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Healy pulled to a stop in the motel parking lot and checked his watch: five minutes till nine. Holly should’ve made the call ten minutes ago, which meant Healy had roughly eight minutes to make this work.
He patted his pockets one more time to make sure he had the negatives and his brass knuckles, then sighed and got out of the car.
He’d parked all the way in the corner of the lot, so there was nothing but a tiny strip of dirt between his car and the highway. It meant he had to walk a little farther to get around to the correct side of the building, but he used that time to scope out the motel as he headed towards the room number he’d been given—talk about predictable, this dump looked exactly like the kind of place you’d see in a cheap noir detective flick: the buzzing neon sign of the motel was missing two letters, the sign on the main door offered hourly room rates, and he’d bet that if shots were fired, no one would even bother calling the cops.
He didn’t give a shit about any of that.
The room he’d been directed to was all the way on the end, as expected. He heard some moans come from one of the rooms as he passed, but he didn’t see a single soul.
The last door was closed, but he couldn’t tell if it was locked. He positioned himself to the side of the door, then knocked; he heard a slight shuffle of movement, but no bullets came flying his way.
“Come in!” A man called from the other side. Healy twisted the knob quickly, then nudged the door open with his foot, muscles coiled in case he had to jump out of the way. Still nothing. He didn’t like this.
Healy peeked into the room, taking quick stock of everything in there: a set of windows covered by faded curtains, a faded quilt thrown across the single queen size bed, and two figures—one standing up and pointing a gun at the kneeling one. Healy should’ve kept his attention on the guy with the gun, but as soon as he caught sight of March, it was like the rest of the world stopped existing.
March knelt on the ground with his hands bound behind him, and he had a piece of duct tape slapped over his mouth. One side of his face had started to darken with bruises, he had dried blood crusted around his nose and tracking across the duct tape on his face, and his eyes were half filled with tears. His breathing had a hitch to it, but from this distance Healy couldn’t tell the cause or how bad it was.
“Do you have it?” Healy dragged his gaze back over to the threat in the room—though to be honest, if he didn’t have a gun the guy wouldn’t look like much of a threat. He was a short man, with a narrow frame and squinty eyes that darted around Healy’s face. He was the voice that Healy had heard on the phone, the one that demanded the photos they’d been hired to steal in exchange for March’s life.
“Well?” The guy demanded, pressing the barrel of his gun against March’s temple. Healy wanted nothing more than to punch that bastard in the face, but he forced himself to look neutral as he stepped into the room.
“No need to get rough,” Healy said evenly. He slowly reached into his pocket and withdrew a stack of negatives, holding them out to the side.
“Is that them?” The guy asked, straightening up as he squinted even harder—he looked like he needed glasses. Healy inclined his head.
“Sure is.”
“Give ‘em here.”
“How about you let my partner go first?”
“How about I shoot him in the head?” Healy’s gaze flicked to March, who hadn’t made a move and was staring at Healy with wide eyes. If he was trying to say something, Healy had no idea what it was.
Fuck, he wished March could talk. Usually Healy could tell how bad a situation was by how much March complained: incessant chatter meant things were fine—or as fine as they could be. Once March got quiet, that was when Healy really worried.
So the fact that March was unable to speak at all? Yeah, Healy worried.
“Well?” The guy demanded. Healy glanced at his watch, then refocused with a steady breath.
“Here,” he said, and dropped the negatives on the ground. The guy startled, knocking his gun into the side of March’s head. March flinched at the action, and Healy’s hands clenched into fists.
“The fuck?”
“You come get them, I get my partner,” Healy said evenly.
“Or I could shoot you both,” the guy countered. Healy didn’t respond to that—this guy didn’t look like someone who was used to shooting people, but he didn’t want to push his luck. Not with March as the first body in the line of fire.
The guy’s gaze flickered between Healy and the negatives several times before he finally sighed.
“Fine. But don’t try anything,” he warned.
Healy kept his hands up in surrender as he circled the room, the other guy matching him step for step. As soon as he was in reach, Healy grabbed March by the arms and pulled him to his feet, not taking his eyes off the man with a gun. March mumbled something, but Healy didn’t have time to rip off the duct tape, and instead pushed March a few steps closer to the window.
“Aha!” The other guy reached the negatives and stooped to swipe them off the ground. He held them up to the light, and in turn pointed the gun at the ceiling instead of them. Healy pushed March another few steps, making sure to block him with his body in case the other guy tried something.
At that moment, there was a loud whoop of sirens as flashing red and blue lights shone into the room. The guy flinched, turning towards the door, and Healy took his chance. He picked March up and threw him out of the window.
March shouted, but he was muffled both by the duct tape on his mouth and then the sound of shattering glass. The commotion drew the other guy’s attention, and he whipped around in time to fire a few shots as Healy followed March out—at least there was only one floor in this place.
March had landed in a heap, but it was easy enough to get him back on his feet. The other guy was distracted by the cops, and Healy thanked God that his timing had been correct. He half dragged March towards where he’d parked the car, which was closer to the window of the room than the door had been. March spent the whole run shouting uselessly, and Healy didn’t let go of him until he’d gotten both of them into the car. He peeled out of there, throwing up a cloud of dust as they rattled across the dirt before making it onto the highway and took off like a shot, leaving behind the motel that was now swarming with cops. The other guy wouldn’t have been able to run, and once the cops caught him with those photos, it was all over.
March was still trying to say something, so without taking his eyes off the road Healy leaned over and ripped the duct tape off his mouth.
“Shit!” March yelped. “You ripped off half my moustache, you fuck!” At March’s complaints, Healy felt himself relax.
“You’ll survive,” Healy said dryly, eyeing the rearview mirror to make sure they weren’t followed. March scoffed and wiggled around in his seat.
“You couldn’t have taken the time to take the duct tape off my hands, too?” Healy didn’t respond, and after a moment of squirming March let out a noise of triumph and held his hands up, duct tape sticking to his cuffs. March turned to Healy, presumably to complain more, then froze.
“March?” Healy asked, risking a glance over. He didn’t think March was bleeding from anywhere, but he couldn’t figure out why he’d had gone so still. March lunged for him, and Healy nearly swerved off the road as March grabbed his arm. “March! The fuck are you doing?”
“You’re bleeding,” March said, gripping Healy’s arm tightly. He blinked in surprise and glanced down at his arm, where sure enough, a bullet had grazed him.
“Shit,” Healy muttered—he was honestly more annoyed about his jacket getting ripped than he was about being shot.
“Pull over,” March said.
“What?” Healy glanced at him, then in the rearview to make sure they were still clear. “I’m not pulling over.”
“You were shot. Pull over!” March demanded.
“Yeah, and you’re probably concussed. I’m not pulling over,” Healy fired back.
“I could care less about that! Healy, you were shot-”
“Couldn’t care less,” Healy interrupted. March froze. Healy saw him open and close his mouth a few times.
“What!?” March asked finally, his voice pitching up to a truly impressive range.
“It’s “couldn’t care less.” Not “could care less,”” Healy corrected.
“Shut the fuck up,” March snapped. “Who the fuck asked you? You were shot and you’re still trying to correct my grammar, Jesus Christ.” March flopped back in his seat, evidently taking that as confirmation that Healy was fine to drive.
They made it to Healy’s apartment and skirted the crowd gathered outside the Comedy Club to head upstairs. Healy directed March to call Holly while he retrieved the first aid kit from the bathroom; by the time he made it back into the living room March was smiling, and Healy smiled in turn.
“Yeah, he’s right here,” March said, and offered the phone to Healy.
“You’re dad’s gonna be fine,” he said as soon as he had the phone in hand.
“You were shot!?” Holly’s voice came over the line, high pitched and startling. Healy blinked in surprise—that wasn’t what he’d expected from her.
“Uh.” Healy looked to March for help, but the bastard watched him with a smug smile. “It’s just a graze,” he said.
“Mr. Healy! You promised me you wouldn’t get hurt!”
“I’m fine,” he tried, feeling thrown off-balance by her concern.
“And then you wouldn’t let Dad drive!?”
“He wasn’t in shape to,” Healy said, feeling oddly defensive.
“I thought you said he was fine?” She snarked, and Healy silently cursed both March’s.
“He is,” Healy said, shooting a glare at the man in question who looked far too pleased with himself. “And so am I.” Holly scoffed.
“Give me back to Dad.” He obediently passed the phone back to March.
“Yeah, sweetheart?” March said when he took the phone. Healy tried to tune out their conversation as he laid out the first aid kit, but there wasn’t much else to listen to. “Yeah, we’ll be home soon. Love you.”
March held the phone out towards Healy in time for Holly’s shouted “love you too, Mr. Healy!” to come through, then dropped the phone in its cradle.
“You’re an idiot,” March announced, then stalked over to the table where Healy was unsuccessfully trying to clean the graze on his right arm. “Give me that.” He snatched the antiseptic from Healy, who was still reeling from Holly’s statement.
“I can do this myself,” Healy tried.
“I don’t fucking care,” March said. “Trying to fucking help after you were all heroic and shit after you burst in and threw me out of the fucking window.” March kept muttering, but Healy noticed he was squinting in the bright overhead lights.
“We can turn down the lights,” Healy offered next.
“Shut the fuck up,” March snapped. “Would you just- I can do this, okay? I can’t pick you up and throw you out of a window but I can fucking do this.” Healy bit his tongue to keep from retorting—he wasn’t used to having anyone else worrying over him, but the March’s loved proving him wrong, and honestly? He wouldn’t mind getting used to it.