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The fight erupts over dinner time.
Holly is telling them about a school dance coming up this weekend, and Jackson, unaware of the land mine he’s about to step on, asks who she’s planning to go with.
“Adam’s taking me,” Holly says, in a high, slightly-too-casual voice that immediately betrays nervousness. She’s trying to play it off, but Jackson can tell she knows this plan won’t go over well with her father.
And, of course, it doesn’t.
“No, he’s not,” Holland says with a dismissive shake of his head.
“Yes, he is,” Holly insists, a sharper edge in her voice.
“No. He’s not.” Holland’s voice is firm, like he intends to end the conversation right there. But, of course, because it’s Holland, he goes on, “No, because there’s no way a random, strange man is taking you to a school dance.”
Holly makes a sound of frustration. “He’s a teenage boy, and he’s in my class!” Then, narrowing her eyes, she adds in a more pointed tone, “which you’d know, if you paid any attention to my life.”
Low blow, Jackson thinks.
Holland, to his credit, doesn’t take the bait. Either that or doesn’t notice, too distracted by Holly’s plan.
“Well, have we met this teenage boy?” he pushes on, punctuating the adjective with emphasis that makes it clear this is only a marginally better alternative to a strange, adult man. Jackson knows how Holland feels about teenage boys and his daughter (and, he has to admit, he tends to agree — although maybe not with so much vitriol).
“You could. He offered to pick me up on Friday,” she says. “But you’ll probably just go psycho on him anyway..” she adds in a quiet mumble, rolling her eyes for good measure.
“Oh, really? Because that’s something I do, right? ‘Go psycho’?” Holland’s starting to get riled up, but a new realization derails this train of thought, and he abruptly cuts himself off. “—Wait a second, is he driving?!”
Holly’s eyes nearly pop out of her head. “Oh, so now you have a problem with teenagers driving?”
Holland opens his mouth to protest, but he stops short, obviously failing to come up with a good rebuttal. He has been letting Holly drive him around without a license since she was thirteen, and even though he could claim he only allowed it because she’s an exceptionally skilled and responsible teenager, they all know that’s not the real reason — Holly spent her preteen years driving Holland around as a direct consequence of his parental shortcomings and, right now, she won’t hesitate to throw that in his face.
Hoping to avoid that particular line of escalation, Jackson decides to speak up.
“To be fair, Holl, you do let her drive.”
Holland’s eyes flick to Jackson, irritated by his partner’s apparent betrayal, and Jackson rushes to correct his mistake.
“How about this? How about he comes here, so we can meet the kid, and then we drive you both to the dance, hm? Give us a chance to get to know him.”
It’s a pretty good solution in Jackson’s opinion. Holly can still enjoy her evening with Adam at the dance, and Holland will have the pleasure of interrogating and absolutely terrifying the kid beforehand.
Holly leans back in her chair, obviously not entirely satisfied with Jackson’s solution, but smart enough to recognize that it might be the best case scenario. Holland just purses his lips, thinking it over.
“Fine,” he spits out. His tone is clipped.
Tension lingers in the air for a few more minutes, until Holly abruptly pushes her plate away and stands up, chair scraping against the linoleum floor. She mumbles something about being excused.
“It’s impolite to leave in the middle of dinner,” Holland points out, because apparently he’s not done being an ass just yet.
Holly makes another noise of frustration, then spins on her heel to leave. She storms off to her bedroom, and, seconds later, they hear the sharp crack of her door.
“It’s also impolite to slam doors!” Holland calls, raising his voice to a shout on the last few words.
He settles back into his seat, pulling a cigarette and lighter out of his pocket. He tries to look unruffled, but his shoulders are tight with tension and his hands fumble clumsily with the lighter. As he takes his first puff, Jackson fixes him with a disapproving look.
“What?” Holland mumbles, lips wrapped around his cigarette.
“Holl, I know she’s your kid,” Jackson’s voice is low and careful. “But come on, it’s one dance. I mean, it’s not like she’s going to get pregnant—”
He chokes on the words, paling a little at the idea. Holland smirks and smugly raises his eyebrow, as if to say ‘See? You’re also worried about her.’
“Okay, fine, I get it,” Jackson sighs, lifting his hands in defeat. This seems to mollify Holland. “I get that you’re just worried about her. I am too. But if you think about it, this is the best case scenario, right?" Holland still looks skeptical, so Jackson pushes on. "We get to meet the kid, and if he’s not good enough for Holly then…" He struggles to think of an appropriately severe consequence, before declaring, "Then, shit, I’ll break his fingers, okay?”
Holland barks out a laugh at that, his shoulders finally releasing the tension they’ve been holding.
“You promise?”
Jackson nods solemnly once, before his mouth involuntarily twists into a small smile. Holland gives him a fond look, taking another drag of his cigarette before stubbing it out on a nearby ashtray.
He gets up to clear their plates, and, after carrying the small stack to the sink, wordlessly starts washing the dishes. Holland rarely cleans up after dinner, and Jackson realizes that he must actually feel bad about ruining their mealtime. They sit in silence as Holland does the dishes.
Once he's done, Holland sighs and turns back to face Jackson, wiping his hands on the dish towel.
“Okay, fine, I overreacted,” he admits. Jackson hums in response. “I should probably go talk to her.”
He hesitates, unsure whether Holly’s had enough time to cool down, and Jackson waves him off.
“Let me?”
A couple of years ago, Jackson wouldn’t have dared to intervene in their relationship like this, not feeling like it was his place to parent Holly. But things have changed since then and he's part of their family now. These days, it is very much his place to parent Holly.
Holland walks back to the table, dropping down to press a quick kiss against Jackson’s temple.
“Thank you,” he says.
“No problem,” Jackson replies, lifting himself out of his chair with a slight groan (shit, he’s getting old), while Holland busies himself with tidying the rest of the kitchen. Jackson makes his way to Holly’s room, and, steadying himself, knocks lightly on the door.
“Go away!” Her voice is muffled, but Jackson can still hear the anger through the door. He guesses that it’s primarily directed at Holland.
“It’s me,” he tries.
“Oh.”
The sound is muffled, but Jackson hears the bed shift as Holly gets up, and seconds later, the door swings open with a quiet click. Holly walks back towards her bed, wordlessly inviting Jackson to come in, and he steps inside, shutting the door behind him. Holly wastes no time airing her grievances.
“Ugh! I just mention a boy and he literally goes psycho! Why does he have to be so annoying about everything?”
Jackson resists the urge to admonish Holly for incorrectly using the word “literally” (a horrible and pedantic habit he’s no doubt picked up from Holland) and, instead, he says softly, “You know he’s just worried about you.”
She scoffs. “So he doesn’t trust me to make my own decisions?”
“It’s not that.” Jackson comes to sit on the edge of her bed. “He doesn’t want you to get hurt. Parents worry about that sort of stuff.”
Holly considers this, absentmindedly chewing at a hangnail. She seems torn between holding onto her anger and feeling pleased that Holland is actually acting like a parent again.
“Still, it’s just a dumb school thing,” she protests, anger winning out.
“I know, I know,” Jackson acknowledges. “But I think in his mind it’s more than that, you know? It’s not just about the dance, it’s about the next few years of your life, about you dating and getting hurt. That sort of thing.”
“What, so I’m growing up, and he can’t handle it?” Her words are bitter, but most of the fight has gone from her voice, and it almost sounds like a sincere question.
“He loves you so much, kid,” Jackson shrugs. “It’s hard for him.”
“I know,” Holly mumbles. Her shoulders soften.
“And hey, you’ll still have plenty of time with Adam at the dance,” Jackson reminds her, bumping his arm against hers. “Just gotta make your old man happy and let him meet the guy first.”
Holly considers this and sighs. “As long as you’ll be there too, to stop my dad from acting totally insane.”
“Oh, I’m not sure how much I can help with that,” he remarks lightly, earning a quiet breath of laughter from Holly. Then, in a softer voice, he says, “But of course I’ll be there, sweetheart. I wanna meet him too, you know.”
Holly smiles.
“I mean, I did just threaten to break his fingers if he doesn’t treat you right,” he adds.
Holly breaks into a genuine laugh, recognizing the love in Jackson’s (mostly) empty threat. She wraps her arms around him, breathing deeply. “Thank you, Healy.”
“Anytime.” He hugs her back, pressing a kiss against the top of her head.
As he gets up to make his way to the door, he wishes her goodnight, and reminds her not to stay up too late.
“Ookay,” she replies noncommittally, already reaching for the well-worn paperback on her bedside table. They both know she’ll be up for hours, but Jackson can’t really bring himself to reprimand a kid for reading.
Fondness settles in his chest as he steps into the hallway and shuts the door behind him. He’s pleased with himself. Both Holland and Holly are feeling better, and it makes him feel useful. He likes patching things up in the March household, whether it’s a broken window or a scraped knee. He’s been doing it ever since he helped fix up their rental in the aftermath of the disastrous Amelia case years ago, and he thinks he’s gotten pretty damn good at it.
As he makes his way to the bedroom, he hears March puttering around, and he feels a deep sense of peace overtake him, knowing that all they have to worry about now is actually meeting this Adam kid.
-
As it turns out, he could have worried more.
Friday night rolls around, and the evening is off to a tense start. Holly spends thirty minutes deciding what to wear while on a call with Jessica, the phone cord stretched beyond its limits from the main hallway into her bedroom, and Holland paces around pretending like he isn’t desperately craving a drink. When Holly finally emerges from her room, she’s wearing a tank top and a jean skirt, and Holland raises an eyebrow at the short hemline.
“That’s what you’re wearing?” Christ, he just can’t help himself, can he?
A scowl passes over Holly’s face, and Jackson rushes to add, “You look good, kid.” He squeezes the back of Holland’s arm in silent warning.
Holland, recognizing his mistake, clumsily tries to smooth things over. “No, I just meant— I’ve never seen that skirt before, but it’s, uh, nice.” He clears his throat. “You look very nice, sweetheart.”
It’s a genuine compliment, and Holly beams. She tells them she got it when she went to the mall a few weeks ago, and they reiterate their praises.
“Anyways, Dad, can you help me pick out my accessories?” she asks, changing the topic and mercifully diffusing any lingering tension. Holland gratefully agrees, and they disappear into Holly’s room.
Alone, Jackson grabs himself a coke from the fridge, and settles at the kitchen table, ready to approve whatever Holland and Holly have picked out. A few minutes later, he hears a timid knock at the front door.
“You must be Adam,” Jackson says by way of greeting, sizing up the nervous boy standing on the doorstep. He’s tall for his age, with a round, lightly pimpled face. His expression is uncertain, and one shoelace is untied. He doesn’t look like much of a threat, but Jackson’s not sure he’s a match worthy of Holly either. Then again, Jackson’s not sure anybody is.
“Hello, uh, are you Holly’s dad?”
“No,” Jackson replies gruffly.
“Um,” he squeaks, “Is this Holly March’s house?”
“It is.”
“So, uh…” The poor kid looks completely lost.
“I work with her dad,” he finally relents, opening the door to let Adam in.
Adam walks inside cautiously, his eyes roving over the boxes in the living room. They’ve only recently moved out of the rental into a new build on the March family lot, and they’re slacking a little on the unpacking. Not Holly’s room, though. That was the first room to be fully unpacked and cleared of any boxes.
“Nice place,” Adam comments, trying to break the awkward silence.
Jackson, ignoring him, calls out, “Holly, he’s here!”
Holland and Holly emerge from her room, wearing matching expressions of nervousness. Jackson smiles to himself, amused by the uncanny similarity.
“Hey, Holl,” Adam says.
“It’s Holly.” Her tone is clipped, and awkwardness settles around the room. Jackson and Holland’s eyes meet briefly across the room.
“But, um, that’s okay,” Holly rushes to add, “My dad just goes by Holl sometimes.” That's not entirely true, 'Holl' is a nickname reserved pretty much exclusively for Jackson's use. Holly laughs a little to cover the awkwardness. “Oh, and this is him! My dad.”
“Holland March,” he offers his hand. “You can call me Mr. March.” It should sound warm, and Jackson supposes it would, if Holland were inviting Adam to use a more familiar name, but he doesn’t seem interested in familiarity in the slightest.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. March,” he says. “And, um..”
“That’s Healy,” Holly fills in. “A friend of my dad’s.”
Adam greets him too. At least the kid seems polite, even though he reminds Jackson a little bit of a wet noodle. Well, Holly isn’t exactly being her brilliant and scintillating self either, so maybe that’s just teenage awkwardness.
“So, Holly tells me you’re in class together,” Holland says, starting his interrogation. It goes on for a few minutes, with Adam repeatedly replying “yes, sir” and glancing nervously towards Holly. Eventually, she interjects, reminding them that the dance started a few minutes ago.
Holland snaps a polaroid of Holly and Adam, and even though Jackson knows he’ll deny it vehemently later, he swears he can see a fond, watery sheen in Holland’s eyes. They pile into Jackson’s car, and Holland spends most of the ride twisting back to make sure Holly and Adam haven’t started canoodling in the backseat. Holly rolls her eyes every time, and Jackson offers a small, apologetic smile when he meets her gaze through the rearview mirror.
—
“Mr. March, I’m sorry but you aren’t signed up to chaperone,” the woman at the door raises her voice, the sound carrying over to Jackson’s car. She sounds apologetic and nervous, and Holland is flapping his arms frantically in front of her.
“This is bullshit!” he exclaims, “I just dropped my daughter off and you’re telling me I can’t stay? I can’t stay to supervise my own child? Isn’t this a violation of my visitation rights?”
“That’s not– er, are you divorced?” she asks.
Jackson sees Holland’s shoulders drop as he grumbles something like a no.
“Look, I’m sorry, Mr. March but unless you signed up to chaperone, I can’t let you in.” She forces a smile, “You can always sign up for the next school dance! We’d love to have more parents volunteer!”
Holland mutters something inaudible in disagreement, then stalks back to the car. He mumbles curses (and offers a few comparisons to Nazi germany), his protests growing louder as he approaches, until he wrenches the car door open and lowers himself into the front passenger seat with a huff.
“I’m sorry, man.” Jackson offers, starting the car and not feeling entirely sorry. Holland’s plan was half-cocked and formed at the last minute, obviously a knee-jerk reaction to seeing Adam take Holly’s hand as they walked through the school doors.
Holland makes a noise of complaint in the back of his throat.
“She’s gonna be fine,” Jackson asserts, mostly for Holland’s sake but a little bit for his own. He shrugs, “They’re teenagers.”
“Exactly! They’re teenagers. And I know what sorts of things teenagers get up to,” Holland insists.
Jackson rolls his eyes.
“Hey,” Jackson says, reaching out to place a hand on Holland’s knee. He smiles. “Why don’t we go home and act like teenagers?”
“Yeah, because reminding me what that little cretin wants to do with my daughter is a great way to get me in the mood.” He still sounds cranky, but he releases his hold on the car door, and his leg shifts a little against Jackson’s palm, his thigh falling open just a fraction.
Jackson just laughs, rubbing his thumb against Holland’s leg.
-
Later that night, after fooling around like middle-aged men (not like teenagers, Holland insisted), Holland and Jackson find themselves lying on the couch and watching television. Holland fell asleep quickly, his head lolling against Jackson’s shoulder, and Jackson continues watching without him, waiting for Holly’s friend to drop her off.
Jackson hears a key turn gently in the door, and a few moments later Holly walks into the living room. She kicks off her shoes and comes to sit on the couch next to Jackson, her eyes drifting lazily to the television.
“How was it?” Jackson whispers, not wanting to wake Holland.
“Honestly?” Holly whispers back, “Kind of awful. He barely let me talk all night, and when he walked me to the door, he tried to kiss me even though I told him no.”
Jackson bristles.
“What’d you do?”
“Told him to get lost or I’d break his kneecaps.” She sounds proud of herself.
Jackson, feeling just as proud, breathes, “That’s my girl.”
They continue watching television for a few minutes, light flickering around the dark room.
“Are you gonna tell my dad?” Holly asks eventually, not taking her eyes off the screen.
Jackson thinks about it, and quickly realizes that Holland will absolutely hit the roof and sincerely ask him to go beat up a fifteen year old boy. It’s just not worth the trouble.
“Nah," he says, "I’ll tell him you engaged in some irresponsible, premarital activities, and you’re planning a shotgun wedding in 8 months."
Holly laughs softly.
"Are you gonna break his kneecaps?" she asks.
"Only if you want me to," Jackson replies with a smile, "And, anyway, I think I promised to break his fingers."
Holly laughs again, before lifting herself off the couch. She goes to the kitchen, and Jackson can hear her rummaging around the fridge. She comes back with two bottles of coke, and she offers one to Jackson before lowering herself back onto the couch. They clink their glasses together, and Jackson wraps his free arm around Holly. They settle in to finish the movie that had been playing, and fondness coats Jackson's heart like honey.