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Holland gets the phone call when he's home alone.
This, Jackson only finds out hours later. In fact, he only finds out when Holland himself decides to drop the news on him, at a red light on the drive home from the bar. It's a good thing he's not the one driving, because he'd probably hit the brakes hard enough to decorate the pavement with their exploded wheels.
“Nephews.”
“Yeah.” Holland's eyes never leave the road, one hand on the wheel, the other taking nervous, jittery drags out of his cigarette. He's tense as a violin string - more so than usual, even.
“Three of them.”
“That's what that lady told me.”
“How- I didn't even know you had one nephew, Holland. How the hell did you get three?”
“The usual way, I suppose. You know, you really should have been paying attention in science class-”
“Cut the crap.” Jackson inhales deeply, trying to put all the information he has on a line that might connect Point A, or Holland has spontaneously produced family members out of nowhere, and Point B, they're about to show up at our house.
He's used to that. The rearranging of thoughts, that is. They have been partners for more than a decade now - the arm-twisting, bullet-taking kind at first, and subsequently the kind that would bend each other over with much more enthusiasm, especially now that Holly is all grown up and has left home. He knows how to untangle Holland's jumbled words and how to force out the unsaid ones. That's not the problem.
The problem is that this is lightning in a clear blue sky, as far as surprises go. “You didn't mention any of them before.”
“Haven't exactly met them before. My sister cut me off right around the time she got married. Hard to keep track of kids when their mother isn't telling you they're being born, you know?”
“So why are they involving you now?”
“‘Cause there's no one else, Jack.” Another long, shaky drag out of that cigarette, as if Holland had one drink too many - which he didn't, because Jackson wouldn't have let him drive if he had. “She went and ran off on that man years ago, and now they're putting him behind bars. It's either me- us- or the system.”
Jackson appreciates the correction, but it still doesn't make him any less confused. “What's he getting arrested for? I don't want to have to make some calls, but…”
“Don't bother.” Holland's right hand clutches tighter around the wheel, the knuckles (skinned from where he stumbled against a wall during the weekend) gone white as bone.
“Lady said he's been beating them. The boys. Landed one of the little ones in the hospital. Even if he was out, they'd still be taken.”
You could hear a pin drop inside the car after that, aside from the sputtering of the engine. The last declaration has shut off most other available options - Jackson is a rough man, but he's not a monster. He knows that if he objected, Holland would either refuse to take the kids, for his sake, or leave and never look back, and in both cases a thick wall of regret would fall between them and they'd both be destroyed.
He can't afford that. He might already be mourning the peaceful retirement he was envisioning a few years in the future, but there's a limit between mild inconvenience and losing your partner that Jackson Healy isn't willing to cross. “Alright.”
“Alright?” This time Holland does turn to glance at him, wide eyed. “Just like that?”
“What else do you want me to say? I'm old, March. We're past big life changes. But they're your nephews and you don't want them to be thrown out to the wolves, so yeah. Take them. We'll figure it out.”
“You don't even like kids. You said Holly was an exception. One and done- those were your words.”
“She was.” Jackson reaches across the other man's lap to snatch the cigarette from between his fingers, ignoring Holland's half-hearted protests as he brings it to his own lips to finish it off. “But you're eating your heart out thinking about saying no, so…Alright. Call the lady back. I'll survive.”
“Your fucking detective brain,” Holland nutters, stopping at a red light a little too harshly. “Don't know why I bother asking questions.”
There is a stretch of easier silence between them, then, each likely thinking about the same thing with divergent paths as to how catastrophic this could end up being. Jackson takes the last drag out of the cigarette, stubs it out slowly and deliberately, and then turns to his partner with the thinnest of smiles beginning to tug at the corner of his lips. “You know this means you'll have to go furniture shopping again, right?”
Holland curses violently, loud and shrill, and the atmosphere in the car is lighter on the rest of the drive home, as expected.
In the end, they only buy one extra bed.
The basics are already there, anyway. Holly's room is mostly intact, ready for any incoming child - they call her to make sure she'll be okay with it being occupied, which turns out to be harder than figuring out the bureaucratic part, predictably. She grills them on any tidbit of information they have about the boys, which isn’t much, and insists they keep the newcomers out of any investigation for at least a few weeks - unfair, given that her first murder investigation happened when she was thirteen herself and only because she snuck in.
Besides, only one of the kids is thirteen. That'd be the eldest, Courtland. The other two are twins, all of five years old, one awaiting discharge from the hospital where he was taken after his father apparently slammed him against a wall, the other an identical little stranger. That's about all Jackson knows, up until the day of their arrival.
It's enough for him to actually make those phone calls, though contrary to his first approach, he's not trying to pull any strings. Not yet, at least. He just wants to ensure he still has contacts inside the prison currently hosting Mr. Gentry Sr, just in case the man needs to be kept out of the way.
He doesn't tell Holland about the calls. Holland is already stressing himself out to no end, guilt and apprehension gnawing at him plain as day. The last thing he needs at the moment is to learn that his brother in law is awaiting not only trial by a jury of his peers, but also judgement from Jackson Healy, the one and only. There’s still a chance nothing will come of it, anyway.
Holly also instructs them on what they should buy right away and what ought to be picked out by the boys themselves. Bossy as ever, that girl, even though she’s technically a grown woman, by now. Holland listens and takes notes, while Jackson objects on several points, but ultimately they come to some kind of compromise that ends with the two of them setting up only one extra bed - they figure that the twins will be able to share for a little while, small as they are, while Courtland can take Holly’s old one. The rest, they’ll hopefully have time to figure out later.
Not that Jackson is exactly ecstatic at the prospect of those three staying forever, mind you. In fact, he’s quite extraneous to it all - which makes sense, considering he’s only Holland’s business partner, at least in the eyes of the law. If one were to look at official records, they’d think he’s sharing a house with the man out of pure practicality; their neighbors don’t ask questions, because they don’t want to know the answer; his opinion holds no weight unless Holland gives it some, which he does, thankfully, otherwise the house would be going bottoms up before the boys even arrive, but that doesn’t make Jackson their family, too.
The alternative, however, would be worse, so by the time three children show up on their doorstep, he has made peace with their presence. Sort of.
He lets Holland greet them, though, even if the latter is so twitchy he might as well have touched a live wire. Jackson only stands on the sidelines and watches, taking in as much information as their appearance gives up and cataloguing it for later.
They’re a raggedy bunch, that’s for sure. Courtland’s arms look bone-thin and gangly where his shirtsleeves have ridden up, too busy cradling one of his brothers to fix it - the injured one, given the bandaging plastered on his hairline - while the other clings to his leg; the paperwork listed their names as Colton and Ryland, but it’s hard to associate names to faces when said faces are identical.
They all look pretty similar, in fact. For one, they all seem in dire need of a haircut, a hearty meal, and somewhere to store their stuff - social services, never ones to outdo themselves, dropped off their belongings in what is essentially a trash bag. The cherry on top of a pitiful sight, Jackson concludes, in the privacy of his own mind.
“Hello, Mr. March,” Courtland says, with the detached, mechanical tone of someone who’s had that kind of manners drilled rigorously into his head. His young face is mostly blank, but there’s a guarded look in those blue eyes, scanning the whole room with increasing suspicion. “Thank you for having us.”
Holland winces, scratching nervously at his stubbly chin. “It’s okay. You can just call me-” Jackson can see him hesitating, as if he’d rather say something else. “Just call me Holland, alright? That there is Jackson Healy. We work and live together. Don’t worry, he looks tough, but he doesn’t bite.”
Jackson raises an eyebrow at him, but before he can interject his partner has opened his mouth again, still talking uneasily fast. “And these are your brothers, yeah? Uh…d’you know which is which, Courtland?”
That’s such a typical Holland March question that it’s a wonder the kid doesn’t roll his eyes at him. Still too suspicious to feel comfortable doing so, perhaps. “This is Colt,” he only says, hitching the boy in his arms up a little higher. “And that’s Ryland. I’m just Court. No one calls me Courtland.”
“Okay, cool, cool. Well, Court, do you guys want to see your bedroom? You can put your stuff away and tell me if there’s something you need right off the bat.”
Court nods minutely. The other two, for their part, don’t utter a single word, but as they move to follow their uncle, Jackson catches the little one staring at him while trailing after his older brother and twin, squinting and scrunching up his face in concentration.
Jackson doesn’t look away, but he has to repress a heavy sigh while watching them go. This is bound to be even harder to disentangle than some of their worst cases, and they’ve had multiple of those, at this point.
The first night seems to pass by uneventfully.
Ryland and Colt are quiet for the whole dinner, though they both look like they’re holding back several questions, alternating between staring owlishly at their strange surroundings and scarfing their food down as if their lives depended on it. Court eats much more slowly, shooting surreptitious, almost weighing glances at his brothers’ plates before he polishes off his own and refusing seconds when Holland offers.
That, too, is a clue. Holland might joke about Jackson’s detective brain, but neither of them has ever learned how to shut that off, and it has saved their ass more often than they’d care to admit - if there’s a thread, they’ll follow it until they can see the whole pattern, and right now, it’s not just a thread stretching across their kitchen table, it’s an entire ball of yarn. If he had a sticky note, he’d scribble down food, for later investigation.
Still, they all eat, more or less. Afterwards, while the boys are washing up for bed, he can hear them whispering - not entire sentences, they’re too quiet for that; just two overlapping voices, chirping like little birds, and Court’s firmer tone stopping them in their tracks. Holland is clearly straining to listen, but he comes up just as empty-handed as his partner, and their new guests are silent again when they emerge from the bathroom.
Holly said they should get a nightlight, at least for the first few weeks, while they get used to an unfamiliar room. Jackson didn’t agree with everything she said, but that seemed sensible enough - it shines softly over their cautious faces while Holland bids them goodnight, leaving the door ajar for good measure.
That’s how Jackson finds out even two beds might have been too many. When he gets up in the middle of the night and trudges to the toilet, another glorious perk of getting old, he sneaks a glance into the room and spots all three children huddled up on the new one, which is slightly bigger than Holly’s. The twins are asleep, from what he gathers by the mounds of blankets rising and falling evenly, but Court’s eyes are open and staring at thin air, his arms wrapped around his brothers.
The man watches him for a moment, then leaves without making a noise, his drowsy mind suddenly a bit more alert. It takes him a while to drift back off to sleep after that, but despite that, he still wakes up bright and early in the morning, as he’s used to doing.
Holland is still conked out at his side, having had his own struggles to relax the night before, and yet there is noise in the hallway, hushed mumbling and too-heavy footsteps. Jackson thinks he can hear sniffling, too, underneath all that.
A stray pang of alarm hits him in the chest - not as harsh as it would be in real danger, but there nonetheless. He elbows his partner awake and crawls out of bed without answering the confused, half-awake gibberish he receives in return, moving to peek around the doorframe with a frown.
The boys freeze, staring back at him like a herd of deer caught in the headlights. They’re all still in their pjs and barefoot, which is the only reasonable detail in the scene, given that it’s the crack of dawn, and are standing in the middle of the hallway as if caught redhanded in some mischief - Court is carrying a bundle of what looks like bedsheets in his arms, while his brothers huddle together, holding hands. One of them has red, swollen eyes and tears running down his cheeks; the one who tried to hold a staring contest with Jackson the previous night, he guesses, though with no way to prove if he’s right.
There’s shuffling behind him, and Holland appears in all his bewildered glory, blinking at his nephews as if that could explain what the hell he’s seeing. “Hey, guys,” he starts, sounding uncertain. “What’s, uh… You’re up early, aren’t you?”
Court’s eyes dart from the two men to the children and back, hesitating for a long moment before he holds out the pile of fabric he’s clutching. “We were looking for the washing machine. Ryland had an accident.”
Now that he knows what to look for, Jackson doesn’t miss the little boy’s damp pants, which probably justify his crying. He doesn’t miss the way Court has not-so-subtly stepped forward to stand between them and his brothers, either, squared up as if for a battle while partially obscuring Ryland and Colt from view, and he wagers Holland has noticed, too.
“That’s…okay,” the man says, deliberately slowly, then moves closer to them with his hands raised, his go-to gesture to appear harmless. “First night in a new house, that’s super normal- come on, we’ll get you cleaned up and I’ll show you where everything is. Thanks for grabbing the sheets- want to hand them over? Ryland would probably like some help from you.”
That doesn't appear to be the reaction Court had been expecting at all. In fact, several emotions seem to cross his face in rapid succession, surprise, confusion, mistrust - his first instinct is to hold the bundle closer to his chest, scanning his uncle’s expression for a few seconds before he finally relents, passing it over with stiff, cautious movements.
Holland smiles encouragingly. Jackson retreats into their bedroom, keeping his ears peeled to any changes but trusting his partner to handle the situation well enough.
Something shifts after that.
It's not even a massive shift - only a small crack in the boys’ demeanor that slowly begins to show more of their personalities. It's like ignoring a small leak, letting the water trickle and trickle until it has flooded the whole house.
Perhaps flood isn't the right word. Tidal wave might be more accurate - Jackson certainly feels bowled over by the sudden burst of activity, especially at the hand of the twins. He wouldn't be surprised if they tried to ambush him in the night, loaded with questions that Holland doesn't have an answer for.
That's the thing about Colt and Ryland: once they seem to agree that they're not in immediate danger, or that at least their brother would be around to intervene if they were, they talk. A lot. They want an explanation for every thought passing through their brains and if by some stroke of bad luck they're trying to speak at the same time, they either get increasingly louder or start bouncing off each other like Tweedledee and Tweedledum.
Colt demands to know what a detective does (Holland gives him an edulcorated description that only makes the boy more insistent about the missing details). Ryland wants to figure out how old Jackson is and how much older than them it makes him (Jackson would feel offended by the implications, if the question wasn't coming from a very small, very excitable person who couldn't believe there were people alive born before the year 1950). Both of them are unnervingly interested in the marks left down Colt’s temple once the stitches come out - it’s a miracle they lasted long enough for a doctor to do it properly, in fact, given the amount of curious little fingers poking and prodding at the healing wound.
They don’t talk about the night when the wound was caused. The little ones are as cagey about their previous life as they are vocal about everything else, and Court maintains that stoic, suspicious reticence that he’s had since the beginning and that is ill-suited to a boy of thirteen. As for the rest of them, well, they already know - even Jackson has read the police report and the hospital paperwork, before the children moved in at all. In fact, he had to take them off Holland’s hands before they balled up in fists so tight they were likely to shred the pages, late at night in their bed, when neither of them could manage to fall asleep.
Not that they rest much more easily, now. There’s often someone waking up at impossible hours, having nightmares and calling for other people - none of the three have tried coming up to their uncle for comfort yet, but that doesn’t magically make Holland and Jackson deaf to their plight. They’ve become uncomfortably familiar with how much work Court puts in to soothe his brothers to sleep, if anything.
And still, life goes on. There is something incredibly mundane to how much bureaucracy lies behind taking in a bunch of children, even if they’re family, even if one has raised a kid before - it’s been so long since Holly was around that age, they’ve both forgotten a lot of the dumb stuff she needed just to be a functional member of society. The boys have to be enrolled in schools and own a bunch of inconsequential things and hey, are they up to date with their vaccinations or did it escape their father’s mind when he drank himself into a stupor? Honestly, how are they supposed to navigate all that without having to run their own investigation to fish out the missing details?
Holland, bless his flighty mind, tries his best. He insists on attempting to include them in whatever is going on at that point, and if the twins look at him with that blank, confused stare every child in the world wears when an adult is doing too much in their vicinity, Court can hardly conceal his skepticism. Actually, he almost exudes impatience, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop was starting to become irritating.
But, as Jackson has had the chance to learn over the years, there’s little that can stop Holland March once he has found his course of action. When he’s set to go sort out some papers at Court’s new school, he cajoles the boy into coming along, adamant that they both know their way around before the semester starts.
Court’s first reaction is hesitance. The second is to shoot a wary glance around and ask if his brothers are coming as well, which Holland would probably agree to as to ease his anxiety, if not for the fact that it’d be a disaster. There are few places worse suited for two rambunctious five-year-olds than a middle school principal’s office, Jackson wagers.
That’s his cue to step in, unfortunately. He says he’ll keep the twins in check for however long it takes for them to get this over with, and he looks Court straight in the eyes as he says that, trying to convey as much trustworthiness as one man can. He’s not sure he succeeds, but that might have less to do with him and more with whatever the fuck the infamous Mr. Gentry implemented in their home. All the same, the boy reluctantly follows his uncle to the car, and Jackson is left alone with two children that aren’t his and the dawning realization that he can’t just expect them to entertain themselves without moving a muscle.
That’s another fun perk of their new living situation: these boys are eating them out of house and home. Even Court’s reluctance to accept bigger portions couldn’t last forever, and there is nothing more ravenous than a growing preschooler - Jackson has put in a lot of work to ensure his partner wouldn’t live off of cigarettes and Jack Daniel’s, and he’s not about to have his years-long streak broken, but they’re giving him a run for his money with their food intake.
This means the fridge is mostly empty again, which in turn means they need a grocery run. It’s as pleasant to imagine as a nose-dive in an empty pool, but at least it should keep them busy for a couple of hours.
Besides, the boys seem excited at the prospect of going on a ride, though still unused to their brother’s absence. True to their nature, they point at things outside the car windows and wonder aloud about each and every one of them - birds, buildings, other cars, questionable street signs, the list goes on and on. Jackson would speed up to shorten the trip and give his ears some peace, but he doesn’t want to attract any attention considering he still doesn’t have any goddamn booster seats in the back of his car. Most people don’t give a shit about putting their children in one, and the cops barely bat an eye at it, but he knows enough people in the local police department that someone would probably think it the height of comedy to fine him for something that stupid and then laugh about it in the break room.
Mercifully, they arrive at the store without incident. He tells the twins to stick close while they get the stuff they need, but it’s like asking a pigeon not to coo - they seem to be built for getting underfoot, mesmerized by everything they see and drawn to high shelves and colorful packaging. Normal for their age, perhaps, but definitely not good for his desire to keep them all in one piece.
“If you guys don’t stay put,” he warns them, eventually, “I’m putting you in the cart like a can of tomatoes.”
An older gentleman in the same aisle as them, someone Jackson has never seen before in his life, overhears him and barks out a rattling laugh, shaking his head. “Stuck wrangling the hellions, uh? What, the missus didn’t want you in the house no more?”
He moves on without waiting for an answer, still chuckling to himself, and Jackson watches him go in pure bewilderment, struggling to come up with an appropriate reaction. There is something mildly hilarious about the implications of it, considering the missus in question cut himself while shaving again that morning and is probably trying to play questionable tapes for his nephew on the way to the school, but also, where in hell did that man see the resemblance between him and these kids?
He doesn’t have time to process the encounter, anyway. It turns out that Colt very much wants to ride the shopping cart, and where he goes, Ryland will follow. After helping them scramble in and ensuring they don’t squash anything or hit their heads, Jackson gets approximately ten seconds of wishful hoping that the rest of the trip will go more smoothly, now that they’re contained.
Then the questions begin.
“Who was that old man?”
“Why was he laughing?”
“D’you know him?”
“What’s a hellion?”
He endures for a while. Hand to his heart, Jackson endures all of this to the best of his abilities, but he’s only one man and there are two of them, and he’s only managed to get a couple more items on their list before he has to capitulate.
“Alright,” he says, with a tiredness so familiar that he can now see plain as day that these folks are related to Holland and Holly. “New plan. We’re grabbing a snack, if you two stop drilling me over this for the next ten minutes. Got it?”
Bribery has always taken him far in life. He doesn’t get complete silence, of course, but he can at least formulate two thoughts in a row without getting distracted, and by the time they reach the candy, chocolate and assorted junk food area, he’s confident they can survive this. The boys naturally want out of the cart at that point, so they can explore freely, but even that isn’t enough to rattle Jackson anymore.
He grabs some stuff for himself, too, while they make their choice. For Holland as well, even though the guy probably doesn’t deserve it, and for Holly, who has promised to come visit soon. Colt comes running back with a snack bar, while Ryland takes longer to select from an assortment of sugary treats, ultimately picking some kind of colorful candy - they both clutch their treasures proudly, holding onto each other’s free hand as they march towards the cash register, apparently marking an end to their task.
Then Colt suddenly pulls his brother to the side, squealing excitedly. “Ryland, Ryland, look! That’s the thing Court likes, right?”
He grabs something off the chewing gum section, holding it up to Ryland’s face. The boy squints at it and leans even closer - and that’s not a good sign, right, it’s probably the kind of thing they ought to check up on before he fucks his eyes up more - staring at it for a long second before he brightens up. “Oh, yeah!”
They turn to Jackson in unison, their mouth forming mirroring, expectant smiles. “Can we get Court a snack too? Please? For when he comes back?”
Now, young Courtland Gentry wasn’t part of Jackson’s bribery plan. In fact, the boy hasn’t said more than five words in a row to him during his entire stay in their house. A more cynical man would consider that a good enough reason to say no.
But Jackson suspects those three have heard enough nos for several lifetimes, and there is no room for cynicism left, when you’ve once spared a criminal’s life as not to disappoint a thirteen year old girl. And besides, as he finds out later, caving is worth the enthusiastic cheers he gets when he nods in agreement, and the more relaxed chatter that fills his car on the way home-
And the wondering, incredibly child-like shine in Court’s eyes when he stumbles out of Holland’s car before it’s even fully stopped, the relief of seeing his brothers unharmed and happy quickly overpowered by the surprise over the fact that they thought of his enjoyment too.
Work doesn’t stop just because of life events, as it turns out.
It didn’t stop for Holly’s growth, for one, though Holly was a special case, and she never let anything stop her, one way or the other. When she finally makes good on her promise to visit and meet the kids she still chides them for not keeping track of their appointments as well as she used to do - her cousins look at her in open amazement, like an otherworldly apparition, and they are quick to warm up to her, even the stiffer, more distrustful one.
Perhaps it’s her big heart, once again taking the lead. Perhaps it’s the fact that she picks better movies to watch than her father, and holds Ryland’s hand when he gets worried about the characters on the screen, Court sitting by her other side and trying to keep Colt from falling off the couch in his eagerness to get closer to the TV. Whatever the reason, the days Holly spends with them pass by in a flash, leaving them softer and more at ease than they were before.
Afterwards, though, their strange new routine picks up again, and that means a case, and working to put bread on the table. The only difference from their usual plans of action is that they can rarely move in a pair - Holland is reluctant to leave the boys home alone, considering they probably spent too long having to fend for themselves already, and they aren't acclimated enough to their new life to trust a stranger, even if the stranger in question is a babysitter barely old enough to drive. Without Holly, therefore, their only option is to trade off being on the field and staying home.
It means sacrificing most of their time together, but it can't be helped, and it won't be forever, hopefully. It's just an adjustment period, and children grow up, eventually. Jackson keeps it as a mantra in the privacy of his own head, even though he doesn't actually mind the days he has to do office work - the twins have warmed up to him, at least, and can be more or less trusted to come to him if they take a tumble while playing. They call him Mr. Healy, which is hilariously formal in the mouth of someone who's losing baby teeth left and right, but then again they barely call Holland Uncle either; only when they're distracted, or particularly distraught.
Still, Jackson manages. He takes most of the graveyard shifts anyway, if there's any need for a late stakeout or some dirty work. He has the seniority, and the boys won't have to relocate again, if he gets shot - he tries to avoid it, of course, but he's a detective, not the Almighty. All he can do is continue doing his work after dark and hope he doesn't become a short-range target.
That's what causes him to drag himself home late one night, the effect of the cheap coffee he grabbed hours earlier already wearing off and leaving him bone tired and uncomfortable. He spent too long sitting in a car taking pictures of clueless suspects - he wants nothing more than a shower, his bed, and the familiar tones of Holland's snoring, a warm presence draped over him as they both drift off to sleep.
He almost forgoes the after-work duties, exhausted as he is, but if the intel he gathered can be sorted out in the morning, he can't in good conscience leave his gun loaded and unattended. He doesn't think Colt and Ryland would actually grab it and try to play with it, but he only needs to be wrong about it once to cause irreparable damage.
So, he takes the bullets out. He checks that he hasn't forgotten anything. The house is quiet and sleepy around him, lulling him through the mechanical movements. And that's precisely the moment a voice speaks up out of the blue, almost making him jump out of his skin. “Why do you unload it every time?”
Jackson curses under his breath, mentally thankful that it didn't happen when he was still armed, and whips around to look at Court. The boy is standing in the doorframe, arms crossed and face unreadable, wearing the sleepclothes Holland bought him the first week - all three of them were lacking some crucial elements of their wardrobe when they arrived, and needed emergency shopping trips within days.
The man considers telling him not to startle anyone with a weapon in hand, functional or not, but ultimately ignores the urge to. He has an inkling the kid might already know that, given his past experiences. Instead, Jackson adjusts his stance to face him properly, adopting the same, even tone he'd use with another grown up. “Your brothers are too young,” he says. “I’d rather avoid them shooting themselves in the foot, even if it's an accident.”
Court muses over it for a moment, brow furrowed. “Our father kept it loaded.”
“Your father has a gun?” That wasn't in any of the dirt they dug up on the man, unless they were too pissed to read the words properly.
“Yeah. It's in his nightstand- I mean, it was there the last time I checked. Loaded, too.”
Jackson mentally sets aside the thrill of having yet another fault that might keep Gentry locked up longer - unregistered firearm, he knows some people in the force who would have a field day with it - and carefully selects the most honest response he has. “From what I know of your father, it's because he's a reckless piece of shit.”
The corner of Court's mouth twitches upwards; it's a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it gesture, but unmistakable all the same. Maybe that's what prompts the man to ask one more question, more concerned than he's curious. “Why were you checking if the gun was there and loaded?”
There's a flicker of alarm in the boy's eyes, and he averts his gaze sullenly, staring stone-faced at the floor. Like this, he bears a striking resemblance to his uncle - he always does, all three of them do, but there is something in his expression right now that reminds Jackson of Holland when they first met, with a deep-rooted terror hiding behind the bullshit and bravado.
He doesn't answer. Instead, all he says is: “You don't want Colt and Ryland to get hurt.”
It doesn't sound like a question, but rather an observation, as if he, too, were surprised to hear the words he spoke. Jackson feels a surge of pity for him, for the way he's clearly torn on how to take this realisation, if with relief or with suspicion. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
That’s not how the question should go. A normal, well-adjusted child should be wondering why anyone in the world might want to hurt his baby brothers, not the other way around. That Court has come out to ask it aloud, to a man who isn’t bound by any obligation to him, at a time when he should be getting age-appropriate amounts of sleep, is just icing on a miserable cake Jackson isn’t sure he can handle right now.
But he has to try. There is a sense of expectation in the air, the knowledge that if he mishandles this moment, he might never get a second chance - he finds that prospect downright awful, to his surprise. He hadn’t planned for it, just like he hadn’t planned to fall in love when he burst into a man’s house to break his arm, once upon a time…and yet here he is, sitting at a kitchen table that he helped that man carry inside after the restoration, looking at that man’s nephew with a frustrating amount of protectiveness piling up in his chest.
What other answer could he give to that question? Is there anything else he could say, really?
“Because I’m not the sort of man your father is,” is what comes out of his mouth, ultimately. “And neither is your uncle. It’s a piss poor kind of guy who sees two little boys and wants to hit them.” A pause, as he ruminates on what he ought to add. “Or their brother.”
Court’s eyes snap back to him, wide as saucers. Jackson chances a grin, the casual, reassuring one that only Holland and Holly are usually privy to. Part of him thinks he should stand up, close the distance between them, but he doesn’t want to break the spell, to remind the boy that he’s bigger, broader, stronger, just like the man who failed to be their father. Like this, one of them sitting down, the other several feet away, there is a semblance of equality, an illusion he wishes to uphold for as long as it takes for Court to hear him out.
“It’s fine if you think this place is too good to be true,” he continues, his tone unchanging. “I wouldn’t expect you to believe any of the stuff we say. But nothing like that is going to happen here. Holland’s a good guy, and I’ve got his back. Take your time- you’ll figure out I’m not lying, eventually.
“But if you ever start doubting it…You don’t need to go looking for the gun. It’s going to be on the highest shelf in our room, where your brothers can’t find it. That’s where it stays when it’s not coming with me on a job. Unloaded, as you can see. I don’t enjoy using it nearly as much as you think. Holly rubbed off on me.”
“Why are you telling me that?” The boy breathes out, barely audible.
Jackson shrugs. “You’re a smart kid. You would have found it eventually. And I’ve got a good picture of what kind of place you’re coming from, so I thought I’d remind you that things are different around here. The only thing we’d do if you guys got hurt again is go look for the person who did it and give them a reminder, too. Got it?”
He doesn’t get an answer this time around, either. Instead, Court stares at him for what feels like ages, worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth.
Then he nods jerkily and turns around, walking back the way he came from.
Jackson doesn’t move until he hears the door to the boys’ room close with a soft click, the lock remaining unturned from the inside. Only after this does he let out a heavy sigh he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, then gets up and heads to bed, putting the empty gun back in its rightful place on the way there.
Holland’s arms are a welcome spot to land in, and that night he gets the best sleep he’s had in weeks, some of the tension melting off his shoulders at long last.
“Can I go on a case with you sometimes?” Court asks, casually.
Jackson meets Holland’s gaze over his breakfast, raising an eyebrow. His partner isn’t even eating, only downing his coffee with sleep still in his eyes, so it falls on him to reply in a timely manner. “What?”
The boy shrugs, looking studiously at his cereal. “I want to see what you guys do at work.”
“Where did you get that idea?” The kids have been there for a couple months by now, and this is the first time it has come up, aside from the twins’ trillion questions at the very beginning.
Things are better than they were then, at least. It still feels as though they're treading carefully along the edge of a cliff, sometimes - those three still flinch at noises that are too loud or too sudden, and a full night without anyone startling awake is still an utopia - but they've made a few steps forward, not just backwards. They're back to doing school runs in the morning and case debriefs over lunch, apparently, which would be nostalgic if it wasn't a fucking heart attack risk sometimes.
And yet, that request is decidedly a first. “Court?”
“When I was on the phone with Holly the other day-”
“Christ.” Holland gulps down the last dregs of his cup and finally joins the conversation, staring at his eldest nephew with a scowl that is only slightly genuine. “Whatever your cousin has told you, she's exaggerating.”
“She said you questioned a mermaid. Is that true?”
Ryland looks up from his own breakfast, eyes wide and wondering and, according to the doctor they met recently, pretty weak when it comes to seeing faraway things. “So mermaids are real?”
“No, stupid,” Colt chides him, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “He just said Holly was ex-a-geratin’. It means it's not true.”
“Don't call him stupid,” Court cuts in before they start bickering, then turns his attention back to his uncle. “I don't really care about the mermaids, but Holly said you let her be there for some stuff when she was my age, so…”
“Yeah, and I'd rather you skip some of that stuff yourself.” Holland seems to ruminate on it for a moment, chewing on the inside of his mouth. “If I say yes, and I haven't said it yet, you can come do boring things. Sit in a diner looking at the same window for hours, that sort of crap. Take it or leave it.”
“Holland,” Jackson mutters, warningly.
All he gets for his trouble is a scoff. “What? At least he'll stay out of car trunks. It's either that or using him as bait to get intel- look at his face, little old ladies would melt if he asked to know about their life history.”
Court seems to be debating whether he should be offended by this description or not. Fortunately for him, Colt once again butts in before their uncle can say anything worse. “Can I come on a case too?”
“Absolutely not,” Holland immediately says.
“But Uncle Holland-”
Jackson hides a smirk behind his own cup. “Sorry, kid. Seems like the new family rule is to start at thirteen. There's probably a couple child psychologists punching the air right now.”
Holland pulls a face at him, though his eyes sparkle with fond mischief. “Something to add, Healy?”
“By all means, March, don't let me interrupt you.”
Court's eyes flit between the two of them, brow furrowed, but it shows less suspicion and more of an adults are such idiots sometimes air, all in all. “So, is that a yes or…” He ventures, when he can finally worm his way back into the conversation.
“It's a maybe,” Holland says, firmly - or what passes for firmly in that household. “And don't try to get Jackson in your corner for this. What I say goes, got it?”
Court grins. It's a rare sight, that one, and usually directed at his brothers, but now he wears it so plainly he looks bemused and terribly young, and it even widens when he catches Jackson pointedly arching an eyebrow.
He's far from healed. He's still angry and concerned and too mature for his age, and though the physical marks on his body have long since faded, it's going to be a long time before the same can be said of the ones in his brain. But at the moment he's so carefree, emptying his bowl and playing along when Ryland inevitably asks about mermaids again, the rest of it seems to fade by contrast.
Jackson can't ask for more, for the five people sitting around this table, even if it wasn't in the cards only a handful of weeks prior.
“Of course, Uncle Holland. Whatever you say.”