Chapter Text
The first time Holland March had met Anne he'd not been pregnant with Holly yet. The second time they met, which was the first time they actually talked, he hadn't been pregnant yet either. But things had changed by the third time, because he'd been definitely, albeit not yet noticeably, pregnant.
They'd met through what was originally a lesbian book club, but quickly turned into a book club for everyone and anyone that didn't fit into the more common Christian book clubs that were run by bored housewives while their husbands were out cheating on them. Or working, sometimes.
Holland and Anne had met, talked, and fallen in love in quick succession. It had very much been a whirlwind romance, but one that had held for nearly a decade and would've probably held for the rest of their lives if it hadn't been for the fire.
Holland had already been Holland at that point, moustache and all, although admittedly it hadn't been much of a moustache yet. Enough however for people to be very confused, when his "beer belly" really didn't pass as a beer belly anymore.
He sits in his bathtub now, blue suit and all, which is funny, because the last time this happened he met Healy, and tries to remember how exactly he had told Anne about his "situation". How "God made a mistake" as his parents had explained it to their more devout friends, even though Holland hadn't believed in any God for years at that point.
It was easy, he remembers. Easy and comfortable. Anne had been part of the community and had known that he was part of it too, they'd met through a queer book club after all. He thinks he just told her, maybe the fourth time they met. Before their first kiss, but after their first shared cigarette, which had been more romantic actually. No bumping noses and clacking teeth when sharing a cigarette.
He laughs at the memory, but it quickly turns into a sob and then he just can't seem to stop. He's in that in-between stage of drunkenness, where every bad thing he feels is amplified and the only way to muffle it, is to drink until he passes out. So he takes a swig of the bottle in his hand, glad that the taste is muffled as it has been since he lost his sense of smell. He's not sure what it is, too far gone to care either way, although if he's honest with himself, he doesn't care what he's drinking when he's sober either. Not that he's ever completely sober, which is another problem he doesn't want to think about, but can't seem to stop thinking about. At least he's mostly just somewhat drunk nowadays.
This is how Healy finds him, though by then he's at least stopped sobbing, which is ironic, because Healy's the reason he even started thinking about his and Anne's early days. Healy and Holland have been partners in crime, or well, partners in the private investigator business, for nearly half a year now and between late night stakeouts and mid-morning drives Holland might have developed a mild infatuation with the older man and his steady presence, strong, warm hands and really very broad shoulders- like he said mild.
The wrench in the whole thing, one might say, is that Healy has no idea that Holland is trans. How would he? Holland passes in pretty much every situation, Healy has never seen him without a shirt on and most people that know about his late wife and child simply assume he's the father. And he absolutely is, but well, he also gave birth to Holly, which is not what most people associate with the word father. Or men in general.
Holland wanted to tell Healy ages ago, he really did, but at first it seemed too personal, and though Holland really has no leg to stand on regarding emotional maturity, Healy did seem a bit emotionally inept too. So, the first few weeks he didn't say anything and suddenly they were something like friends and it seemed weird to bring it up then. Like it was something he should've disclosed upfront, which was bullshit of course, but it still felt somewhat belated to spring it on his partner after three months of working together. Not to mention the fact that Holland can never, ever guess how someone is going to react, which makes him uncertain and scares him to a certain point. Only to a certain point though, because Holland very much doesn't care what close-minded bigots think about him and the way he lives his life. But with Healy it's different.
Healy is his friend, his partner. He's someone Holland trusts with his daughter for fuck's sake. Of course he's scared how he'd react. Healy doesn't know, because Holland has been putting it off for months and with every passing day he gets more desperate for a way to tell him, without ruining what he has.
He doesn't want to lose Healy. Doesn't want him to stop coming over on Sunday mornings to eat brunch, actual fucking brunch, with him and Holly. Doesn't want to do this whole private investigator business alone, because he works better with Healy as the brawn and him as the brain, than he ever did alone. He would miss Healy's presence, his dry humour and the studious way he makes sure that Holly got all her homework done and if she didn't he'll give her a Yoo-Hoo from the fridge and sit down with her at the kitchen table. Sometimes Holland will sit down with them, smoke a cigarette or two and it will feel almost like they're a family.
So, Healy throws the door open and finds him in the bathtub. Fully dressed. "Holly is worried about yo- what the fuck, March?", Healy bellows in that concerned tone of his and suddenly there are strong arms lifting him up and out of the bathtub, which is really too much, because the room is already spinning. He's deposited onto the floor, where he immediately begins to drip onto the tile. Healy looks at him, brow furrowed like he's not yet decided if he wants to be angry or concerned.
Holland shivers where he's sitting, his clothes wet and cold now. Concern wins out over anger and Healy looks him up and down, which makes Holland realize that his suit sticks to him like a second skin and he feels suddenly exposed. Healy seems to realize this too, because he hurriedly turns away, face red, and clears his throat awkwardly.
"Holly called me," He offers. "She was worried about you, said you were drunk and crashing about like a drunken elephant. Her words, not mine."
Holland just groans, head swimming and tries not to puke onto the bathroom floor. He takes a swig of his- whiskey? Yeah, it's whiskey. - instead. He doesn't know where to start, so he doesn't and just says nothing at all.
Healy sighs quietly, shoulders dropping and Holland feels guilty about that. Actually he feels guilty about a lot of things, but he feels especially guilty, that Holly was so worried she called Healy and that Healy came all this way to see him in such a sorry state.
"What's this about anyway? Some chick promised to call, but didn't?" Healy asks, seemingly trying to lighten the mood. It doesn't really work and they both know it. There's silence again for a moment, then, "You haven't been this fucked up in months, March. What the fuck happened?"
He's right is the thing, this hasn't happened in a long time. Months probably, now that he thinks about it. Last time he was this drunk was probably right when they had a big fight about how to handle clients whose cases were obviously hopeless, just two weeks into their partnership.
Holland considers himself a good man most of the time. Not necessarily a good father, no, but at least a somewhat good man. He never cheated on his wife, would never lay hands on someone who doesn't deserve it, not that he could do much damage either way, but it's the principle of the thing, and he has never been a bigot, despite the god-fearing way he was raised.
So yes, he knows that, technically, it's morally wrong to accept money from someone who he knows is never going to get their questions answered. Like that confused woman a few months back, who was searching for her "missing husband", who was very much dead and cremated at the time. But he only does it with rich people and it's not like he lies to them. Omitting key details is not lying, despite what Healy might have had to say about the whole thing, which was the whole cause of their fight.
They screamed at each other, some unkind things were said and Holland went home in a horrible mood, just to also start a screaming match with Holly about a sleepover she wanted to go to, that he said no to. In the end Holly went to her sleepover, Holland got blackout drunk, passed out at the bottom of the still empty pool in the dirty cigarette water and the next day he and Healy "agreed" to not take cases if they were too morally questionable.
"Nothing happened, fuck off," Holland slurs, drunk and annoyed about being cold and wet. "And since when, pray tell, is my dating life any of your business?" The bathroom keeps spinning and it's really making him nauseous now, so he slides down the wall until he hits the floor. This doesn't really help with the spinning or the nausea, but at least Holland doesn't feel like he's about to keel over any second, anymore. "And anyway, they always call you know. They know a catch when they see one."
"You need to go to bed and sleep this off," Healy says, choosing to ignore Holland's general bad attitude and turns back around, apparently having thrown caution to the wind. He regards him critically. "Can you get up by yourself?"
"Yes, obviously," Holland rolls his eyes and tries to get up. He's nearly upright when the alcohol hits him again and he kind of stumbles and kind of falls right into Healy, who grunts in surprise, but catches him before he faceplants onto the floor. He's very solid and warm, Holland notices. He himself runs cold, always has, and especially his hands and feet never really seem to get warm. Holland takes a deep breath and absently wishes that he still had his sense of smell, then realizes that he essentially just sniffed his business partner. Whatever, he doesn't want to deal with this right now. Or tomorrow. Or at all.
"Goddammit, Holland," Healy mutters and heaves him up by the shoulders. He holds him, until Holland is feeling somewhat stable on his own two legs. "I though you said you could get up by yourself."
"It's the water," Holland complains petulantly, aware he sounds like a whiny child. "Not my fault." He leaves wet footprints on the tile and stumbles again on the way out of the bathroom, but catches himself before he can fall into Healy this time. Although it did feel nice to be held, which wow that's certainly a train of thought. God, he really needs to get laid, this is embarrassing.
He doesn't see Holly anywhere in the living room, which means she probably went to Janet's or Jessica's or whoever it is, after calling Healy. Which is fine. It's all fine. It's better this way even, because she really doesn't need to see him this way.
Healy follows him out the bathroom and tries to steer him into the direction of his bedroom. "Come on, let's get you to bed," He says, and Holland suddenly wants to laugh at the absurdity of this situation, but he'd also like to cry about it a bit, because he still hasn't told Healy, who's taking care of him despite how much of a defensive asshole he's being, who quite literally caught him when he fell, and he's probably not going to in the near future. If he wasn't already embarrassed enough as it is, he'd probably sit right back down and start crying again.
Instead he figures, he can at least make it to his bed on his own, say goodbye to Healy and this rotten day and pass out. "I can get there myself, its fine. It's fine you can go home," He says instead, waving him off and turning to his bedroom. He opens the door, and is glad that the curtains are drawn, because his room is a fucking mess and he really doesn't need Healy to see even more evidence of how much of a mess he is. Thankfully his curtains are very, very good and there's basically no light in his room at all.
He steps inside, then turns around, anchoring himself to the door frame so as to not wobble around even more, to face Healy who's standing somewhat awkwardly in the hallway. There's a moment of uncomfortable silence, and Holland realizes again how little his still dripping suit hides. He thinks that Healy's eyes might linger a bit too long on something that definitely isn't his face and might be the bit of bare chest that's made visible by his partially open buttons, but he is very drunk and he's probably drunk enough to see exactly what he wants to see.
"Right, so," Holland begins, just as Healy says, "I'm gonna-"
They stare at each other, at an impasse until Healy gestures for him to speak first. He's considerate like that, Holland muses. "I'm going to bed, so...you can go," He says and Healy nods once, twice and turns to leave with a strained goodbye. Right as he's turning the corner to the front door, Holland gives in and calls a quiet 'thank you' after him.
"No problem," Healy answers after a moment, then he closes the door behind him and Holland is alone. He closes his bedroom door too, and doesn't linger long, instead begins tugging off his wet suit. It clings to him uncomfortably and it's a bitch to get off, but he manages and drops the wet clothing onto the floor, not particularly worried about water damage.
He quickly changes into a dry pair of underwear, that he has to search for in the dark, before collapsing onto his bed and finally, finally, passing out.