Archive of Our Own

Healy lumbered up the steps to March’s house, fumbling with the new weight on his key ring. Not that March needed to give him a key considering half the windows had cardboard instead of glass and the door was so riddled with bullet holes that one good kick would break it down completely, but the ease with which March offered the key made something in Healy’s gut twist. 

“Makes it easier to let you in,” March had mumbled when he handed over the key, flushing bright red as he rubbed the back of his neck. “For, y’know, business purposes. Don’t think this means you can barge in whenever you want,” he added quickly. Which was closer to what Healy expected from March. 

Healy wanted to be there for March and Holly, but he wouldn’t force himself where he wasn’t welcome, and March made it clear that he wasn’t welcome. Any space that March offered Healy was a gift, so he’d do his damnedest not to overstep, and hope that March let him stay long enough to fill in the hole in his chest.

The Nice Guys were meeting a client that morning, and Healy had hoped that March would be upright by now, maybe drinking some coffee with his whiskey. March had been better about his drinking since they’d started working together; he still drank, but he drank less, was more coherent throughout the day, and rarely fucked up the case because he got shitfaced at the wrong time. Healy felt better than he ever wanted to admit when he got March to act like a functional human being; he could claim that the warm feeling he got when March was able to take his daughter to school was because of how happy it made Holly, but that would be a lie.

Unfortunately, today did not look like one of March’s good days, because when Healy entered the house the only person in the kitchen was Holly.

“Hi, Mr. Healy,” Holly greeted, sounding decidedly less friendly and more pissed off than usual, which did not bode well for March.

“Hey kid, where’s your dad?” Healy glanced out the back door, eyeing the deserted swimming pool.

Holly rolled her eyes and jerked her chin towards the bathroom. “He’s been in there all night.” Yeah, that really didn’t bode well for March. “I’m going to school. He’s your problem now.” She snatched her backpack and stormed out, slamming the front door shut behind her.

Healy understood her anger; the poor kid practically raised herself and her father over the past couple years instead of grieving her mother. Moments like these made Healy glad that he entered their life when he did, as he doubted they would’ve lasted much longer on their own.

What did it say about him that he could only imagine being allowed to stick around by being useful to them? 

Healy shook his head and banished those thoughts to the back of his mind where he wouldn’t have to confront them, and instead dredged up more familiar annoyance as he pounded on the bathroom door.

“March, get up,” he called, but got no response. This was not the first time March spent all night hunched over the toilet puking his guts out, and Healy doubted it would be the last—the best he could hope for was less frequent. 

“Get the fuck up or I’m coming in!” He threatened, knocking hard enough that the door shuddered under his fist. “March!” Still nothing.

Healy sighed and tried the doorknob, thankful that it was unlocked so he wouldn’t have to break more of this house. He stepped in, turning towards the toilet where he expected to see March passed out with his face pressed into the rim—which was disgusting—but March wasn’t there. Healy frowned and swung his gaze across the rest of the room, finally finding March laid out in the tub.

“Jesus Christ,” Healy muttered, lifting a hand to block the view before the rest of the picture registered. He hesitated, then peered through his fingers to make sure—yup, March laid unconscious and fully clothed in the bathtub with water up to his chest. Healy dropped his hand and searched the rest of the room, letting out a quiet breath of relief when he found nothing but water staining the floor. An empty bottle of Scotch laid sideways next to the tub, which at least explained how March ended up in the tub to begin with.

He shook his head and stepped closer, his confusion growing when he saw a dozen cigarette butts floating in the water by March’s knees. So he’d stayed awake long enough to smoke half a pack, but still decided to fall asleep there instead of returning to bed? Healy wished he understood even half of what went through March’s head. 

March had a frown on his face and both arms thrown over the sides of the tub as he slept, his elbows sticking out at an awkward angle. Healy wanted to believe that if March had gone under he would’ve woken up before he drowned, but when Healy considered how drunk March must’ve been to get into the tub fully clothed in the first place, he didn’t like the answer he came up with. 

Healy sighed, shrugged off his jacket, and reached between March’s feet to pull the plug. Then he splashed a handful of water on March’s face.

“Bflgh.” March jolted awake, blinking slowly as he looked down at himself. Healy waited for the confusion to set in about why the fuck he was in the tub, but March didn’t seem bothered by that.

“March,” Healy said. March’s head snapped up, and there was the confusion he expected.

“The fuck are you doing here?” March asked, squinting up at him. Healy raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

“We’re meeting a client. The fuck are you doing in the tub?”

“Sleeping,” March answered, sweeping one hand out to the side as if to say obviously and splashing water everywhere. Healy didn’t have time to deal with this shit.

“Well, wake up. We gotta go.”

“Okay, okay, I’m up,” March said, clambering unsteadily to his feet. “You don’t gotta fucking babysit me.” Which was an obvious lie, but Healy only rolled his eyes—he knew better than to try and reason with March this early in the morning. He turned to go, then thought better of it and waited.

Sure enough, as March stepped out of the nearly drained bathtub, he slipped. He would’ve fallen flat on his face if Healy hadn’t caught him, getting soaked in the process as March’s drenched suit jacket slapped against his side.

“Whoops,” March said, patting Healy’s arm and getting him even wetter. Healy did not look at March’s wet suit clinging to his body, didn’t think about how easily he held March up, and didn’t consider what it would’ve looked like if March hadn’t been wearing a suit. 

“You’re lucky it’s warm,” Healy muttered instead of saying the things he didn’t think. He set March down on his own two feet and stepped back on stiff legs. “Put on something dry, would you?” Healy said, and left March to his own devices, screwing his own head back on straight.

Healy glanced through the kitchen for something to eat, noting one half-full bottle of Scotch in the cabinet, along with a six-pack of beer in the fridge, and little else. Healy sighed and grabbed a granola bar—one that he’d purchased the last time he’d looked through March’s cabinets and been disappointed. March could complain about crunchy hippie food all he wanted, but at least it was food. Healy didn’t know if March knew how to cook.

The lack of real food in March’s house always concerned Healy, but no matter how many times he brought it up to March, the man always waved him off. Another thing Healy desperately wanted to fix but knew he wasn’t welcome to. 

He started the coffee maker, making a cup for himself and one for March before he heard more signs of life.

March pulled himself together rather quickly, throwing on a dry—if wrinkled—suit and staggering into the kitchen. Healy chose not to comment when March passed over eating anything solid in favor of pouring a generous helping of Scotch into his coffee; at least he was up and moving, and it didn’t take long for Healy to usher them both out the door.

Healy led them to his car—having learned long ago not to let March get behind the wheel if he could help it—and headed towards the diner where they would meet their client. March was uncharacteristically quiet, and Healy waited until they got on the main road to speak

“Why were you sleeping in the tub?” Healy asked.

“What’s this case about?” March asked instead of answering; it was a blatant deflection, even more so as Healy knew for a fact that Holly had briefed him the day before.

“You gonna answer my question?”

“How about it’s none of your fucking business,” March snapped, but he sounded more tired than annoyed. “Shouldn’t have to worry about this shit,” he added under his breath. Healy glanced at March, saw the permanent bags under his eyes, the way he fidgeted in his seat, and the pale sheen to his face indicating he hadn’t slept well—which wasn’t a surprise, considering he’d slept in the tub. 

Healy wanted to ask again, wanted to press at the seams until March finally cracked and let Healy into whatever went on in that head of his, but he knew March was just as likely to shut down completely and drown his issues in a bottle.

“Our client claims people are threatening him and his family,” Healy said instead, returning his gaze to the road.

“And our client is…?”

“John Judd Jamison, owner of John’s Diner.”

“Jesus, his parents must’ve hated him,” March muttered, pulling out a cigarette. “So we’re doing the usual?” He asked, meaning March’s job was to figure out who did the threatening, and Healy’s job was to make them stop. They’d run that same set-up over a dozen times, and it turned out as easy as it sounded about half of that. The rest of the time, well, there was a reason Healy packed his brass knuckles.

“The usual,” Healy confirmed. 

The diner was adequately busy for a Tuesday morning; they’d caught the tail end of the breakfast rush and a good number of customers occupied the red leather seats, although not so many that Healy and March couldn’t find a table. March had a lit cigarette in hand before Healy finished surveying the room. One window was broken and covered up with plywood, but otherwise the place was unremarkable; no cracked tiles, no mysterious stains on the seats, waitresses all in clean, uniform clothes.

“What can I get you?” Jamison himself came over to take their order; he was a middle-aged white man on the taller side, with receding brown hair and a gut that told Healy he took most of his meals at work.

“You hired us,” Healy answered first, as March already had a suspicious gleam in his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, and I’ll be free to talk in a couple minutes, but for now this is on the house,” Jamison said, waving his little notebook of orders. March glanced at Healy, who nodded permission.

“A coffee and a tall stack of pancakes,” March said; Healy raised an eyebrow at that order.

“Scrambled eggs and toast,” Healy ordered, and waited until Jamison left to ask, “pancakes?” March wasn’t much of a breakfast guy.

“Figured I can take them home to Holly,” March said. Healy wondered if the pancakes would be any good after sitting in a hot car all day. 

“This is a nice place,” March noted, glancing out the window. “Good location, too,” he continued, a light, knowing tone in his voice that made Healy raise an eyebrow.

“Do I wanna know what you’re thinking?” Healy asked; that tone usually ended with someone staring down the barrel of a gun. He just hoped that someone wasn’t March.

“A nice diner in a nice location that was recently remodeled? I’m sure he does good business, but that good?” March shook his head. “Odds are he took a loan from someone he shouldn’t have taken a loan from.” Healy looked around, but nothing he saw screamed “recent renovations” to him—other than the broken window, but that looked accidental. Still, March was often annoyingly right about this kind of stuff.

“So what, you think Jamison made a deal with a loan shark?

“Gotta be.” Healy hoped March was wrong—loan sharks usually had their own bruisers on payroll.

Well, they couldn’t do anything else while they waited. “You gonna tell me why you were in the tub this morning?” Healy asked, hoping March was now awake enough to answer. March made a face and looked off to the side. 

“Do I have a choice? Cause then the answer’s no.”

“March-”

“It shouldn’t be your fucking problem, alright? So just- drop it.” There was something in March’s words that made Healy pause—it shouldn’t be his problem. Like everything about March wasn’t already Healy’s problem.

Jamison reappeared before Healy could question March further, seamlessly depositing their plates on the table and dragging an extra chair over.

“What seems to be the problem, Mr. Jamison?” Healy asked as March pulled out his flask and poured something into his coffee.

“Just Jamison is fine,” he replied, looking sideways at March. “And someone’s been threatening me.”

“Threatening how?” March asked; he took a sip of his coffee, tipped more of his flask in, took another sip, and nodded. Healy deliberately did not reach across the table and strangle his partner. 

“They sent a message.” Jamison dug into his apron pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. “This was on a rock they chucked through the window.” He jerked his chin towards the boarded up window. 

March snatched the paper first, then froze, staring at it with an unreadable expression. 

“March?” Healy questioned when he didn’t move for several long seconds. March looked up blankly, a dead expression on his face that made Healy’s skin crawl. March slapped the paper facedown on the table and turned to Jamison.

“Do you have any enemies?” March asked loudly, taking another gulp of his coffee as Healy picked up the paper. “Anyone who would want to harm you?”

“No, nothing.”

Healy blinked a few times before he could make out the blocky handwriting: YOURE GOING UP IN SMOKE.

Well, shit.

“And you’re sure you paid off all your loans?” March said, downing the remainder of his coffee and immediately pulling out his flask again; Healy got a bad feeling about how this job would play out.

“I’m sure,” Jamison said firmly. Healy caught March’s self-satisfied little smirk at the confirmation that he was right about the loans, and privately rolled his eyes. “Look, you gotta help me. I live upstairs with my wife and kids, I don’t wanna burn to death.” Healy’s gaze cut over to March, but the other man didn’t notice, too busy fumbling for a new cigarette.

“We’ll talk it over,” Healy said when it became clear March was otherwise occupied. “If you could write down who you got your loan from, and anyone else that might wanna do you or your family harm, that’d be a big help.” Jamison nodded and stood.

“You wouldn’t.” Both Healy and Jamison looked at March when he spoke, but his eyes were focused on his lighter.

“Excuse me?” Jamison asked.

“Burn to death,” March said, his voice oddly flat, and he snapped the lighter closed with a brittle smile. “Smoke inhalation will kill you before the flames do.” Healy raised an eyebrow and looked pointedly at the cigarette in March’s hand, smoke drifting off it in wisps. March caught his look and shrugged as he took a drag, a wry grin pulling on his lips—halfway between what are you gonna do about it? and yeah, I know. 

“You should sleep with your bedroom door shut,” March continued, turning back to Jamison. “Keeps the smoke out, gives you a better chance of waking up before you croak.” Jamison glanced between the two of them, then turned and fled.

“March,” Healy started; March rolled his eyes.

“Excuse me for trying to save this fucking guy’s life.”

“March.”

“My bet’s definitely on a loan shark, by the way.”

“March.”

“What!?” March glared at him. A waitress came by and refilled their coffee.

“We don’t have to take this one,” Healy said carefully as March ignored his mug in favor of drinking directly from his flask.

“We’re already fucking here,” March said, flicking ash into Healy’s eggs.

“We don’t have to take this one,” Healy repeated. March rolled his eyes and grabbed an uneaten piece of Healy’s toast.

“It’s fine, I’m fine. Can we-?” March motioned to the door. 

Bullshit, Healy thought, but didn’t say. He treaded a fine line, and he didn’t know how to argue without overstepping. 

Jamison reappeared, a piece of paper scrawled with names in his hand along with an envelope full of cash. Against his better judgement, Healy took the envelope and counted the bills while March requested a container to take their leftovers home in. 

“I paid off my loans,” Jamison said as March unceremoniously dumped the tall stack of pancakes into said container. Healy nodded at March, indicating the money was all there, and they both stood up.

“Sure you did, pal,” March said, clapping Jamison on the shoulder. “Sure you did.” 

It was the loan shark. 

Of course it was the fucking loan shark, why would it be anyone else?

March was insufferable about being proven correct, right up until the loan shark’s enforcers pointed guns at them. 

They were on the second floor walkway of the warehouse that operated as the loan shark’s headquarters. The two enforcers had gotten the drop on them, and Healy didn’t want to risk anything while in front of a big window—March and heights didn’t have the best track record.

“I hate being right,” March muttered as the goons stripped them of their weapons; the bastards even took Healy’s brass knuckles. At least they’d had the sense to deposit the cash from Jamison in a bank before they went anywhere.

“The hell are you talking about, you love being right,” Healy retorted. They stood side by side with their hands in the air; both enforcers were on March’s other side, which meant Healy couldn’t reach them from his position. They’d have time to shoot if he tried anything, and March was first in the line of fire. Healy couldn’t tell if they’d clocked him as the bigger threat and stayed out of his reach on purpose, or if their position was an accident. For now he’d assume competence until proven otherwise—it was safer that way.

“Not when there’s guns pointed at me because of it.”

“There’s always guns pointed at you.”

“Well excuse me Mr. I-Don’t-Get-Scared-Tough-Guy.”

“That’s not what I fucking said, now is it?”

“Are you two done?” They stopped bickering when another figure joined the group—a short Italian guy with jet black hair and a narrow, rat-like face, who Healy recognized as Nicky Sparks. Healy knew Sparks, had run a job or two for him, and then against him in the past. Sparks liked cutting deals that looked good up front, but he never let his clients pay off their debt.

All things considered, Sparks was a small fish in LA, but he had ambition to be bigger.

“Let me guess: Jamison hired you to send a message?” Sparks asked, his voice wheezing out through his nose. Healy would give Sparks some credit—he wore the dark suit and fancy shoes well, almost believable as someone not to be messed with.

Almost.

“Nope, no, no message being sent here, complete misunderstanding,” March said with a forced laugh.

“Jamison says he paid off your loan,” Healy said. March glared at him, but he knew how Sparks operated.

“Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t,” Sparks shrugged, “but I’m not finished with him yet.”

“Oh good, great, glad to know what the world’s coming to,” March muttered.

“What’d you say?” Sparks asked, taking a step closer to them. March froze, his eyes going wide.

“Say? I didn’t say anything, did you hear me say something? Because I definitely didn’t,” March said, his shoulders bunching up by his ears like a turtle trying to crawl back into his shell. Sparks curled his lip in a sneer.

“Jamison only has that diner because of me, so it’s only fair that I get a percentage of his profits. Or I can take it away from him, and then he has nothing. It’s a good deal,” Sparks said, spreading his hands in front of him like he was some kind of saint.

“And going back on your contract will definitely be good for business in the long run,” March said. Healy held back a sigh; for a guy who hated being threatened and beaten up, March sure had a hard time shutting his mouth. 

“The fuck did you say to me?” Sparks hissed, taking another step towards them; March cowered, trying to hide behind Healy. Healy barely refrained from rolling his eyes, and instead turned to face March.

“Nice going, dumbass,” Healy said, his voice loud and booming. March looked at Healy, eyes wide and hurt, and Healy raised his eyebrows. “Antagonize the guys with guns pointed at us. Real smart plan.” He pushed March as he spoke, and March stumbled back before he narrowed his eyes.

“Well excuse me for trying to be helpful,” March sniped.

“Helpful? How’s this for helpful: shut your fucking mouth.” Healy dropped his arms and angled his body sideways to glare properly at March.

“That’s easy for you, you say two words a year.” March jabbed a finger at Healy and shifted backwards a step.

“Yeah, cause you never shut the fuck up.” Healy waved him off and took a diagonal step away, acting disgusted.

“Someone’s gotta keep the conversation going!” March said, sweeping his arms out to the side; the goons skittered backwards to avoid his flailing hands.

“It doesn’t count as a conversation if you’re the only one talking,” Healy replied; he took another diagonal step, getting within arm’s reach.

“Enough!” Sparks shouted, glaring between them. “You’re going to tell Jamison that he owes me half of all profits or I’ll burn his fucking diner down.”

“Half? You’re crazy,” March said; Sparks focused on March with narrowed eyes.

“And if you don’t, I’ll burn your house down instead.” March flinched, ducking his head and focusing on the ground. Healy saw the interested gleam in Sparks’s eyes at that reaction, and loudly cleared his throat. 

“Alright, fine,” Healy said, drawing attention back to himself. “But there’s one problem with your plan, buddy.”

“Oh?” Sparks raised an eyebrow. “And what’s that?” Healy grinned and tipped his head to the side.

“You let me get too close.”

Healy slammed his open palm into Sparks’s nose, feeling it crunch under his hand as Sparks staggered backwards with a scream. Healy lunged forward before Sparks recovered, grabbing the gun out of his unsecured holster.

The goons had been forced out of formation by March’s earlier antics, and by the time they figured out there was a threat, Healy had a gun pointed at the back of Sparks’s skull. 

So much for assuming competence.

“March?” Healy called, keeping his focus on the enforcers who exchanged nervous glances. He gripped Sparks’s shoulder with his free hand, feeling Sparks trembling with rage at being bested.

“Yup!” March scrambled to his feet. Healy couldn’t tell if he’d dived to the ground on purpose, or tripped and fallen.

“Why don’t you see if you can get our guns back,” Healy said; March rushed to do so. “Now, Jamison paid off his loan fair and square, wouldn’t you agree?” Healy said, keeping his tone pleasant as he pressed the barrel of the gun harder against Sparks’s head.

“Sure, sure,” Sparks agreed, his words a little clogged from his broken nose.

“And you don’t want word getting around that you didn’t hold up your end of your deal, would you? It’d be awfully bad for business.” Sparks didn’t answer that one.

March scurried over to Healy, dropping the brass knuckles into his jacket pocket, the weight of which offered more comfort than the gun in hand.

“So here’s what you’re gonna do: you’re gonna leave Jamison and his family alone, and the next time you make a deal you’re gonna set the terms up front and stick to them. Understood?” Healy couldn’t stop Sparks from giving out predatory loans, but the people who dealt with him should know what they were getting into.

“Understood,” Sparks agreed through gritted teeth.

“Good.” Healy let go.

The second the gun no longer pointed at his head, Sparks swung.

Healy blocked the punch easily—he’d hoped Sparks wouldn’t be that stupid, but he knew what to expect. He slipped his hand into his pocket, slid on his brass knuckles, and socked Sparks across the jaw. He heard the vague sounds of March scuffling with the two enforcers, but he didn’t pay them attention; he knew the goons wouldn’t kill March without Sparks’s approval.

Healy drove his elbow into Sparks’s chest, just under his ribs, earning a satisfying wheeze as his lungs emptied. Healy punched Sparks again and geared up to kick him in the balls when the sound of shattering glass grabbed his attention, followed by an all too familiar yelp.

Healy whipped around, his heart sinking when he saw the two enforcers standing in front of a broken window with no March in sight. One of them laughed as he looked out of the window, and the prospect of him laughing over March’s broken body lit a fire in Healy’s gut.

Sparks took advantage of Healy’s distraction to punch him, landing a hit across his jaw—fortunately, Sparks didn’t know how to throw a punch, and the blow only served to piss Healy off.

Healy refocused on fighting Sparks, tucking “worry about March” to the back of his mind to deal with later. Healy was bigger, stronger, and smarter than Sparks, so it wasn’t much of a fight. Healy caught Sparks’s next attack, broke his finger, then wrapped an arm around his neck. 

“You’re gonna leave Jamison alone,” Healy growled in Sparks’s ear as he clawed ineffectually at Healy’s grip. “And if I ever see you again, or if I hear that his diner burned down, I’ll break your other knee.” Sparks made a breathless, questioning noise, and Healy grinned. “Glad you asked.” Healy kicked the back of Sparks’s leg, feeling bones splinter while Sparks tried to scream without being able to breathe.

Healy dropped Sparks, letting the enforcers rush past him as he went to the window. He tried to calm the panic worming through his gut—it wasn’t a far drop, March had fallen farther without a scratch before, and all signs pointed to the enforcers not trying to kill March. Still, any fall could be deadly, and Healy didn’t know what he would do if March’s luck had finally run out. God, he’d have to tell Holly-

“I’m fine!” By the time Healy poked his head out of the window, March was already back on his feet, his hands braced on his knees as he bent over to catch his breath. Healy let out a sigh of relief at seeing March in one unbroken piece. “Terrified, but fine.” He waved one hand at Healy and straightened. “I recommend you take the long way down.” Healy rolled his eyes while suppressing a smile, satisfied that March was okay, and headed for the stairs. Sparks and his goons had already disappeared.

“Are you ever gonna stop diving off of shit?” Healy asked when he joined March at ground level. “You trying to get yourself killed?”

“I’ll have you know I was thrown,” March said haughtily, then sighed and ran a hand down his face. “Fuck, I wish.” Which didn’t quite track with the question Healy asked, but he chalked it up to adrenaline and ushered March to the car.

They’d finished the case in record time, so by all accounts they should be celebrating, yet March was suspiciously quiet on the drive back to the diner. Healy picked “worry about March” up from the back of his mind and dusted it off.

“You good?” Healy asked as he drove.

“Yeah,” March said, once again chain smoking like he wanted to add more smog to the air than the car.

“You don’t sound good.”

“You don’t sound good.” 

Healy sighed. “March.”

“What?” Healy clenched his jaw—he’d have to rethink his strategy.

“Should I be worried?” Healy asked instead.

“About what?” Healy couldn’t tell if March was being obtuse on purpose.

“You,” Healy said simply.

“Probably,” March laughed. “I’m always fucking things up.” Which wasn’t what Healy meant. 

“Sure, but you’re being awful quiet. Didn’t hit your head on that fall, did you?”

“Nah.” March ran a hand through his hair to prove it, but the movement dislodged a shard of glass that tumbled into the seat. March stared at it for a moment, then chucked it out of the window. “I’m just… thinking,” he mumbled eventually. 

“Dangerous,” Healy joked, but March didn’t rise to the bait. Healy glanced over, noting the pinched expression on March’s face, and thought of that morning, when he’d checked the water in the tub for stains of red. “You ever gonna tell me why you were sleeping in the tub?” Healy asked. March groaned and slouched even farther down in his seat. 

“Are you still on that?” March asked. “No one understands privacy anymore,” he added under his breath, which was as good of a reminder as ever that Healy needed to check himself—they were business partners, nothing more. Even if the thought of March dying made his chest grow tight.

He didn’t know how to explain any of that, so he kept his mouth shut.

They returned to the diner and informed Jamison that the threat was dealt with; he was so impressed with the fast turnaround that he offered them free meals whenever they wanted. Healy already had free food from a different diner, but maybe he could bully March into bringing Holly here so she wouldn’t have to settle for backseat leftovers.

When they exited the diner, Healy noticed that March favored his right leg.

“You’re limping,” Healy said. March flushed and looked away.

“‘m fine, just twisted my ankle or something,” March waved him off. Healy narrowed his eyes.

“You sure it’s not broken?”

“Pretty sure.”

“You ever broken an ankle before?”

“No, but you broke my arm, so I think I know what it feels like.” 

Which was a fair point. Healy let it slide until they reached the car, where he followed March to the passenger side.

“What, you want me to drive?” March asked, tapping the empty flask in his breast pocket for emphasis.

“I’m gonna check your ankle,” Healy said; March scoffed.

“No way in hell. I’m fine.”

“Wasn’t a request.” March tripped over nothing, looking at Healy with wide eyes and an expression he couldn’t place. For a moment, Healy worried he’d overstepped. 

March looked away, and with a dramatic sigh he collapsed backwards into the front seat. “Fine. Whatever. Don’t break any more of my bones, please.”

Healy rolled his eyes and crouched, his knees popping in loud protest at the motion. March sucked a sharp breath in through his teeth when Healy slipped off his right shoe, but he didn’t scream, so Healy kept going. He tried to be gentle while rotating March’s foot, but every hiss of pain was a knife in his gut. He should’ve protected March better and not let him get thrown out of a window.

When he was satisfied that he didn’t feel or hear any bones grinding in ways they shouldn’t, he tossed the shoe into the footwell and sat back on his heels.

“What’s the prognosis, doctor?” March asked sarcastically; he propped himself up on his elbows, looking down the long line of his body towards Healy, who became suddenly, extremely aware that he was crouched between March’s legs.

Healy stood so fast that he nearly brained himself on the car door. “Twisted, not broken,” Healy said, hoping his voice sounded normal.

“Which is exactly what I fucking said,” March complained. Healy shook his head and shut the door—careful not to hit March’s foot—then headed around to the driver’s side, taking an extra second to breathe before getting in. March sprawled sideways on the front bench, though he folded himself up so Healy could take a seat. March glanced up at Healy through his lashes, startlingly blue eyes piercing into him like March could see every thought Healy had, before turning on his side. Healy swallowed hard and started the car.

March was once again unusually quiet on the drive, but when Healy glanced down at him his eyes were closed, his breathing deep if not quite even, so Healy left him to his nap. The adrenaline crash after being thrown out of a window was one hell of a thing, and Healy had seen March in this exact situation enough times to know the next steps. Though Healy couldn’t help but notice that even sleep didn’t erase the frown on March’s face.

They’d finished the job so fast that Holly wasn’t home from school yet by the time Healy parked outside of March’s house.

“Wake up,” Healy said; March mumbled something unintelligible and pressed his face to the seat. “C’mon, get up.” Healy shook March’s shoulder. March swatted ineffectually at him, so Healy slapped him.

It worked. March shot upright with a strangled yell.

“You done?” Healy asked dryly. March swung around to stare at Healy, eyes wide and unfocused. He could tell that whatever March drank at breakfast had worn off, leaving him shaky and strung out. 

“You gonna get out or do I need to carry you?” Healy asked. March blinked and dragged his gaze to the window, finally registering that they were parked in front of his house.

“Right, yeah, sorry,” March said, fumbling for the door. He toppled out of the car, hissing in pain and stumbling when he put weight on his right foot.

“You alright?” Healy had one hand on the door, ready to assist if March asked for help.

“Fine,” March snapped. He absolutely did not seem fine, but his words from earlier echoed in Healy’s head—does no one understand privacy anymore?—so Healy bit his tongue to keep from nagging.

“You should put ice on that,” Healy said instead, gesturing to March’s ankle, though he didn’t expect March to listen to him. March waved him off, slammed the door closed, and limped away.

“Hey, idiot!” Healy reached over and snagged March’s discarded shoe, which he chucked out the window. March snatched it off the ground, flipped Healy off, then hobbled up to the house.

Something uneasy settled in Healy’s gut as he watched March move. It was more than the limp, it was his slumped shoulders, the way every movement seemed like a huge effort, and how his gaze never strayed from the ground. Healy wanted to go after March, make sure he didn’t drink himself unconscious or end up in the tub again, make sure he iced his ankle and took care of himself, but he knew that would be too much. They were business partners, nothing more, and March made it clear that Healy’s presence was unwelcome outside of work.

Healy waited until March disappeared into the house, then started his car and drove off, heading back to his small, dark, empty apartment. Alone. 

At least he’d replaced his fish.

It was almost 8PM, and Healy hadn’t heard from March. Either March. Which was perfectly fine and completely normal, he told himself. Holly only called when they had a new case, and since they’d finished one today he shouldn’t expect anything so soon.

Still, the silence bothered him. All he could think about was the way March flinched when Sparks threatened to burn down his home. The odd detachment when March suggested Jamison sleep with his door shut. The frown on his face when he slept in the car.

Healy hadn’t survived this long as a bruiser without listening to his instincts, so he picked up the phone.

“This is the Nice Guys Detective Agency, how can we help you?” Holly’s bright voice answered, and Healy smiled—she didn’t sound pissed off like she had this morning.

“Hey, Holly,” Healy greeted; he rubbed the back of his neck, feeling stupid for being worried.

“Oh, Mr. Healy! Is everything okay?” 

“Yeah, yeah. I just, uh, wanted to check on your dad, is all,” Healy said.

There was a long silence on the line. Healy’s finely tuned March Bullshit Meter rang with alarms.

“He’s not here. I thought he was with you,” Holly said. 

Well, shit. 

“He wasn’t here when I got home from school, so I figured you were still on that case.” Something worse than worry settled in Healy’s gut.

“No, no, we wrapped that one up pretty quick. I dropped your dad back home.” Holly took a shaky breath in. Healy felt bad for scaring the kid, then felt mad at March for putting him in the position to do so.

“I’m sure he’s just at a bar or something,” Holly said, trying to inject bravado into her voice and sounding exactly her age. 

“I’m sure he is,” Healy agreed easily. “Is his car there?”

“Uh, let me check.” Holly put down the phone and ran off, giving Healy the freedom to sigh and pinch the bridge of his nose.

March tried not to drink and drive, which meant he almost never drove—there was a reason Healy was often the one behind the wheel—though it also wouldn’t be unheard of for March to throw caution to the wind and drive drunk if his head was messed up enough. Healy couldn’t tell if he hoped that March had done the stupid thing and driven while drunk, or if he hoped March had simply walked off. But where would he go?

March’s response to Healy asking if he was trying to get himself killed echoed in Healy’s head. I wish, March had said. Healy didn’t want to know what he wished for. 

“His car’s still here,” Holly said breathlessly when she picked the phone back up. That bad feeling in Healy’s gut intensified. “Do you- do you think he’s okay?”

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Healy lied, keeping his voice calm even as the phone threatened to snap in his grip. “But would you mind if I came over and checked, just to be sure?”

“No! I- I mean, yes, you can come over. Please come over,” she added, now sounding properly terrified. Shit, that was the last thing Healy wanted.

“I’ll be there soon.”

It was a thirty minute drive from Healy’s apartment to March’s house. Healy made it in twenty. He slowed as he neared the house, parking neatly before heading up the steps; he didn’t want to worry Holly any more than she already was. The front door was unlocked, so he didn’t need to bring out his keys—a good thing, since he couldn’t quite quell the shake in his hands.

“Holly?” Healy called as he stepped inside.

“Mr. Healy!” A blur shot across the room, and Healy suddenly found himself with his arms full of teenaged girl. He froze, unsure what to do in this situation.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Healy said, placing his hands on her shoulders and trying to mimic the way he’d seen March hug Holly—for all of his faults, March loved his daughter. “I take it he hasn’t shown up yet?” He asked, glancing around the room.

“No. I’m not- I didn’t even know he was missing,” Holly said, her words muffled as she pressed her face into Healy’s shirt.

“That’s not your fault,” Healy said firmly. “You shouldn’t have to worry about him.” Holly scoffed.

“All I do is worry about him.” 

Healy sighed, rubbing her back and hoping he was comforting her right. “I know, kid. So do I.” Holly pulled back from the hug to peer up at Healy with big blue eyes, looking so much like March had earlier that day that he blinked.

“Please find my dad, Mr. Healy,” Holly said, her voice wavering.

“I’ll look,” Healy replied, knowing better than to promise anything.

He started with the house. He checked all over—all bedrooms, bathrooms, even out by and in the pool. Nothing turned up. He could’ve asked Holly to help with the search, but if March was somewhere in the house then he didn’t want to subject her to whatever state he would be in. His traitorous mind filled in the worst, and he found himself thinking about the first time he’d met March, the bandage on his arm. Healy hadn’t given it much thought at the time, but now…

“Anything?” Holly asked when Healy came inside from the pool.

“Not yet, but he can’t have gone far. Do you have a flashlight?” Holly darted off while Healy checked the kitchen—like he suspected, the bottle of Scotch and several beers were missing from that morning.

Healy tried to give Holly a reassuring smile as he headed outside with the flashlight, but he didn’t think he succeeded. He didn’t know how to comfort anyone, let alone a kid. March was so much better at this.

March could only reach one place by foot, so Healy started down the hill. He knew he was on the right track when he found freshly discarded cigarette butts littering the sidewalk.

Healy slowed when he reached the chainlink fence surrounding the empty lot, swinging his flashlight beam across the space. Sure enough, a familiar lump sprawled out in the grass. Though not, Healy noted, in the spot where Holly sat to read.

Healy ducked past the fence and approached carefully; he couldn’t tell if March was awake or asleep—or dead, his mind provided unhelpfully, but he chased that thought away.

“Wanna tell me what you’re doing out here?” Healy asked when he got near, though he had a guess. Healy had only seen March down here once before, right after Amelia was killed. Considering Sparks’s earlier comments, Healy wasn’t surprised that March ended up here.

March groaned and took another swig of Scotch from the nearly empty bottle. How he didn’t choke when he laid flat on his back, Healy didn’t know; he was too glad to find March breathing to question it.

Healy sat down next to March with a huff, his knees and hips protesting the movement, then turned off the flashlight. Clouds or smog covered the moon, and the nearest streetlamp was out, so the only light around them came from the dull ember glow of March’s cigarette clenched in the hand not holding the bottle of Scotch. No wonder Healy hadn’t seen him on the drive up.

“Y’know how I’m invin’cible?” March asked after several long seconds of silence. Healy looked over at March splayed out on the ground, drunk half to death. Invincible was not the word that came to mind.

“No,” Healy answered honestly. March scoffed, then hiccuped.

“C’mon, ‘m totally invin’cible,” March slurred. “I walked offa fifty foot fall-”

“Twenty foot.” 

“Wi’out a scratch.”

“Twisted your ankle.”

“An’ I’m fine!”

“Agree to disagree.” Healy waited for March to continue, but he only took another drink. “Were you going somewhere with that story?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah, I wsh I wasn’t.” Healy’s breath caught in his chest at that statement, the way March said it so casually, like talking about the weather. “It’d jus’ be easier, y’know?” Healy forced a deep breath in, then out, so he wouldn’t give in to his desire to punch some sense into March.

“No, I don’t know,” Healy said, his voice tight.

March snorted. “‘course you don’. Fuckin’ Real Life Tough Guy over ‘ere. Got your shit together, with the fuckin’… fish, too, like goddamn.” Healy cocked his head to the side, unsure what March meant.

“What about my fish?”

“You gottem! And take care’a’em.” Healy considered the two fish that Blue Face killed and privately disagreed. “An’ I’m over here, makin’ my own goddamn daughter drive me back from the bar cause I’m too drunk t’walk straight.” March sighed and took a drag from his cigarette. “I’m the worst fuckin’ father.”

Healy thought of some of the fathers he’d run into on his job, the ones who their wives had hired him to scare off. “No, you’re not.” March barked out a sharp, hollow laugh.

“Yeah, I am. Wors’ father, wors’ detective, wors’ husband,” March said, counting on his fingers, but then he lost track and gave up. “I can’t do anythin’ right.”

“You’re trying,” Healy offered. March’s brittle laugh came back, sharp enough to bleed.

“Yeah. Ain’t that fuckin’ pathetic.” 

Healy glanced up the hill; he couldn’t see the house from there but he could imagine Holly’s pinched expression as she waited for news about her father. Healy didn’t want to know how many times she’d been in this exact situation before, only with no one around to share the worry.

“Holly needs you,” Healy said, wishing he could hit that message into March’s thick skull and knowing it wasn’t that simple.

“You’d take care’a her,” March said; Healy tipped his head to the side.

“I help you take care of her, yeah,” Healy agreed.

“Nah, I mean-” March belched, “the next time I take a fuckin’ header offa roof or some shit. If I don’ walk away. You’d take care’a her.” Healy’s blood turned to ice at March’s words. Something cold and heavy settled in his gut at the offhand way March spoke, like that situation was inevitable. But there was something else below that, something Healy couldn’t identify.

Holland March loved his daughter more than anything in the world, yet somehow he trusted Jackson Healy, notorious bruiser, to take care of her.

“I’m not the kinda guy you want raising a little girl,” Healy said when he found his voice again.

“Well shit, neither am I.” March took another swig. “‘sides, she likes you. She fuckin’ hates me. For good reason.”

“She doesn’t hate you,” Healy said; March scoffed. “She hates what you’re doing to yourself.” So do I, he didn’t add—he’d already broken their agreement by coming over when they didn’t have a case, he didn’t want to overstep again.

“Yeah, well, gettin line,” March mumbled. Healy blew out a heavy breath; he didn’t think a single person in the world could hate March as much as he hated himself.

“March,” Healy started, unsure how to broach this subject. He wanted to leave it alone, but he had to know. Needed to know how close of an eye to keep on March. “You’re not gonna try something, are you?” He worried he was too vague for March’s inebriated state, but March waved him off.

“Nah. I got, uh, life ‘surance, but it only covers, like, accidents and murder, y’know?” Not suicide, Healy heard, which didn’t actually make him feel better. “But, y’know, couple more cases on rooftops an’ it won’ matter.”

“Christ,” Healy muttered, shutting his eyes to breathe.

The thing was, he understood where March came from. There’d been a couple times, right after his wife left him, that he took on jobs he shouldn’t have—dangerous and way over his pay grade, but he took them anyway because he didn’t care what happened to him.

The only difference was that he didn’t have a kid relying on him.

“Shoulda been me, ‘nyway,” March mumbled.

“What?” Healy asked, though he had a bad feeling he knew what March meant.

“Th’ fire. Shoulda been me. Emma woulda been able t’keep her shit together, she wouldn’ be drinkin’ herself to death.” Healy couldn’t tell if it was a good or bad thing that March was self-aware enough to know what he was doing.

“You don’t know that,” Healy said, because he’d met plenty of women who’d gone off the deep end like March had. Substance abuse didn’t discriminate by sex.

“She’d’ve found someone by now,” March continued like Healy hadn’t spoken, his words bordering on hysterical laughter. “Some guy who’d ‘member to replace the fuckin’ batteries in the smoke detector.”

“March,” Healy said, unsure what he could say and yet feeling like he had to say something, but March plowed onwards.

“Cause the thing is, she told me,” he said, all humor gone from his voice. “She told me she smelled a gas leak, an’ obviously I believed her, said I’d fixit. Then again the next day, she said she smelled gas, an’ I said I’d get it checked out. Jus’- over an’ over again, an’ I never fuckin’ did anything about it. Then one night Holly’s at a sleepover an’ I’m ona stakeout, an’ by the time I get home there’s on’ly ash left.”

“Jesus,” Healy breathed; he’d heard bits and pieces of the story from Holly, but it had never been laid out so plainly. Somehow March wasn’t done yet.

“Holly was cryin’ cause she didn’ know if I’d been there too, an’ I’m cryin’ cause I don’ know what to do, an’ I’m standing there thinkin’ I shoulda jus’ replaced the goddamn batteries in the smoke detectors, an’- fuck, that was the last time Holly was ever happy to see me,” March cut off, his voice thick. “My whole life, up in flames. An’ it’s all my fuckin’ fault.”

And what the hell was Healy supposed to say to that?

“You’ve still got Holly,” Healy offered after a moment.

“Y’know, if Holly’d been- if she was-” even now March couldn’t finish that sentence, like speaking it out loud might make it come true. “I would’ve blown my fucking brains out,” his words were suspiciously clear, and Healy didn’t doubt they were true.

“But she wasn’t,” Healy reminded him. “And she still needs you.” 

“Yeah, cause I’ve dona great job raisin’ her so far,” March said scornfully, then drained the last of his bottle. 

“She’s a good kid,” Healy said.

“I don’ deserve her,” March said. “She’s so- smart, an’ clever, an’- an’ tough.”

“She gets that from you,” Healy said thruthfully—when March wasn’t blind drunk, he could be a damn good detective.

“I don’ deserve her,” March repeated. “Shouldn’ havta drive across the city to take carea me,” he added, and it took Healy a second to realize March now referred to him.

“I’m just trying to help,” Healy said softly, wondering if March would be mad in the morning.

“‘m not worth it,” March mumbled. “Don’ deserve it, to have anyone… there’s no point. I ruin everythin’.”

“March-”

“That’s why I gotta make space, y’know? So you don’ get too close. I can’t- I don’ wanna get anyone else hurt.” Healy tipped his head to the side in consideration—that put a different spin on the way March insisted on staying business partners. Not because he didn’t want more, but because that was all he felt he deserved.

“Should leave ‘fore I ruin you too,” March added.

Too late, Healy thought. He’d already been ruined by Holland March, and now he never wanted to leave.

“You’ve made me better,” Healy offered, but March didn’t react. It was true—he was a better man around March and Holly, more than just some guy good at hitting things.

Healy sighed—nothing he said now would get through to March in this state. But maybe Healy had learned enough to be useful down the line.

“C’mon, let’s get you home.” Healy pushed himself to his feet, biting back a groan—sitting on compacted dirt was not kind to his back. He looked down at where March sprawled on the ground and considered dragging him home by the ankle. He probably wouldn’t remember it in the morning.

Healy sighed and worked on getting March to his feet.

It took a full five minutes to get March upright. His legs were incapable of carrying his weight, he forgot what he was doing every five seconds, and his arms were all limp and noodley. 

It would’ve been easier if March was unconscious. Then Healy could’ve thrown March over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and been done with it. Unfortunately, March was awake enough to cause problems, so Healy settled for hooking March’s arm over his shoulder and his arm around March’s waist as they navigated up the hill. Healy abandoned the now-empty bottle of Scotch and the flashlight in the lot, as he already had his hands full—he’d return for them later.

What should’ve been a five minute walk turned into over twenty, and Healy’s back ached from the lopsided way he hauled March along. March mumbled under his breath the whole walk, and Healy caught enough to know that none of it was positive, but he was too focused on keeping them both moving to argue at that moment. He’d never been so glad to see someone else’s house in his life.

The front door flew open when they were only halfway up the steps, and Holly darted out.

“Dad!” Holly shouted. For a brief moment Healy saw what March always missed: Holly’s face lit up in excitement at seeing her father in one piece. 

That look didn’t last long. Holly came to an abrupt stop a few feet away, wrinkling her nose.

“God, how much did you drink?” She asked.

“Too much,” Healy said.

“Not enough,” March mumbled—in this state Healy figured “enough” meant “unconscious.”

“Thanks for bringing him home, Mr. Healy,” Holly said, ducking in to take March’s other side.

“Any time you need me, I’ll be there,” Healy said, finding a new conviction in his words. March had been pushing Healy away for Healy’s sake—not because he didn’t trust Healy, or didn’t think he’d be a good influence on Holly. Hell, March trusted Healy to look after Holly if the worst happened, which was more than Healy ever expected. Of course, he’d do his best to not let the worst happen, but that required a change in approach.

Between the two of them, they managed to get a barely coherent March inside the house, and Healy sat him down at the kitchen counter to give his back a break. Holly hovered nearby, while all Healy could think about was how many times she’d done this before with no one around to help her. She acted like an adult because she had to, but she was just a kid.

“Hey, why don’t you head to bed,” he said to Holly. “I’ll take care of your dad from here.” Holly bit her lip and looked at March, slumped face down on the counter, his cheek pressed against the wood as he drooled.

“Okay,” she agreed, her voice small. She darted in and gave Healy another hug. “Thank you.” Then she disappeared to her room.

Healy looked at March, stretched out his back, and sighed. “Let’s go.”

March was slightly more stable now that he recognized his surroundings—which didn’t mean much; Healy was still the only thing keeping him on his feet. They got to the hallway outside March’s bedroom when he took a sudden, sharp turn towards the bathroom. Healy followed his lead, figuring he had to throw up, but when Healy tried to set him down by the toilet, March instead tripped head first into the tub.

“Woah.” Healy barely caught March before he knocked his teeth out, hauling him upright. “Easy there.”

“Shanks,” March mumbled, slapping Healy’s chest, then sank to his knees. Healy froze for one long second, and by the time he remembered how to move March had leaned into the tub, fumbling for the faucet with one hand while he plugged the drain with the other, his motions practiced and deliberate.

“Hey, no.” Healy caught March before he rolled into the tub and turned off the water. “I’m not letting you sleep here again.” He had no idea how or why March got it into his drunken brain that a full bathtub was an acceptable sleeping situation.

“I gotta,” March said, twisting the tap on.

“You’re gonna sleep in a goddamn bed,” Healy countered, switching the water off.

“No.” The water came on.

“No?” The water went off.

“Can’t.” Water on.

“Why the hell not?” Water off.

“‘cause’a the carpet.” Water on.

That response was so far out of the realm of what Healy expected that it stumped him, and he stared in disbelief as the tub filled.

“What the hell does the carpet have to do with it?” Healy asked. Now that March was no longer fighting over the faucet, he pulled out his pack of cigarettes, waving it in Healy’s face like that was an answer. “What?” Healy asked as March fumbled with his lighter. March looked up at Healy with an eyebrow raised, like he was the stupid one in this situation. 

“If I sleep here, then water, s’fine,” March said, which still didn’t make sense. Healy opened his mouth to argue when March continued. “But if bed, th’n cigarette, carpet, fire, house, boom.” March made a mini explosion noise and mimed something blowing up with his hands.

For the tenth time that day, Healy’s blood ran cold. He didn’t know what the hell to say to that. It made sense—in the same twisted way it made sense when March told Jamison to sleep with his bedroom door closed. How often did March think about this kind of stuff?

March was oblivious to Healy’s mental spiral, swishing his hand back and forth in the water until he deemed it high enough. He turned off the tap and climbed into the tub, sloshing water over the sides in the process; he somehow managed to keep both the pack of cigarettes and the lighter above the water as he did so.

“Do you do this every night?” Healy found himself asking—did March ever sleep in his own bed?

March hummed and settled back in the tub, propping his elbows over the sides. “Nah, jus’ when I drink.” Which was every night, but Healy didn’t have the strength to argue about that at the moment.

“Aren’t you worried you’ll drown?” Healy tried.

“Haven’t so far,” March replied, which seemed to be his view on most things: if it hadn’t been a problem yet, then March wouldn’t worry. Also, he tended not to worry when it was only his own life on the line. Which was its own problem, and one Healy now had unfortunate insight on.

Healy sighed and dragged the trash can over to the tub. He wasn’t getting March out of there now, as much as he wanted to. “If you’re gonna puke, aim for this,” he said tiredly; sleeping all night in a tub of lukewarm water was one thing, but sleeping all night in a tub of lukewarm water mixed with vomit was another thing entirely.

March lazily waved him off, so Healy shook his head and exited the bathroom, then hesitated in the hall.

It had gotten late, and Healy didn’t want to leave Holly alone with March in such a state. He’d slept on their couch exactly once before; it was hell on his back, and not an experience he wanted to repeat. However, a completely empty bedroom sat right down the hall.

Healy peeked into March’s room, unsurprised to find it messy and covered in discarded clothes. A thick shag carpet covered the ground, which—to be fair—looked very flammable. 

Healy did one last sweep of the house, locking all the doors and windows—not that it did much, considering cardboard covered half the windows, but he felt better after doing it anyway. He checked on March again, going as far as to set out some things to make the next morning more bearable, before returning to the bedroom.

Maybe Healy should’ve felt weirder about claiming March’s bed as his own, but if March didn’t want him there then he shouldn’t have fallen asleep in the tub. At least this way Healy would be around for whatever problems inevitably arose in the morning. At least this way he could be useful.