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Holland March had really been getting good at this whole "vampire" thing. Or, at least he'd been getting used to it. As much as one could get used to throwing up all their solid food and instead thirsting after the blood of innocents. Maybe it would be easier if Emily were still around, but the bastard that turned him was such a shitty fucking vampire that he had to hit him upside the head to take him down before sucking on him. Thus, loss of smell. Thus, not noticing the gas leak. Thus, well you know.
She had helped him, in the time shortly after, when March had just thought he'd gotten the worst flu of his life. She'd written up the false medical document claiming an "extreme sensitivity to sunlight" that got him switched to the night shift on the force. She'd made the deal with the butcher, telling them she missed the blood pudding she had with breakfasts in England. She'd been the one to hold him, and stroke his hair, and tell him he was no monster, he would always be loved, and nothing could change that. Then, he'd killed her. Let the house go up in flames and only been able to save Holly. He'd gotten faster since the attack, why wasn't he fast enough? Why couldn't he save her? Why?
Thankfully, liquor doesn't count as 'food,' so March can down as much as he wants at the bar, and maybe lure a couple fellow drunks into the alleyway to snag a snack before stumbling home, praying Holly wouldn't notice any new bloodstains on his once-immaculate suits.
He liked to think being a creature of the night gave him some kind of edge as a PI, but he knew better. All he had become was a shitty, useless, monster.
It was a rough life, juggling fatherhood, scamming clients, getting drunk off his ass, and trying to get enough blood out of people to sooth the thirst, but never kill. He often wished he could die, but even that was off the table, now. At least, as far as he could tell.
Jackson Healy hadn't been born a werewolf, though it often felt that way. Not a lot of woodland in Brooklyn, NY, but one stupid camping trip with his dad out in the Northern Appalachians was enough for Healy to get mauled by some jackass who couldn't control himself, and lose his humanity. His dad had said the trip was to help him "man up." Healy was pretty sure turning into a wolf every full moon. And every time he got too angry. Or too sad. Or too happy, that one time. He'd left New York after a particularly close call, after his dad beat him a little harder than usual, and he just couldn't hold himself back anymore. The elder Healy had been fine after, but Jackson knew better than to stick around.
June had never known, he'd made sure of that. He learned to tamp down all his emotions, keep them nice and tight in his chest, where the wolf could gnaw on them without coming to the surface. Every full moon came with an excuse, some reason he had to be "out of town." June never figured anything out. Or maybe she just hadn't cared.
None of that mattered anymore. Healy had no one to hide from, now. Really, he should have become a 'Professional Tough Guy' way earlier, it was really built for his lifestyle. Show up to some creep's place, beat the hell out of him, get his money, and head home. Sometimes he took his brass knuckles, and they were enough. Some assholes got the full tooth and claw treatment. Either way, he made sure his clients felt safe, and he got to let off some steam. Nobody had to know what he was that wouldn't be scared of him anyway. Nobody would know him.
Was he lonely? Maybe. Did the wolf inside howl at the lack of a pack? Perhaps. But he just kept going. Kept pulling out pages from his word of the day calendar, kept wearing the same beaten old sneakers, kept taking money from women and children to fund his miserable life.
Healy found himself furry and teary-eyed some nights, whining with the desire to be useful, to be needed in someone, anyone's life. He just got up the next morning, breathed the wolf away, and read the word of the day.
When the two met, neither recognized the other as the monster each was. Not for an embarrassingly long while, anyway.
From the moment March opened the door, he knew he shouldn't have. Maybe it was the fist making swift contact with his face, or just the odd feeling of wrongness that oozed from the man connected to said fist, but he definitely regretted it. You'd think that becoming a vampire would protect him against injury, but he had learned otherwise pretty much immediately. He could get beat to hell and feel every inch of pain that came with it, he just wouldn't die. March hadn't tested the whole stake thing, no matter how much he thought about it, but he knew this guy couldn't kill him. Just really, really, hurt him.
If March could smell, he might have noticed the distinct wildness to the brute's scent. Had he not become so cold that any touch felt meltingly warm, he might have noticed the high heat eminating from the man's thick hands as they grabbed him. If March weren't such a shitty detective, he may have noticed the barely-contained ferality in the blue eyes that watched him fumble for his gun.
What he really should have noticed, though, was the fact that his vampiric strength wasn't enough to get out from under the guy's knee before his radius got snapped in two.
Healy considered himself to be a pretty smart guy, all things considered. Sure, he wasn't the best educated, but he kept himself sharp. Kept his words of the day, watched Jeopardy! every week, and always watched his math carefully handling cash. Still, he knew he could miss things, sometimes. Let things past his notice. He figured that's why he hadn't gone for a PI's license, knew it was better to stick to brawn, not brains.
As he looked in the mirror in the bowling alley's men's bathroom, he very much felt like he was missing something. He'd seen Mr. Holland March, detective, pants down, gun in hand, utterly failing to threaten him from the bathroom stall. Then, once he turned around, Healy suddenly found he couldn't see him. He knew he was still in the same stall, he could hear him just fine, and he knew he was looking at that stall in the reflection of the mirror above the sinks. Yet, he couldn't see March. Healy pondered the impossibility of the situation for a moment while March fumbled for his pants, the wolf inside huffing with interest, but then he was told to turn around again, and the thought was pushed away by the sight of still-bare pale thighs.
Not great to be attracted to the idiot he was paying to find Amelia for him, but at least they wouldn't be working together for long. Healy wouldn't have to deal with his pansy frustrations for more than a day or two.
March wasn't very happy to have night vision as he stared at what was certainly Sid Shattuck's corpse. He hadn't had a drop of blood since Thursday, and as disgusting as the torn-apart face was, the sight of gore dripping from it had his stomach rumbling. All he'd been drinking was copious amounts of alcohol, usually good for quelling the bloodthirst, but not much could hold back the aching in his fangs when he saw the stuff. March was briefly thankful not to possess his olfactory senses. He'd hate to feel hungry at the smell of blood, too.
He couldn't drink from Shattuck. He couldn't. He was a victim in the case, March couldn't get his DNA all over him. It would throw a wrench in everything. And there was that girl in the yellow dress, she had seen him! There was a witness! He couldn't lose control, not right now.
But he was still drooling, and his feet were pulling him toward the body he had jumped away from at first sight. He needed to not be alone, he needed someone to keep him on track, he needed to have not gotten so drunk.
"Healy!" he screamed, praying the bruiser would hear him.
And… oh! That was quick. Almost strangely quick. Had he already been at the balcony?
"Yo! March! What are you doing?"
"Get down here! Now!"
The thirst was mingling with nausea as he tried and failed to tear his gaze away from the massacred face. He'd nibbled politely at the takeout Healy had brought for him and Holly that afternoon. March could feel the measly bites he'd taken poking at the back of his throat, and was glad Healy readily agreed to let him vomit before dealing with Sid.
"What the hell is going on in your mouth?"
Right. Fangs. Always around, extend like a snake's when particularly thirsty. Jesus, he needed to get this body away from him.
Thankfully Healy dropped any teeth-related questions after they dropped Sid. Whoops.
Healy could feel the wolf breathing down his neck as he ran through the hail of bullets from John Boy's tommy gun. He'd gotten damn good at keeping his cool over the years, but if any man could remain totally calm mid-fire fight, Healy would love to meet him.
He was pretty damn sure March was unaware of the supernatural, as the man was just—generally unaware. So, he didn't exactly want to wolf out and make the situation even worse. Besides, the bullets may not be silver, but Healy didn't think the wolf could catch John Boy before getting riddled with holes. May not kill him, but god damn would it hurt.
Still, he could feel fur under his collar, and fangs against his tongue. Panic was wearing away at the thin line between Healy and wolf, and his mind was getting more and more clouded by instinct. The constant barrage of noise was like a series of stabs to the brain, and he growled at the pain. Just. Stay. Calm.
Holly was inside, her little friend was inside, Amelia was inside. He needed to protect them. He needed to keep everyone safe. He needed to stay human, stay here.
He managed it. Miraculously, he kept his face fur-free as he watched John Boy peel out of the driveway. He had gotten through one of the most intense, terrifying, frustrating fights of his life, and he didn't succumb to the wolf. He'd remained himself, and still saved the—
Amelia. Dead in the street. A bullethole clean through her forehead.
Healy excused himself, leaving March to answer the cops, and comfort the sobbing girls. He waited as long as he could, getting far enough away to hide, but staying near enough to not appear to be evading arrest, and he lost it. If anyone heard his mournful howl, they didn't mention it when he dragged himself back, barely human, to be taken to jail.
March sat against the wrecked car, clutching the reel to his chest. He had a weird sense memory, holding Holly the day she'd been born, holding her like the most important thing in the world. She was. She is. Where the fuck is she—ah Healy's got her. He was good with her. She liked him. It was nice.
March hadn't had blood nearly since the case started, and after getting thrown around like a cartoon character, he was thirstier than ever. As Healy and Holly approached him, he shakily stood, and braced himself. He'd never wanted to eat Holly. He wasn't sure why, maybe vampire instincts recognized familial bonds. He had felt the urge to turn her, before, but resisted it easily. She deserved better than to be stuck with him for all eternity. But he worried about keeping himself from Healy. They'd had a bad enough week, it would be a shame to end it by tearing crazily through the guy's throat.
Yet, even once Healy was right in front of him, taking the reel from his hands so he could hug Holly to his chest, March didn't feel an ounce of need to bite him. The thirst wasn't gone, far from it, but for whatever reason Healy was just. Wildly Unappetizing.
Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, March tossed an arm over Healy's shoulders, holding Holly's hand with his other, and walked them toward the incoming ambulances to get checked out. If March was lucky, he'd get to keep Healy around a while longer. He'd grown… fond of the old man, and not wanting to eat him was another upside!
Holly was more than glad that Mr. Healy hadn't disappeared after the Kessler case, and was even more glad that he and her dad seemed to be forming a strong friendship. There was just one thing in the way, though.
They were both still hiding their monstrous nature from one another.
Holly wasn't entirely sure why the two hadn't fessed up yet. She also couldn't tell how the fuck neither had figured the other out yet. Her dad had come home one day with a concussion and ice cold skin, not to mention the new scars on his neck that he didn't seem to realize were there. He had never done a wonderful job of hiding it. Like, really, did he think she couldn't see the bottles of pigs blood tucked behind his beer in the fridge?
Admittedly, Holly hadn't solved the mystery of Mr. Healy's peculiarities until a week after the Kessler case had ended and he had stuck around. First, there were the growls. They just slipped out, she could tell he didn't even notice doing it, because he'd been really sneaky about everything else. Her dad would reach for a third, or fourth drink of the evening, and a warning growl would rise from Mr. Healy's chest until the alcohol was set down. He'd started to slip in other ways, too, usually when he'd had a few drinks of his own. Not-so subtly scenting Holly and her dad, rubbing his wrists against their shoulders in what she assumed he thought was a casual manner. Then there was the time they'd been sitting in the living room, the two men playfully arguing over ownership of their newfound agency—"Why not 50/50?" "Well why not 60/40?" "Because that's bullshit, March!" "You're new to the licensed gig, you shouldn't get 50% until you've got more experience!" "I'm at least fifteen years older than you."—when an unexpected knock came at the door. They were all still a bit jumpy after, you know, having a serial killer show up and wreck the rental. Holly in particular nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound, flashing back to the sight of John Boy with a straight razer in his hand. Her fear was interrupted, however, by a pawlike hand gently pushing her into the cushions, as Mr. Healy got up to investigate, sniffing the air as he neared the door, entire body tensed for a fight.
It had just been a neighbor offering casserole, as one does after an incident in the neighborhood, but Holly felt glad that her dad's new werewolf business partner had wanted to protect her. He always had, in the couple weeks she'd known him, but it was still nice.
Now, though, both Mr. Healy and her dad were starting to get on her nerves. They were dancing around each other like go go girls, and Holly was pissed. She was this close to having two whole adult figures in her life, and they refused to be their true selves. Thus, she formed her plan. It wasn't a very complicated plan.
"Daaaaad?!" she called, standing in the living room where she had already wrangled Healy, telling him she needed help with some nonexistant homework.
The backdoor slid open with a bang as March ran inside, eyes wild with panic, "What!? What's wrong!? Are you hurt? Is someone here? Is there a f—"
"Dad. Everything's fine."
March's chest rose and fell with rapid, unneeded breaths, "Fucking christ, Holly! Don't scare me like that!"
Holly huffed, crossing her arms, "Literally all I did was call for you."
March mirrored her posture, crossing his own arms, "Well, what for? What was so important you had to interrupt smoking time?" his cigarette still hung from his lips, there was no real end to smoking time when it came to Holland March.
"Dad. Sit down with Mr. Healy. This is an intervention."
Wrong thing to say. March's whole body froze. Holly was pretty sure he didn't realize he'd stopped breathing completely. It was always weird when he did this, a reminder that her dad was technically undead, and he could in fact stand as still as a corpse. She saw his foot start to move and threw herself at him before he could speed away. She knew she couldn't catch him if he made a run for it.
"Not that kind! Don't freak! Just sit the fuck down, dad!" Holly cried, having tackled her dad somewhat ineffectually. She just kind of slammed into the stone wall that was her father, but at least he'd stayed put.
Holly looked him in the eyes, putting on her best I'm-your-daughter-you-have-to-give-in expression, "Just please sit down and listen to what I have to say."
He silently moved to the couch and slumped down, eyeing Healy warily, though he looked just as bewildered.
Holly just stood over them, looking back and forth between them, before finally speaking, "I need you to tell each other."
"What?"
"Huh?"
"Just, please admit it. I can't deal with you two trying to hide it anymore."
The two detectives stared at each other, March puffing on his cigarette like the smoke would teleport him away from the conversation, and Healy flushing a shade of pink Holly hadn't seen outside of her old Barbie playsets. Neither made any attempt to speak.
"Please," Holly pleaded, "I don't mind it, I really don't, you can be honest about what you are!"
They looked at her, shocked, before slowly locking eyes with each other again. Finally, they spoke, at the same time:
"I think I love you."
"I might be gay for you."
Holly's eyebrows flew to her hairline, "What?!"
March looked at her, grimacing, "You said it was okay! I'm so sorry, sweetie, I didn't mean to—just forget I said—it doesn't matter—"
"I think it kind of matters." Healy muttered, face red and claws forming on his fingers.
Holly shook her head and gathered herself. Quick mental rundown: her dad was gay, or probably bisexual, she knew he loved her mom. More than anything. Mr. Healy, also gay, was in love with her dad, who only seemed to have recently realized he even liked men, let alone Healy. And, along with all of that, they still hadn't admitted the whole monster thing!
She raised her hands placatingly as her dad spluttered and Mr. Healy sat as tense as a man desperately trying not to transform into a wild animal in the middle of the March's living room. Holly needed to act fast, "I don't mind the gay thing either! That's fine! That's kind of great actually," she realized, thinking, "two dads could be really nice…"
March stubbed out what was left of his cigarette, and looked between his daughter and old man crush, head whipping back and forth hard enough his neck cracked a bit. He gaped, desperate, "What, then?!"
"The fucking monster thing!"
Both men froze. March somehow getting more pale than his vampirism had already made him, and Healy's ears turning pointed, with tufts of fur appearing at their tips. They turned toward each other at a glacial pace, while Holly tapped her foot.
"Vampire, meet werewolf, werewolf, meet vampire. Now, I've got a hell of a phone call to make to Jessica, so I'll leave you both to it!" Holly skipped off to her room, leaving absolute silence in her wake.
Or at least, it was silence, until the air was broken by a quiet whine, risen from Healy's throat. March just gaped at him, finally noticing the man's half-transformed state.
"Werewolves are fucking real?!"
That snapped Healy out of his anxious reverie, "The vampire is surprised about werewolves?"
"Well, how was I supposed to know?"
"About me, or werewolves in general?"
"Both, I fucking guess!"
"Fair enough."
"…you're in love with me?"
"God fucking damn it."