Work Text:
Healy squares his shoulders as he makes his way into the loud establishment, tired eyes scanning the place. Looking for March is not a hardship. His partner is sitting at the bar alone, nursing a half-empty glass of brown liquor — this shithole’s cheapest whiskey, if their six months of partnership have taught Healy anything.
March is staring at the shelf of bottles behind the bar, eyes circled and distant. His entire demeanor shifts once he notices Healy walking up to him, but the older man has already seen enough.
“Fancy seeing you here,” Holland says with a raise of his eyebrows and a failed smile he quickly hides behind the rim of his glass.
Healy ignores the attempt at lighthearted conversation as he sits down next to his partner and waves the barman away. “Holly called.”
March’s face clears out at the mention of his daughter. His eyes leave Healy’s face to focus on the dirty counter. “Why? Is she alright? Where—”
“She’s still at Jessica’s. She called me because she was worried about you.”
March stares at the counter for a couple more seconds, then snorts and takes another sip.
When it becomes clear that the younger man is not going to say anything, Healy leans a bit closer. “Should I be worried about you?”
“Listen,” March says, roughly rubbing his face with a shaky hand that does not go unnoticed before digging into his jacket, “I don’t know what the kid told you, but I’m fine. I’m a grown man,” he continues, lips pressed around a cigarette as he pulls it out of the pack. “I can handle myself,” he says, flicking his lighter.
“Is this why you’ve been sitting here drinking yourself stupid for the past three hours?”
Holland pulls the freshly lit cigarette out of his mouth. “What’s your fucking deal, Healy? Seriously?”
“My deal is that you sent your daughter to a sleepover on the night of your wife’s death anniversary,” Healy answers calmly, watching the expected but unusual shift of emotions in Holland’s eyes. “And that it freaked her out enough that she called me and begged me to make sure you were alright.”
The topic feels weird and uncomfortable to brush. In their six months of partnership, the only clues Holland has given of his deceased wife have been the ring hanging from his neck and the occasional haunted look in his eyes.
“She’s worried about you, Holland. And I’m—” Healy hesitates. “I’m worried about her.”
“Then why the fuck are you here?” March asks, waving his cigarette around. “Go check on her.”
“Okay, you moron,” Healy grunts. “I’m worried about you too. Happy?”
March just snorts and takes another sip, the glass bumping clumsily against his front teeth when he brings it to his lips.
Healy shakes his head. “You’re a fucking dickhead, you know that, March?”
“Breaking news,” Holland answers dryly, setting the empty glass down with a little too much strength.
“It’s been two years, man. How much longer till you start facing the fact that drinking yourself to death isn’t gonna bring her back?”
March stands up harshly enough to send the barstool flying, and Healy immediately recognizes he went too far, too soon. There’s a wild look in his partner’s eyes that he rarely ever sees, and that he has for sure never seen directed his way.
“Work partners,” Holland grits out, drunk eyes undoubtedly struggling to focus on Healy’s face. “We’re work partners, Healy. You don’t know anything about my life, and you sure as hell don’t know anything about my w—”
Holland’s voice dies in his throat, and the two men stare at each other for a moment, Healy painfully aware of the sudden silence in the small bar. March doesn’t seem to care, and throws his cigarette stub to the floor and one last dark look at Healy before stumbling to the exit.
The older man nods apologetically at the other patrons before following his partner out.
“March,” he calls once he makes it to the street, eyes on the drunk man struggling to walk in a straight line. “March, come on, let me take you home.”
“Leave me alone,” the younger man barks, throwing an undignified middle finger over his shoulder.
“Come on, man,” Jackson calls out, easily catching up with Holland’s drunk pace. He grabs onto his biceps. “You’re fucking wasted, don’t be stup—”
In the most unexpected way, Healy finds his hand wrenched from Holland’s arm and himself thrown against the nearest wall. Shaky fingers bunch up the fabric of his shirt as March glowers at him, teeth bared. Healy does not miss the tears in his eyes, gleaming under the streetlights.
“I said, leave me the fuck alone,” March growls, and Healy finds himself taken aback by the unusual display of strength and hatred. He’s so used to Holland playing the lighthearted idiot, a character Jackson knows to look right through but still indulges for March’s sake, that for a moment he feels like he’s looking into the eyes of a stranger.
For the first time in six months, he’s finally catching a glimpse of the grief Holland March is constantly trying his hardest to bury.
Healy grabs onto March’s wrists and easily switches their positions, the younger man far too drunk to react in time. Holland grunts as his back hits the wall.
“And I said,” Healy replies calmly, hands already weakening their hold on Holland’s wrists, “you’re fucking wasted, and I’m taking you home.”
March takes advantage of Healy’s softening grip to push the older man back, but does not move away from the wall. Instead he wraps his arms around himself, visibly shaking despite the warmth of a late august evening.
“Don’t take me home,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t go home.”
Healy’s shoulders sag at the sudden shift in his partner’s behavior. “March, you have to go somewhere.”
A humorless laugh wheezes past March’s lips. The younger man looks up, the glow of the streetlights highlighting his wet lashes and wide pupils. He starts shaking his head, and doesn't stop. “There’s nowhere to go. There’s nowhere to go.”
“Hey,” Healy calls out when the headshaking turns manic. He reaches out, but aborts the movement halfway. “Holland, you need to calm down, man.”
“Calm down,” March repeats, then unexpectedly bursts out laughing. “Calm down, yeah. That’s a good fucking one, Jackson.”
“Wasn’t aware I was making a joke,” Healy answers with a raise of his eyebrows.
“I can’t fucking calm down, Healy!” March snaps, the harshness of his tone nearly giving Healy whiplash. “I can’t ever take a fucking break, I can’t ever feel fucking good, I can’t sleep, I can’t think, I can’t rebuild that fucking house, I can’t raise my fucking daughter, and I sure as hell can’t fucking calm down! I can’t do shit, when is that gonna get into your big fucking head?”
Healy is silent for a long time, struggling to process the outburst as March struggles to catch his breath. “You can’t drink your life away either,” he says eventually. “Your wife wouldn’t want that.”
Two palms slap against his chest before he’s even done talking, March shoving him over and over again, an animalistic snarl on his face.
“Shut the fuck up,” Holland spits out, closing a fist and hitting Healy’s shoulder with it. “Shut the fuck up!”
In any other situation, Jackson Healy would have struck back — tonight, he just takes it, lets Holland March hit him until his chest aches and they’re standing in the middle of the street.
“You don’t know shit,” March snarls, flat palms coming down on Healy’s jacket. “You don’t know her, you don’t know what happened, you don’t know what I did!”
“What did you do?”
Holland watches him for a moment, eyes wild and mouth opening and closing fruitlessly. Then he clenches his jaw and shoves Healy again, strength already weakening.
“Fucking fight back, you fucking moron!” Holland shouts, banging a fist against Healy’s chest.
Healy does not fight back. “What did you do, March?”
“I fucking killed her!” March yells, shoving Jackson one last time before finally, finally bursting into tears. “I fucking killed the love of my fucking life,” he sobs, the words barely intelligible. “Are you happy?”
Healy can’t do much more than watch as his partner unravels in front of him, March’s fingers pulling at his own hair as he sinks to the ground, chest heaving with years of unshed tears. Jackson ignores his protesting legs and kneels next to the younger man, reaching out with a hand trembling with adrenaline.
“You didn’t kill your wife, Holland,” Healy says, fingers digging into March’s shaking shoulder. “The fire did.”
“I couldn’t smell it,” March sobs, bent in half in the middle of the street, fingers unforgiving against his scalp. “I couldn’t smell it,” he repeats, words slurring. “I couldn’t smell it.”
“You can’t blame yourself for that,” Healy says, his own heart aching at the misery of his partner. Of his friend. “You’ll never make it back up if you blame yourself, Hol’.”
“I fucked everything up,” March cries, then starts retching.
Urgency takes over sympathy in Healy’s head and he shoots forward to manhandle the younger man to the side, forcing his hands out of his hair in the process. Regurgitated booze hits the cracked concrete a mere second later, and Healy does his best to block the smell as March heaves and shakes in his arms.
When Holland’s stomach seems to have settled, Healy pulls his friend back up and, before he can really think any better of it, wraps his arms around the younger man.
March melts, the fight undoubtedly drained out of him.
“I miss her,” he cries in Healy’s aching chest, barely lucid. “I miss her, I miss her, I miss her.”
Jackson just holds him tighter and stares at the ground, ignoring his sore knees as he waits for the storm to pass.
“Come on, we’re almost there.”
Holland grunts as Healy maneuvers the two of them into the darkened apartment. He’d apologize about the mess, but he’s pretty sure his partner is far too gone to notice anything past the tip of his own nose.
He sits March down on the edge of his worn twin bed and reaches to turn on the small bedside lamp. A soft orange glow lights up the room, highlighting the mess of Holland’s face. He hasn’t stopped crying yet, cheeks drenched and nose wet with snot, but he’s not actively sobbing anymore, nor looking on the verge of another puking session. Healy takes it as a win as he kneels down to undo his friend’s shoelaces, his tired old eyes squinting in the semi-darkness.
“I can do that,” Holland slurs, but doesn’t move.
“I know you can,” Healy answers as he pulls March’s shoes off and straightens up. “Jacket off, come on.”
He watches as Holland tries to comply only to end up with both arms twisted in the garment, and reaches with a sigh to help him. March blows out a shaky breath as Healy frees him, and the older man freezes when he feels a sweaty forehead bury itself in the crook of his neck.
“March,” he says, voice low, hands tight around the jacket.
“Just a minute,” Holland mutters, breath tickling Healy’s skin. He sniffs. “I’m sorry.”
Healy raises a tentative hand, cups it against the nape of March’s neck. “Don’t be,” he says, unsure of what they’re talking about.
They stay like that long after Holland’s breaths have evened out.