lead goes cold for a while. The teachers give them information, but none of them give them new information. Holland is left wondering what the hell Grace got into.
Until he's offered a name: Eva Stratt—and now there's something to follow, even though it's an alarmingly shrouded trail of information.
The Nice Guys work on the case for a while. Holly insists on joining them, but both Healy and March tell her no. Fuck no. The last time the government was involved in something, their rental house got shot at and they'd all nearly died.
They work efficiently, and the question quickly goes from "where is Mr. Grace?", to "how do we get to Mr. Grace?"
★
Holland March works his March Magic—and somehow, they find themselves on an aircraft carrier. He doesn't know how he did it. One thing just led to another, and now, they're right where they wanted to be. It's not the most surprising thing he has done, actually. Holland thinks he really might be a magical being: an indestructible, wish-granting genie of sorts.
They sneak around the aircraft carrier. After Holland turns a corner and catches a glimpse of a man that looks like Mr. Grace, he looks back, only to find no trace of Jackson Healy. Whatever. It doesn't matter. He slides into the room, moving closer to Grace who's thankfully alone.
"Mr. Grace," Holland hisses.
Grace honest-to-God flinches, mouthing "Mister?" with great confusion.
Their eyes meet, and Grace's mouth drops open. He yelps. "Mr. March? What are you doing here?" he asks, voice hushed. "How did you get here?" He sounds amazed. Why is he amazed? Does Grace think of him as a shitty detective? Why is he so amazed that Holland found him?
Holland is rather offended.
"I'm a Private Investigator," he says, by way of explanation, though it hardly explains anything.
Grace blinks. His eyes look tired; the eye bags on his face are frighteningly dark. They must be working him to the bone. "What— Were you hired to find me?" he asks, brows furrowing. "Who hired you?" He casts a quick look behind Holland, warily scanning his surroundings.
"Holly, obviously," Holland says. He thought it was rather obvious. Not waiting for Grace's response, he continues to ask, "Were you kidnapped?"
"You really shouldn't be here," Grace mumbles. He runs his fingers through his hair and pulls at it lightly. Only now does Holland realise that there's a Twizzler tucked behind the teacher's ear. This man is so weird. "Uh, good question," he murmurs. "Well, yeah, it was kind of a kidnapping. But it's—it's an important kidnapping, you know? A good kidnapping."
Holland briefly wonders if Grace has Stockholm Syndrome.
"The hell?" he mutters, his eyes narrowing. His fingers tighten around his cigarette. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
Grace winces. "Listen, it's gonna sound weird and vague, but the things I'm doing here is important. It's a bit of life and death situation." He sighs. "I want to come back and teach, but I'm stuck here until I'm done with my work. I'm, uh, teaching here too."
Life and death situation? Is Grace going to die if he leaves this place?
"You're forced to come teach here?"
"No! Well, I mean… Not exactly? It's not like that. I'm not forced—not in the conventional manner, you know? I'm not." His mouth flattens and Grace suddenly looks very unimpressed. "And I do more than that. I'm teaching, doing science experiments, doing admin work, and stuff like that."
"Don't say 'and stuff'," Holland says automatically.
Grace's expression twitches. "Okay..?" he says, sounding faintly confused. He clears his throat. "Where's your, uh… partner?"
"Healy?" Holland doesn't know why Grace emphasises the word 'partner' like that, his eyes glinting behind his crooked glasses—as if he knows something Holland doesn't. He takes a long drag from his cigarette.
Grace looks really confused now. "Who else would I be talking about?"
The word 'partner', by itself, rings a few bells in Holland's mind. A business partner, like Healy. Or a… romantic partner, like his ex-wife. A romantic partner, that Grace thought was Jackson fucking Healy.
"Right…" Holland says awkwardly. "He's somewhere on this giant fuckin' ship. We're gonna break you out."
Grace laughs nervously; it's an uncertain sound. "Um, Mr. March, I appreciate the sentiment, I do—but I can't," he says, sounding weirdly resigned. "The work I'm doing right now is really important. It'll save the world, and I'm not exaggerating."
"Jesus Christ, Grace, do you have Stockholm Syndrome or something? C'mon, let's go."
Grace stiffens. "First off, Stockholm Syndrome isn't even real," he mutters, loud enough for Holland to catch. He continues, voice growing louder and distinctly annoyed, "Have you heard of the Petrova Line? That is what this—" Grace waves a hand, gesturing at his surroundings. "All of this… is trying to fix."
Contrary to popular belief, Holland does actually keep up with the news. "The dots that, uh, suck up sunlight?"
"Yes," Grace says simply, his voice subdued. "So, I'm sorry, but I can't leave yet." He scans his surroundings again, as if checking for someone, eyes wide with apprehension. "I can't actually talk to people without clearance—which includes you. I can't tell you more. I'm really sorry. Please relay my apologies to Holly."
He ignores everything Grace just said. "You're a fucking middle school teacher. How the hell did you end up here?" Holland asks, incredulous. He's a detective, yes, so naturally, he has investigated the backgrounds of all of Holly's teachers—Mr. Grace does happen to have the most interesting one. He knows that Grace has a doctorate in whatever biology, knows that he is overqualified for a teaching job at a middle school. But Holland simply cannot look at Grace and genuinely believe that he was kidnapped (by the government!) to do science shit and piss on the Petrova Line. Him? The teacher in question is wearing a shirt of a giant cat sitting on the Golden Gate Bridge, his glasses annoyingly and permanently askew. He's literally only wearing one glove right now!
(Look, Holland is no scientist, but he's pretty sure that only Michael Jackson wears one glove, not scientists working on apocalypse-causing problems.)
"I have a doctorate in molecular biology. I specialised in speculative xenobiology," Grace says defensively. "I'm qualified."
"Yeah, yeah," Holland responds lightly, rubbing his 'stache. "Didn't you call someone a 'staggering waste of carbon'?" He does air quotation marks with one hand, eyebrows raised. "And that got you kicked out, no?" He remembers when Holly found a low quality video of the UNESCO conference, happily presenting him with the clip of her science teacher yelling at a bunch of other scientists while being dragged out of the room. Holly declared Mr. Grace her favourite teacher ever, that day—it's a great honour.
Grace cringes, physically recoiling. 'Let's please not talk about that," he says, words panicked and hurried. His face flushes with shame. "Mr. March, please, that was so long ago," he begs. Grace fiddles with his glasses, straightening and adjusting them. He clears his throat. "Right now, I am the world's leading authority on astrophage," he continues, somewhat proudly, but his voice is stiff in a way that suggests that he's quoting someone.
"Huh," Holland says. That's pretty impressive. Kinda crazy though. "Jesus, alright." He takes another drag from his cigarette, the euphoric rush of heat warming his chest. "When are you coming back?"
Grace blinks, suddenly looking very guilty. His head dips slightly. "I'm, um. I'm actually not sure. Probably after everything's done." He tenses, his posture straightening. "I will come back though. I can promise you and Holly that."
For a split second, Holland's brain comes up with the shitty idea of making Grace pinky-promise him that. Holly's behaviour must be rubbing off on him. "Holly misses you," he tries, instead. "She says the whole class misses you. The sub doesn't know how to fucking teach."
Holland watches, mildly alarmed, as Grace's bottom lip starts to tremble lightly. He can tell that his eyes have gone slightly wet behind his crooked glasses. Fuck, now he feels bad. Mr. Ryland Grace is like a wet cat, and he just made the wet cat cry.
"Jesus tap-dancing Christ, are you crying?" is what comes out of his mouth instead, which is not at all what he wants to say. He clears his throat, and mumbles, "Ugh, please don't cry. Holly will kill me if she… finds out about this."
"I'm not crying," Grace says, voice strangled—very clearly on the verge of tears. He blinks a couple of times, then says, voice low, "I love… I love teaching, Mr. March. I love my children. I would love to be back at my school, teaching them about the stars or something." Holland takes note of how Grace refers to his students as his 'children'. "But, uh, I can't. And I shouldn't. Because I can make a difference here—to try and fix this astrophage problem that's dimming the sun… I have to."
"For the children," Grace says resolutely, as he meets Holland's gaze—his eyes glossy but terribly sincere.
Goddamn it, Grace is the most noble guy he's ever met. Holland shrugs. "Fine," he says, finally.
There's a moment of silence between the two of them, neither of them knowing what to say. But Grace perks up, as if a thought suddenly occurred to him. He grins, his expression bright and curious, as he leans forward.
"I must ask," he whispers, almost conspiratorially. "Are you really not in a relationship with Mr. Healy?"
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
?????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Holland is (once again) stunned into a mortified silence, his mouth falling shut. Grace takes advantage of his silence and adds, smiling reassuringly, "I promise I won't tell anyone if you are. Pinky promise."
"No!" Holland shrieks in response, his voice way too loud. His heart lurches in his chest. "I'm not— We're not… Grace, we're not fucking dating!" Then, as the question quickly forms in his head, he blurts, "Do we seem like we are?"
(He doesn't actually want to know the answer.)
Grace stares at Holland with a look of pure disbelief, brows furrowed and lips pursed. "Yes?" he answers, almost immediately. "Yes. Very much so."
Holland laughs. It sounds bitter, even to his own ears. This is so fucking ridiculous. His hand hovers over the ring that rests on his chest. "Jack…" His voice trails off, and he quickly amends his words, "Healy doesn't think of me in that way." He's aware that he sounds petulant, almost implying that Holland March does in fact think of Jackson Healy in 'that way'.
He doesn't know what it is about Grace—something about his gentle smile and the joy that lives in his bright blue eyes—that makes Holland want to spill his heart out to him. It feels like the floodgates have opened, and the love he holds for Jack has slipped past the cracks, a ruthless rush of emotion that threatens to knock him over.
Christ, he needs a whole bottle of alcohol right now. Use it to seal the cracks. Drown his sorrows. Maybe bash it against his skull.
Grace's gaze is soft, holding eye contact with Holland, a look in his eyes that channels desperation—as if he needs Holland to understand something. "Trust me, Mr. March. He does," Grace says earnestly.
Before he can even fully absorb and digest Grace's comment, someone yells out his name. He recognises the voice as Healy's. Speak of the devil.
Healy steps into the room, moving to stand next to him. He shoots Holland a dirty look, muttering, "Don't fucking disappear on me, asshole. How am I supposed to know where you went?"
"I told you I was gonna look for Grace," Holland says, still dazed and stricken by Grace's words.
"That's the whole point of us coming here," Healy says flatly. Always annoyed with Holland.
(Holland doesn't know how Healy tolerates him.)
Grace seemingly takes pity on him. "Mr. Healy, I told March this, but I'm sorry—I have to stay here." He launches into an explanation of what he's doing here, presumably the same thing he told Holland. But a faint haze settles over Holland's thoughts, turning his mind into a murky mess, and he pays attention to none of it. Holland can't stop thinking about Healy's love that can't possibly exist, yet is seemingly so obvious to an outsider like Grace, that he doesn't even think twice before speaking with such certainty that yes, Jackson Healy loves you.
What a fucking joke. He's too sober for this.
There's a shuffle of footsteps, and suddenly, two strangers materialise out of nowhere, standing at the entrance of the room.
Holland jumps. "Jesus!" he yelps. It's a woman with long strawberry-blonde hair, and a man who has his fingers curled around a gun. Holland's eyes grow wide, and he takes a step back, his hands subconsciously reaching out for Healy. They're trapped in here. Oh God, is he gonna get shot? Technically they are trespassing…
"Dr. Grace, do you know these trespassers?" the woman asks, her gaze piercing through Holland, as if looking deep into his soul.
Grace jolts a little, and whips his head around. Instead of answering, his eyes latch onto the gun the man is holding. He splutters, "Oh gosh, Carl— Put down the gun… They're not— Please put the gun down."
Surprisingly, the man—Carl—puts down his gun.
"Hey Stratt!" Grace continues, relieved, his gaze fleeting between Holland and the woman named Stratt. "They are my student's… uh… guardians."
Holland immediately notices the way he hesitates. Grace wanted to say 'parents'.
"They asked me when I was gonna come back to teach, and I, uh, handled the situation," Grace says quickly, fidgeting with his glasses. "I didn't tell them anything confidential, really, I was just, um, giving relationship advice!"
Oh Jesus fucking Christ. It sounds like a shitty lie hastily constructed to conceal the truth, but there's some truth to it—and that truth seems to wrap around Holland's heart like a vice. Relationship advice.
Trust me, Mr. March. He does.
Healy makes a confused, disgruntled sound.
Stratt narrows her eyes at Holland and Healy.
Carl looks at Holland, then looks at Grace. "Are you two related?" he asks abruptly.
What is even going on anymore.
"No?" Both he and Grace choke out at the same time.
"You look alike," Carl says flatly, but there's some curiosity in his tone.
Grace shrinks back, as if physically recoiling at the thought of being compared to Holland. That's just rude, what the hell.
"People say I look like Ryan Gosling," Holland offers, not at all relevant to the topic at hand. If he and Grace look alike, then Grace is like a super-nerd version of the actor.
Healy looks at him, extremely unimpressed. He clears his throat. "We should go," Healy says, voice soft. "Holland."
Holland ignores how his heart contracts violently in his chest when Healy says his name like that.
"Please leave," Stratt says. Her face is extremely difficult to read, unlike Mr. Grace whose face is an open book. "Or do I have to escort you out?"
He swallows. "Okay, there's no need— We'll leave," he says reluctantly. Holland thinks of his daughter, and the unbridled joy in her eyes as she recounts her fun science lessons. "Come back as soon as you can," he says to the teacher. "Holly loves you."
Grace smiles, eyes gentle and fond behind the metal frame of his glasses. "Of course," he says softly. "Will you tell her to focus more on her weak topics?"
There's a flash of indiscernible emotion on Stratt's face, but it vanishes too quickly for Holland to decipher.
He nods.
Holland March and Jackson Healy leave the room, walking past Stratt and Carl—feeling the weight of three people's stares on their backs.
"Relationship advice?" Healy scoffs. "Grace is a terrible liar. Maybe even worse than you."
Holland feels a heart skip a beat. "Yeah," he breathes.
Trust me, Mr. March. He does.