Chapter Text
A light Holland bounces up and down on Jack's soft yet sturdy stomach while he turns page after page of a brand-new, still-crackling book—bought with his own hard-earned money.
Holly lazily crunches on chocolate cereal by the kitchen island, sketching her dads as they lounge peacefully on the couch across from her.
What?
A future detective ought to know how to draw.
Especially when her models pose and charge no money...
And Dad will proudly hang her masterpiece on the fridge after, too.
"Jackson Healy... huh...sounds good..." Holland nods thoughtfully to himself.
The scratch of pen against paper, the crunch of cereal, and the occasional pat-pat of March's palms against Healy's round stomach weave together into a pleasant little soundtrack.
Their domestic bliss looks...
Exactly like this.
Jack frowns in confusion and slowly turns his head toward the back of the couch.
He takes his glasses off and looks up at Holland, who's apparently decided Jack's stomach makes for an excellent trampoline and has long since drifted off into the clouds.
"...What...did you just say, March?..."
Holland blinks, eyebrows lifting.
"Hm? Ooh. Jackson March. Has a nice ring to it."
He nods again with great conviction—
while somehow also making it seem completely unimportant.
Then he resumes drumming his palms lightly against Jack's stomach with almost childlike delight.
Holly doesn't react at all.
She only studies them with the same pouty concentration, squinting slightly as she fixes something on the page.
Jackson...Healy.
Jack frowns even harder.
I don't think I've forgotten my last name. I don't suffer from Alzheimer's.
And yet...
Something melts in his chest.
He looks at Holland again, completely zoned out.
Then at Holly, who's been drawing every single day for nearly a month now, determined to get better.
Jackson March.
Huh.
It does have a nice ring to it.
He lets out a quiet huff of air, slips his glasses back on, and returns to reading.