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Summary
Healy kneels and joins March on the ground, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him a little. His hands are stiff, his motions full of contained tension.
“March, you’re not thinking straight. How about we bring you home and you stop running your goddamn mouth and risk saying something you might regret once the booze wears off?”
He’s giving March an out. One last stop before he runs himself off the edge. Before he fundamentally alters the fragile and soft thing that has grown between them, the unlikely friendship they’ve tentatively built.
March could lower his head and say yeah, you’re probably right, I don’t know what I’m saying, let’s go home, oh, can you pick me up tomorrow so we can meet that new client I had on the phone earlier? He could stop his downward spiral right here and forget about tonight.
“I’ve always wanted you to fuck me,” he says instead.
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Or, a misunderstanding after a bar fight leads March to make a drunken confession. The answer he gets is not the one he expects.