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Sometimes, March just needed to touch him.
Okay, that sounded bad. Not like that, you dirty minded freaks. Well, there were days of that too. But those days were very different from days like this. These days were much less fun and more…. Healy didn’t know. Sad? Depressing? His word-a-day calendar hadn’t given him the vocabulary to describe them yet.
It wasn’t always obvious at first when one of the bad days occurred. Healy was an early riser, rising at his alarm clock’s first ring and sometimes before it even went off. A habit from the military he had never quite shaken. Besides, he wasn’t one for lounging around wasting time.
His partner, Holland March, was perhaps the very definition of ‘lounging around and wasting time.’ So when Healy tried to leave his bed that morning and Holland whined and clung to him, snaking his limbs around Jackson’s and burying his neck into Jackson’s shoulder, it hadn’t been an immediate red flag.
Healy smiled, running his hand up and down March’s back in a soothing pattern. March hummed in contentment, squeezing against Healy so tightly one would think he was trying to burrow under Healy’s skin.
“I gotta piss,” Jackson said eventually, untangling himself from the sleepy bundle of limbs that made up Holland March. Holland grumbled, but let Jackson leave (thank goodness).
Jackson used the restroom, washed his hands, and started brushing his teeth. He was halfway done when Holland shuffled into the bathroom. He was shirtless, wearing just his boxers, but he had wrapped their blanket around his shoulders like a cape and was clutching it tightly to his chest. His hair stuck up in odd directions. He looked sleepy and rumpled and perfect.
Holland came up behind Jackson and leaned against his back. He rested his head on Jackson’s shoulder, burying his face into the soft material of Jackson’s favorite sleep shirt.
Again, not necessarily a red flag. But Jackson had instincts, and he knew Holland March.
He carefully rinsed the toothpaste from his mouth and spit in the sink. Holland stayed attached to him the whole time, like a baby koala. Jackson tried to move away from the sink, and Holland followed him, one hand clutching Healy’s t-shirt.
Which is why Healy switched their positions, gently pushing March towards the sink and then wrapping his arms around his torso. He just stood there, holding Holland while he brushed his teeth, doing his best to keep the blanket cape in place. He could never remember doing anything so stupidly and grossly domestic with his wife. Maybe one of the reasons their marriage had imploded. Add it to the list.
Holland rarely got up at the same time Jackson did. Usually, Jackson rose, dressed, made coffee, drank said coffee, made breakfast, and ate almost all of said breakfast before Holland stumbled out of the bedroom, still in pajamas, to nibble at the remainder of Healy’s food or just smoke a cigarette while Healy finished the crossword.
Today, Holland followed him to the closet. They clumsily dressed together, Holland trying to stay as close to Jackson as possible as they fumbled with jeans (Healy) and tight button down shirts (Holland). On a normal morning, this might lead to an early-morning make-out session (and more). But today, Holland was quiet. No flirty remarks. No ribbing at Healy until he got shoved against a wall. Nothing.
He just blankly followed Jackson around, leaning against him while the coffee brewed and tapping his fingers anxiously against Jackson’s arm. Jackson made the executive decision to bring his coffee and newspaper to the couch that morning. It was evidently the right decision. As soon as he sat down, he got a lapful of Holland March. Holland curled up on the couch, face pillowed in Healy’s stomach, and clung.
Jackson frowned. It had never been quite this bad before.
“Do you want a cig?” he offered, despite the fact that he had been trying to get Holland to eat a much more nutritionally dense breakfast for months.
“No,” Holland muttered, the sound muffled by Healy’s shirt.
Jackson sipped his coffee and did his crossword with his right hand, burying his left hand in Holland’s hair and softly massaging his scalp. He jotted down ‘pariah’ in 4-Across, tucking a strand of Holland’s hair behind his ears as he did so.
He wasn’t sure what had triggered it. They hadn’t been in as…intimate a relationship when Holland was going through the worst of his withdrawals, so Healy wasn’t sure if this was being caused by a random craving or not. Holland had been sober for seven months at this point, and Healy had lived with him and Holly for four of those months. Normally, on days Holland craved a drink (and there were plenty) he got jittery. He preferred to stay busy, badgering Healy to go out and find a case even if they didn’t have one. And he chainsmoked his way through several packs.
The quiet, clingy days were usually something else. Something related to the fire, or Holland’s dead wife, or just Holland’s crazy intelligent brain turning against him. Healy was less confident on those days, more unsure of how to proceed. How to fix it. Healy was a man of action. But on those days, there was no one to blame. Nothing to solve.
“You feeling okay?” he tried.
“Been better,” Holland admitted, tilting his head just enough for Jackson to catch the words.
“Did something happen?”
Holland shook his head.
“Nightmare?”
Another shake of the head.
“Craving a drink?”
Holland hesitated. “I… kind of. But that’s all the time. It’s not that.”
“Maybe we should skip work today,” Jackson offered. One of the biggest pros for working for yourself. You could take a break whenever you needed. Normally, Jackson was very anti-skipping work. Even on weekends, he could be found dragging Holland to a drug-store to develop photos or dropping by a random bar to “follow up on a lead while he was in the area.”
“Can’t,” Holland replied. “That old Fisher guy is onto us. Gotta collect the paycheck while there’s still something to collect.”
He was right, of course. Jackson didn’t like intentionally drawing out case work-time in order to raise their client’s bill, but he made exceptions with clients who displayed a certain level of… jackassery. Besides, Holland had finally started to meet with contractors to discuss rebuilding his old house, and it turns out that ground-up construction was really expensive.
Point being, Mr. Fisher had hired them to find his estranged daughter (who he had disowned and kicked out when she got pregnant outside of wedlock). They had found the daughter immediately, because she wasn’t all that hard to find (Mr. Fisher had just never even remotely tried). They snapped a couple photos of her, her house, wrote down her address, and then did nothing with that information for four days in order to, according to Holland, “Ease our guilt about disturbing her and her son’s peaceful life by letting that asshole geezer barge in sooner than necessary.”
Asshole geezers were rarely patient.
“I can go alone,” Jackson offered. “You can stay here, get some rest.”
Holland sat up, a strange and panicked look in his eyes. “No, m’good. I’ll come with you.”
“You sure?”
Holland smiled, blinding and completely fake. Something that only Holly and Healy could spot. He smoothed his dress shirt where it had gotten crumpled. “All good, I’m over my morning grumpies.” He reached across Healy, grabbing at the packet of cigarettes on the side table. He lit up, carefully blowing the smoke away from Healy’s face. “7-Down is ‘apothecary’ by the way. Let’s go.”
_____
Holland’s foot was tapping incessantly.
Jackson flipped his blinker on, merged, and then reached over to place a heavy hand on March’s thigh. His bouncing leg stilled at the contact, and Jackson could have sworn that Holland shifted closer, as close as he could get with the console in between them.
“We’re sticking with $200 a day?” Healy asked.
March hummed, lips wrapped around an unlit cigarette. “Let’s bump it to $300 and see if we can land at $250 with negotiation.”
Jackson swore. “You think this motherfucker is gonna shell out twelve hundred dollars for two photos and an address?”
March shrugged. “He coulda just opened the phone book for himself, but he went above and beyond. Might as well go above and beyond our normal rate as well.”
“You’re something else, March,” Jackson said, shaking his head.
March stayed quiet. Silence filled the car that should have been alive with clips, and banter, and friendly arguing.
“In a good way,” Jackson tried to tack on, realizing the jab would not be reciprocated. He felt like he was still married, furiously back-tracking after telling his wife she looked good today which apparently implied she looked like shit every other day. Somehow. Ugh.
“Treated wood is expensive,” Holland complained. Jackson latched onto that tidbit like a dog to a bone.
“You worried about the house?” he asked, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the road. Holland was more receptive to ‘real’ talk without eye contact. It made him nervous.
“Nah, just annoyed,” Holland answered, and he sounded honest. “They said I have to get the special treated wood. To withstand mold and the weather. Doesn’t that shit come from trees? How are all these trees withstanding the weather just fine, but I have to shell out for fucking treated wood?”
“That’s not…” Jackson sighed. “You need the treated wood. I promise.”
“What are you, an architect?”
“We’re here. How do you wanna play this?”
March opened his car door, tossing his cigarette butt on the ground and stamping it out with his foot. He shoved his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. “You do the talking. You’re more intimidating.”
Healy resisted the urge to point out that you catch more flies with honey than vinegar. And damn, was Holland their honey. His honey. Whatever. Point being, Holland always did the talking. Healy’s job was to stand behind him and look threatening. The bad cop of their little duo.
Healy reluctantly trudged up the fancy stone pavers to Fisher’s house. He rang the doorbell. March was behind him, hands shoved in the pockets of his dress pants. He was so close to Healy that he could feel March’s warmth along his side and the ghost of his breath near his ear.
“Whaddya want? Oh, it’s you two. About damn time.” Fisher opened the door, gesturing for them to come in. “You found my spawn?”
His spawn? Healy could feel the anger rising within him. Normally, March would step in with a smooth line or a joke. Diffuse the situation. Then ask for a truly ludicrous amount of dough. But March was still just behind Healy. Healy vaguely realized that March had taken a hand from his pocket and twisted into the fabric of Healy’s jacket, just out of sight of Fisher. Healy took a deep breath. He needed to end this interaction as quickly as possible.
“Took awhile,” Healy lied. “But we have an address. And photos as proof.” He handed over the manila file folder with the two photos and a slip of paper. Fisher took it, opening the flap and examining the contents. He nodded.
“Alright then, what did you say your daily rate was?”
Holland nudged Jackson’s back gently. “$300 a day,” Healy lied again. He gritted his teeth.
To both of their surprise, Fisher just shrugged and walked through a doorway into what appeared to be the study. The PIs shot each other a look, eyebrows raised. Fisher returned with a check. He handed it to Healy. “Five days, plus a little bonus for your utmost discretion. I don’t need my private business spilled to your drinking buddies in whatever seedy cop bar you hang around.”
Healy took the check, March looking over his shoulder and lowering his sunglasses to see the “$1500.00” scrawled on the amount line in aggressive yet pristine handwriting.
“Pleasure doing business,” Healy grunted, shaking Fisher’s hand. “You need anything else, you know who to call.”
Fisher escorted them out. As soon as the door closed behind them, Healy turned to March, ready to celebrate. March was staring idly across the manicured lawn, picking at a loose thread on his jacket sleeve. Healy reached over and tugged at said sleeve, leading his partner back down the path.
“Generous bonus,” he commented.
He had expected March to be ecstatic. They had never been overpaid by this much before, much less on a job they had totally lied about to begin with. March got all smug and excited if he convinced someone to give them even ten bucks extra. Healy thought March would already be planning how to spend their extra spoils, blathering on about a new suit or roller skates for Holly.
Healy glanced behind him, making sure Fisher wasn’t watching through the big front windows. Seeing that he wasn’t, and that they were relatively hidden by Fisher’s giant privacy hedge, Healy offered his arm to March like a gentleman escorting a blushing bridesmaid down the aisle. He didn’t know what made him do it, other than the fact that March was acting so lost and Healy just wanted to be there, steady and reliable and true.
Holland moved to him instantly, wrapping both arms around Jackson's proffered one and letting himself be escorted to the car.
Once inside, Holland restlessly opened and closed the glovebox, and then lit up a cigarette. He offered it to Jackson, who took a puff before passing it back. He would smoke a cigarette every once in a while with Holland, or pass one back and forth. He really did prefer cigars. He ultimately preferred tasting the smoke on Holland’s mouth instead.
“We should see if the photos from that last affair case are ready,” Holland murmured around his cigarette. “And pick up Holly’s summer reading from the library.”
“We’re going home,” Healy said firmly.
“But Holly’s boo-”
“Summer break doesn’t start for another three weeks,” Healy interrupted. “And the photos can wait. We’re going home. We just got a big check. We’re good. We can take a day off.”
Holland said nothing.
The silence in the car became unbearable about halfway through the drive home. For the amount of times Healy prayed for March to shut his mouth, it sure was eerie when he finally did. He ended up turning on the radio, setting it to one of March’s favorite channels and leaving the volume low. He placed his hand back on March’s thigh.
Holland played with Jackson’s fingers, his soft skin brushing over callouses. To Jackson’s surprise, Holland flipped his hand over and wove their fingers together, letting their joined hands rest on his thigh.
Jackson could feel the soft blush on his own cheeks. He and Holland had done plenty of things together. Shared the same bed every night. Laid on top of each other on the couch. But they had never held hands before. They definitely couldn’t do it in public, for obvious reasons. But they just hadn’t done it in private either. He didn’t know if Holland was interested in that sort of thing. He should have guessed.
They pulled into the driveway of the rental, and Healy killed the engine. March trailed him, still pressing himself close, inside of the house. It wasn’t even lunchtime yet, with how little time it had taken to run their errand.
Jackson took Holland’s hand. He led him through the house, past the foyer, through the kitchen and living room, and back to the master bedroom. Once inside, he began gently undressing Holland. The coat was shrugged off and placed on a velvet hanger. Jackson sat and patiently undid the buttons to Holland’s fancy shirt.
There was nothing sexual about it. It was just slow and domestic. A rare display of gentle caring from a man who had spent most of his life doing otherwise. Jackson wished it was under better circumstances. He made a mental note to spend slow, soft days like this with Holland even when his mind wasn’t eating him alive.
He helped Holland back into the joggers he sometimes slept in. When he reached for one of Holland’s tshirts, Holland shook his head and grabbed one of Healy’s instead, pulling it on. Healy’s heart swelled. Holland’s hair had gotten ruffled when he pulled the shirt over his head, and it drowned his lithe frame.
Healy quickly changed back into his own comfortable attire before pushing Holland towards the bed. “Stay here a second,” he ordered. He went to the kitchen. He fetched two glasses of water, filled a plate full of whatever snacks he could find from the kitchen (some pretzels, a clementine, a handful of baby carrots, and some cheese and crackers). He didn’t want Holland to get hungry or thirsty, and he had no plans on leaving the bed for the remainder of the day unless absolutely necessary.
He returned to the bedroom, finding Holland sitting right on the bed where Healy had left him, staring at the floor. He was fiddling with the wedding ring he always wore on a chain around his neck. Something Healy deeply respected about him and would never ask him to change.
“For later,” he clarified, as Holland eyed the food skeptically. He left it on the nightstand with the water and pulled back the covers. They crawled into bed. “C’mere,” Jackson said softly.
Jackson laid on his back, Holland curled against him with a leg thrown over his legs and an arm thrown over his stomach. His head rested on Jackson’s chest. Jackson reached up and began running his finger through Holland’s hair.
They stayed like that for hours.
Holland drifted in and out of sleep. They swapped positions a few times, Jackson acting as the big spoon and draping his body protectively over the other man. Holland kept as much of himself in contact with Jackson as he could, skin pressed against skin. Fingers interlocked.
Jackson managed to convince him to nibble on some food and drink some water, but with little success. Holland’s pack of cigarettes was abandoned in his suit jacket, and he seemed in no mood to reach for those either.
Around 2pm, Jackson heard soft sniffling and realised that Holland was crying. Silent tears ran down his cheek. Jackson gently wiped them away and pressed Holland closer. He buried his head into Jackson’s t-shirt. He was getting the fabric all wet, but Jackson didn’t care. He just held Holland closer. Held him together.
At 3:30pm, Holly came home. She must have seen both of their cars in the driveway and found the lack of noise and movement to be suspicious, because she came to check on them almost immediately. Holland had fallen asleep again, snoring softly on Jackson’s chest while Jackson stroked his hair. There was a soft knock, and Holly’s head popped through the crack in the door, taking in the scene.
“Bad day?” she mouthed silently. Jackson nodded.
He knew a lot of March’s earlier days in sobriety (or attempted sobriety, back then) had been spent in bed. Holly joined him a lot, sitting next to him and doing her homework or reading her books. Jackson had been very present as well, but mostly brought them food, sitting in a chair in the corner trading jabs with them both, or used brute strength to stop Holland from leaving the house and heading for a bar or a liquor store.
Hence why Holly nodded in understanding at the sight. She was sad that her dad still experienced days like this, where everything became too much in his head and he shut down. But she was glad that he had Jackson there for him. Someone to latch onto and seek the comfort and contact he so desperately craved. She remembered that her dad had been all over her mom. She didn’t have a memory that involved the both of them where they weren’t touching.
Holland March used physicality to express and ask for affection, and when his brain turned against him and his words failed him, it was all that he had left.
“Do you need anything?” Holly whispered. Jackson shook his head. “I’ll bring you dinner,” she promised. She shut the door again with a soft click.
Holland woke an hour later, pressing soft kisses along Jackson’s neck and jaw to let him know. Jackson let him do it, rubbing comforting circles on Holland’s back. When Holland was done, Jackson pressed a gentle kiss onto Holland’s forehead, and then his lips.
At 6pm, Holly brought them dinner. She joined them in bed. She and Jackson sat with their backs against the headboard, Holland laying in between them. They managed to get him to nibble at some food, Jackson stabbing bites from his own plate and feeding them to Holland so he wouldn’t have to sit up. Holly got him to drink water, and patted his shoulder gently.
“I love you, dad,” she told him as she gathered the plates and prepared to exit the bedroom.
“Love you too, sweetheart,” Holland murmured. The first words he had spoken since 11am when he had tried to protest going home. Holly left, and Jackson gathered Holland back into his arms.
At 7:30pm, Holland tapped two fingers against Jackson’s side. Their secret code for, “I have to tell you something important.” Jackson grunted, opening his eyes and shaking off the sleep that had begun to claim him too. Holland was still draped along his side. His one free hand that wasn’t clutching his partner was fiddling with his wedding ring.
“It’s our anniversary,” Holland finally whispered, sounding so sad that Healy’s heart felt like it had been fed through a food processor.
“Holl, I’m so sorry,” Jackson offered, not really knowing what to say. He didn’t need to ask for clarification. He knew what Holland meant.
“It would have been fifteen years.”
“It’s still fifteen years,” Jackson told him softly. It felt stupid as he said it, but he doubled down. “Alive or dead, doesn’t change anything. She still loves you. You’re still married. Somewhere. Somehow.”
They lapsed into a silence that lasted for a good twenty to thirty minutes.
“Thanks,” Holland finally said.
“For what?” Jackson asked.
“Dunno. Understanding. Being here. Knowing what I needed.” Holland shifted against him, and Jackson squeezed his arm.
“Nowhere I’d rather be.”
Holland peered up at him through sleep-tousled hair. “You’re not like, upset? Or a little weirded out? Comforting me on my wedding anniversary to my dead wife when we’re…. Y’know?”
“Hey.” Jackson reached up, cradling Holland’s face in his hand. “Your wife loved you. Holly loves you. I love you. As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing wrong with that. Just a lot of love to go around.”
Holland’s eyes filled with tears. “You love me?”
“I should have told you at a better time,” Jackson admitted. “But I thrive under rough conditions.”
Holland chuckled, pulling out of Jackson’s grip and leaning forward to kiss him softly. “I love you too,” he whispered.
Jackson hesitantly reached for Holland’s wedding ring, turning it over in his hands a couple of times. Holland let him, just watching tiredly with his head back on Jackson’s shoulder. “What we have will never negate this,” Healy told him. “Never replace it. Never change it. What you had with her was special. I’m honored that I get to share you with her.”
Holland sniffled. “She would have loved you.”
“She would have been scared of me.”
Holland snorted. “Unlikely. That woman was scared of nothing. She once watched a stray dog murder an entire yard of chickens and tried to convince me to take it home with us. Said it was just misunderstood and hungry.”
“Are you comparing me to a stray dog?” Jackson asked, raising an eyebrow.
“That’s the only reason I ever let you into my house.” Holland chuckled softly. “She was my sense of empathy.”
Jackson rolled his eyes, but smiled fondly. “Tell me more about her.”
“You’re sure?”
“I want to know every part of you, and she’s a big part of you.”
“Well, she was British. You already know that. She complained about the tea here constantly. Said that anyone who drank it iced deserved jail time. She also had a great sense of style. I mean, even better than me. We used to turn heads back in the day. Even when she was so pregnant with Holly that none of her clothes fit, she managed to make it look good…”
Jackson settled down, nestling into the pillows and quietly holding Holland close as he talked. He was all over the place, stopping in the middle of stories to share a random fact he remembered. Sometimes he would laugh softly, and sometimes his eyes would glaze over with tears. Jackson held him throughout all of it, and Holland clung to him like he would drown if he let go.
Around 10pm, Holland finally finished. He had talked himself hoarse, and his voice sounded wrecked. Jackson offered him a glass of water, and Holland chugged it. “Thanks,” he croaked. “I… that helped.”
“Good.”
“I slept all day, how do I still feel so tired?” Holland complained, rubbing at his eyes.
Jackson chuckled sadly. “Grief will do that.”
“You don’t have to stay here,” Holland said suddenly, looking anxious. “I-your whole day. You can go like, take a walk. Or get a snack. Get some work done. I’ll be okay.”
“I’m staying,” Jackson told him.
“But-”
“I’m staying,” Jackson repeated firmly. “We’re going to sleep in tomorrow. I’m going to wake you up by kissing you stupid. You’re going to put on a nice suit with ridiculously tight pants that will drive me up the fucking wall, and then we’re going to go to Holly’s school and lie to the secretary. Dentist appointment, maybe. We’ll pick her up and then go to that diner you like, over on the corner. You can smoke your breakfast cigarette and steal food from our plates.”
“Jack-”
“Not finished. We’ll take Holly back to school, and come back here to a nice, empty house where I am going to show you, very slowly and very thoroughly, just how much I love you.”
Holland flushed a deep scarlet.
“We’ll clean up before Holly comes home and order some take-out. You get to pick the movie, even though your taste in movies suck. We’re all going to cuddle on the couch and watch it, and then we’ll go out for ice cream afterwards.”
He leaned downwards and gently kissed Holland’s neck, just underneath his jaw. The spot that always made Holland melt and relax in Jackson’s arms.
“You got all that, March?”
“I…” March laughed, a rough, wet laugh. “I, yeah. That sounds good. Perfect.”
“Perfect,” Jackson agreed. “C’mon, let’s get some real sleep.”
They both settled in under the covers again, and Healy switched off the light that was on the nightstand. Holland wiggled around in his infuriating way, until he found a position where he was both comfortable and practically climbing into Healy’s skin.
Jackson had almost drifted off when he vaguely noted that Holland was giggling beside him. “I can’t believe that fucking asshole paid us that much fucking money,” Holland whispered, beside himself. “What a fucking idiot.”
Jackson smiled. Holland would be okay. He closed his eyes again and let sleep take them both.