Chapter Text
Steve Johnson had biceps the size of LA and wandering hands that made Healy wish he really did have an ankle gun just so he could shoot them off.
He’s getting ahead of himself. Johnson, at his core, was the typical cop that Healy sometimes looked at and thought- huh, that could have been me. Of course, in hindsight, being a cop wasn’t the best career choice for a guy like him, who thought most difficult problems had quite simple solutions. You punch a guy enough times, kick him in the nuts for good measure, and he’ll stop being an asshole. Most cops liked to talk. Healy preferred physical methods of getting his way.
But he wasn’t an animal. No, Healy didn’t go around punching the old lady in front of him at the grocery store just because she held the line up trying to find a goddamn coupon. That would be morally wrong, and Healy tried to abide by most public moral standards. He minded his manners. Say please and thank you, excuse me, and stop for a full three seconds at every stop sign.
One, two, three.
And if some asswipe behind him decided three seconds was too much time to spend at a stop sign out of his entire miserable existence, that wasn’t Healy’s problem. Patience is a virtue, and all that jazz.
Forbearing
- Adjective
Showing patient and unruffled self-control and restraint under adversity; slow to retaliate or express resentment.
Jackson Healy was being very forbearing toward Steve Johnson and his stupid biceps for the sake of Holland March’s dignity- or lack thereof.
March didn’t talk much about his days as a cop. Here and there, it might come up during a case, but if Healy didn’t ask, the guy tended not to say much about his past. There were the obvious exclusions- the fire, his wife, the fact that they’re only just now rebuilding the old house in that vacant lot despite promising Holly over and over again that he’d get it done. There were smaller moments too, ones that March swerved around the way he did traffic cones when driving tipsy. That was before, though. Before Healy decided it was best he drove them around so March could sit in the passenger’s seat, not killing any pedestrians, and look pretty doing it.
And he was very good at looking pretty. Best thing the guy did, if Healy was being honest.
But March was getting better. He went from pouring himself a scotch at eight in the morning to waiting until at least six in the evening. And by then, with most of the work done for the day, there would be no reason to drink. Nothing to mull over. Especially considering Healy was hanging out a lot more often. Often enough that he could steer the bumbling detective away from the liquor cabinet and indulge him in stupid old movies or game shows. All they really did was make fun of the contestants, who didn’t know up from down and kept guessing nonsense answers until Holly screamed at the television. Smart kid, she was. Smarter than him, Healy thinks.
Things in general were getting better, but that didn’t mean March went around babbling on about his troubled past for the sake of shits and giggles. No, he was closed up like a clam. Luckily, Healy has a thing for seafood and a deep desire to rip March open and see all the tender, gooey insides.
Eh, he’s getting ahead of himself again. March was more like a locked door. Healy had all the keys, but the key ring was so full, it would take him days to sift through and figure out which one opened it. Try as he might, shoving every key into the little hole and twisting as his life depended on it, Healy figured maybe he didn’t have the key after all. Guys like March kept their pasts under wraps for one reason and one reason only: guilt.
Healy knew March felt guilty for a lot of things. The death of his wife, mostly. Amelia’s death sometimes, when the house got too quiet. That wasn’t on March, though. Healy harbored that loss the most. Sometimes, March felt guilty for bringing Holly up in a way his wife probably wouldn’t have wanted for her, but the girl was young, and things were changing. Small changes, Healy learned as he got older, were better than no changes at all. Besides, Holly was a strong girl. If anyone could take on a man like Holland- drunk, somewhat functional, clumsy, pathetic- it was her. That didn’t necessarily mean he wanted her to be burdened by so much at such a young age.
So, Healy didn’t feel so bad about infiltrating their lives the way he had. With his apartment above the comedy club still under renovation and technically the set of a crime scene (the poor girl in the apartment across from him had a scar the size of a soda can in her chest from the bullet), Healy had reluctantly accepted March’s invitation to stay in the rental with him and Holly. That was months ago. Healy hadn’t even checked on his apartment since then.
Life with the March’s was… good. More than good. It was everything Healy never allowed himself to want, to dream of, after his ex-wife betrayed him. Let bygones be bygones. He understood that now. If June had never cheated on him with his own father, he might not have ever met March and Holly to begin with. And if he had never met them, he might have never known what it was like to have a family. A home. Somewhere that was always loud and bright and alive.
March and Holly bickered like it was their job. Constant, all day. Healy would watch like some sort of mediator. Like a referee in a boxing match, if the match was between a thirty-five-year old man with his head in his ass and his thirteen-year-old daughter with a smart mouth and nothing to lose. This was more entertaining than any fight on television.
But whenever Holly got too heated- and she got heated- her father would always pull something. His favorite thing to do now that he wasn’t surviving off of bourbon and cigarettes all day was to swoop forward and snatch Holly up. He’d blow raspberries into her neck and spin her around and growl that she was grumpy and just needed a little love. Holly would fight at first, as one does when being kidnapped, but she’d fall into a fit of laughter so boisterous, it made Healy’s heart tighten in his chest.
He liked to think he wasn’t old enough to have a heart attack yet, but there had been a few times he had gotten pretty close.
When March had had enough of torturing his daughter, he’d set her down and ruffle her hair until she complained about how many hours she spent on it. And just like that, March had taken her out. One-hit KO. Ring the bells.
Holland March: 1
Holly March: 0
Every morning they had breakfast together. A real breakfast. Healy usually found himself walking to the diner on the end of his block sometime before noon to mull over black coffee, eggs, bacon and toast. If he was feeling especially chipper or especially down, he may indulge in a slice of pie. Something to take the edge off when he was craving something stronger. That was back then, when he found comfort in the sound of people talking around him, but not with him.
Now, he has to fend off two grumpy March's before the sun even rises. Holly feeds off of her father’s energy, and if March was nothing else, he was a grouch in the morning. Couldn’t be a morning person if you paid him, and that was saying something. He’d drag himself into the kitchen like the weight of the world was bearing down on his shoulders, half-asleep and cursing the coffee maker for merely existing. The coffee’s too hot, it’s not hot enough. It tastes burnt. It’s too weak, it’s too strong.
Blah, blah, blah.
Holly, as if sensing her father did not want to be bothered, would therefore bother him. Has he seen her math homework? Is he going to drive her to school or does she have to take the stinky old bus? Is he going to get any actual work done today or just laze about in the house like a sun-drunk cat, smoking a hole through the pool floor? March had a death glare reserved for mornings like those that looked more like one of those little purse-dogs trying to fight a squirrel. Not much of a threat, but it was the thought that counted.
Healy would never admit it, but he loved it. What wasn’t there to love?
March would pout when he pressed a kiss to the side of his head, cheeks flushing a deep red. And then he’d go all quiet for the next five minutes, making his coffee like all that rage at having to face the world had been sucked out of him by Healy’s lips on his temple. Then, if he was feeling some kind of way, he’d shuffle over to the table where Holly was demolishing a bowl of fruity pebbles, and Healy was trying to encourage her to eat some eggs because protein was important. Apparently. He doesn’t know. He read it in a newspaper. March would sit down and nibble on whoever’s plate was closest. Thief.
Sometimes it felt like Healy was raising two kids. How was it possible that he could spend ten minutes of his precious morning every day just trying to convince a stubborn idiot that he needed to actually eat to survive? March had this idea in his head that if he had enough will and enough cigarettes, he could get through the day on a handful of peanuts and coffee.
Look, Healy had a gut for a reason. He was older, and he liked food. Simple. His main goal in life right now was to fatten March up so he didn’t break like a twig the second things got too rough on a case. Healy had a thing for March’s waist… not so much his ribs. And it was working. He managed to get the younger man to eat lunch and dinner most days, and if he was lucky, March would dip his hand into the communal popcorn during movie night like a neanderthal and stuff it down his throat. A win, even if Holly said it was disgusting.
So, yeah. Things were pretty swell here. Domestic.
The sex was pretty good too.
“Oh! Oh, f-fuck, you’re like a bear. A big f-fuh- oh, mhm, right there, right there, fuck! Healy! You’re gonna-... ah, harder, please, please, please, please, please.”
“You’re gonna wake up the entire fucking- ah- neighborhood if you don’t stop screaming,” Healy griped, meaty fingers digging into the soft flesh of March’s thighs as he pushed them higher. The younger man’s hips were surprisingly flexible, knees nearly touching the bed on either side of his head, where his dirty-blonde hair was fanned out on the pillow like a tilted halo. The bed creaked, hitting the wall with a rhythmic thump as Healy drove his thick cock deeper into March’s tight entrance. Sweat dripped down Healy’s temple, face flushed as his hips rocked slower, teasing. Serves him right for begging. “Do I have to shut you up?”
“Please, shut me up,” March whined, back arching off the bed, his cock weeping against his belly, pre-cum pooling in his happy trail. “You could put your hand, like, on my throat. It would be- ah, fuh-fuck- really cool. I dig it. I do. Hot. Very hot. Your hands are like- like paws. Like the-the bear on the-... mm, don’t stop… on the cartoon.”
Healy raised an eyebrow, hips slowing to methodical thrusts, the drag of his cock rubbing along March’s sensitive insides until he pistoned his hips forward again, reveling in the sharp squeal the man gave when the tip hit his prostate.
“Smokey?” Healy grunted, reaching down to pinch the head of March’s cock. The other man cried and bucked his hips, eyes clenched tight, eyelashes clumped together with unshed tears. How dare he compare the guy fucking his brains out to Smokey the goddamn Bear? “You’re saying I look like Smokey the Bear? Only you can prevent wildfires? That Smokey?”
“Only you can prevent me from coming, you fucking-...” March’s words died in his throat as Healy ground their hips together, massaging his insides with his fat cock. “You’re so evil, I’m gonna-”
“What?” Healy prompted. “What’re you gonna do? Nothing. So sit still and shut up.”
March whined and clenched hard around Healy’s dick, pulling a low groan from the older man. He stilled his hips as punishment, balls deep and feeling quite satisfied when the blonde squirmed under him. Healy squeezed one thigh and released his pinch on March’s tip just to watch the pre-cum drip out in thanks. Pathetic.
Thwap!
Healy’s head snapped to the side as a pillow hit his cheek. March was crying.
“Fuck me, you brute!”
Good times.
It wasn’t just sex, either, though that was how it started. That was how it started physically, at least. Healy had this strange sort of feeling in the pit of his stomach ever since he met March, but he chalked it up to irritation and nothing more. One night, when March was drunk as a skunk and dancing to The Bee Gees on record, he had stumbled, all Bambi-eyed and flushed, down onto the couch and into Healy’s lap like some fucked up little angel.
Healy shoved him off and watched him lie on the floor as the room spun.
But every day since then, that fluttering little feeling came back until it was too hard to ignore. And that image- the weight- of March in his lap wouldn’t leave. It came up most prominently when he was alone in the guest room, trying to get some sleep. Instead, all he could feel was the warmth of March against his chest, the way his slacks had stretched across his ass like it was free real estate, or the look in the blonde’s eyes. All soft and wet. Pupils blown wide.
Healy had never been so hard in his life. It was a bender, really, given how many times he had jerked off under the covers, eyes shut, imagining it was March’s hand around him, or- God forbid- his mouth. Warm and slick with spit. If he was feeling especially bothered by the images, he may even lie back and picture March on top of him, slim thighs spread, hips rolling as he moved up and down the length of Healy’s cock, swallowing it up so nicely. He would think about how tight it would be, the sounds March would make every time Healy’s cock hit that sweet little spot inside him and made him see stars. And when he finally came, cum spilling out and dripping down his fist, he’d clean himself up with the thought of March’s tongue lapping at the tip like his own personal clean-up service.
Mm. He was a pervert.
That was months ago, and now all those little fantasies that Healy kicked himself for were a reality.
One thing led to another, and the guest room became a vacant lot in the house because Healy found he slept better curled around March’s back like a comma, thick, hairy arms wrapped around the other man’s waist as if he thought he could keep him safe and still, even in sleep. The universe had it out for March, letting him teeter on the edge of death so often that it became a running joke. But at night, when Healy was trying to convince himself he didn’t care about the man the way his heart felt it did… it felt nice to hold him and know there was nothing that could hurt him. Come Hell or high water. March was safest when he was asleep with Healy watching over him.
As invincible as March thought he was, Healy didn’t want to take any more chances.
It was really too bad they couldn’t be in bed now, seeing as it was reaching ten o’clock and Officer Johnson was still sitting his sorry ass down on Healy’s couch. March’s couch.
Their couch. Whatever.
Back to Healy’s original point. March never talked about his past as a cop, and therefore, he never talked about Johnson. The only reason Healy even knew he existed was because of one offhand comment from Holly during the Amelia case all that time ago. Something about March being friends with a cop and how the guy ‘liked him a lot.’ At the time, Healy had played it off and made some joke about how the two of them should get married then, if they’re just so goddamn close. He really only did it to make Holly huffy, which worked.
But there was a small part of him that, at the time, thought of another man even remotely liking March and just made him see red. It wasn’t normal anger either. No, it was a fire in the pit of his gut that made his muscles twitch, like he wanted to grab something just out of his grasp, so he knew he shouldn’t even try. Now he could put a face to the unnamed man, and that feeling is back again, even worse than before.
This wasn’t just an imaginary figure of Healy’s imagination anymore, no. This was a threat. Sure, Johnson hadn’t done anything that automatically made alarm bells go off in his head, but his presence was enough to give Healy an unsettled feeling. The way Johnson laughed too hard at March’s stupid jokes; how he sometimes shifted his leg so his outer thigh brushed against March’s socked toes; how he did that thing with his eyebrows- up to the ceiling- and muttered ‘yeah?’. Maybe it wasn’t intentional. Maybe it was all in Healy’s head.
He didn’t really give a shit. Healy wanted this guy out of their house so they could all go the fuck to sleep.
Because now he sees this younger man, maybe only a year or two older than March, with muscles, and dark brown hair, and a kind smile, and tall. And he thinks about himself: seventeen years March's senior, shorter by a hair, chubby, hairy… not exactly the picture-perfect model that was currently sitting next to his boy.
He was fifty-two years old. It wasn’t exactly a grand time to be self-conscious about himself.
Healy’s jaw clicked. It was bedtime.
“- and, you know, I’ve never had to arrest a kid before, right? Usually I just let ‘em off with a warning because we were kids too once, y’know. Kids do stupid stuff all the time. But this little shit just pissed me off so bad, I had to put his ass in cuffs. I mean-”
Johnson’s voice was like rubbing two styrofoam cups together. Healy blamed it on lack of sleep. Ever since he hit thirty, it had been a gradual decline in how late he could stay up before he was too exhausted to brush his teeth and wash his face. He had already done both of those things two hours ago, but ruined it by sharing a bag of chips and three Yoo-Hoos with Holly. He couldn’t tell if she was having the time of her life, or just pretending for the sake of keeping up appearances.
The two of them were currently huddled up in the kitchen, looking out into the living room where March was lying back on the couch, back resting on the arm, and cradling a glass of bourbon on his chest. Johnson was sitting by his feet, chatting brightly about his latest arrest of a… child. Yeah. He seems like the person to arrest an innocent little child, steal the light from their eyes, and subject them to trauma.
Okay. Healy didn’t know if any of that was true. For all he knew, the kid could have been a real criminal. Still, Healy wouldn't put it past the cop to pick on someone smaller than him just because he could. What evidence did he have for such a claim? Nothing. But he could feel it deep in his gut alongside the spaghetti they had for dinner. Something just wasn’t right.
Holly was leaning forward on the counter next to Healy, elbows planted as she fiddled with the cap of her chocolate milk, head tilted slightly to the side like he was observing two animals at the zoo.
Healy ground his teeth together and paralleled her.
“Your father seems to be having a nice time,” He said lowly, so the other two men couldn’t hear.
Holly shrugged but didn’t look away. “Mr. Johnson is Dad’s, like, best friend.”
“Best friend,” Healy repeated, mulling over the word. It sounded so juvenile. Holly had a few ‘best friends,’ some of which she didn’t even like, but when Healy advised her to just let them down gently and move on in life, she acted like he had suggested she kill them or something. Like it was a cardinal sin to not hang out with people she didn’t like. He didn’t understand teenage girls sometimes. Most of the time. Healy’s tongue slid over the top row of his teeth, resisting the urge to ask too many questions. “For how long?”
“Since his first day on the force,” Holly explained, narrowing her eyes on the men in the adjacent room. “They were partners or something. Sometimes Mr. Johnson would come over, and they’d drink beer out back of the old house. They’d talk for hours. It kept me up all night, you know.”
“Hours,” Healy parroted again, ignoring Holly’s eye-roll. “What’d they talk about?”
Surely not making sweet, sweet love together.
He hoped.
“Mm, anything?” Holly took a swig of her Yoo-Hoo. “Guy stuff, I guess.”
Guy stuff.
That could mean a lot of things. ‘Guy stuff’ to a teenage girl could mean sports, or what beer tastes the least like piss, or how good they are at darts. ‘Guy stuff’ could be talking about women. But considering March had a wife back then, and he knew March was loyal to a fault, then Healy doubted that they would be chatting it up about a pretty young number down at the convenience store. So that narrowed it down to two categories: sports and liquor.
There was a good argument for liquor. March loved it more than he loved himself, so Healy didn’t have to suspend his belief to accept that maybe he and Johnson sat outside alone together and talked about whiskey brands, or something similar. Sports were out of the question. March hated them. He wouldn’t know the difference between a football and a volleyball if they hit him in the back of his head.
‘Guy stuff’ could also mean a third, worse thing that Healy really didn’t want to acknowledge because his grip on his Yoo-Hoo was already so tight, it threatened to crack the glass. And if he thought about it for too long- Johnson’s hands on March’s body- he felt a sick coiling start in his gut, bile rising in his throat, and anger so blatant and unadulterated, his ears burned red. Strange.
‘Guy stuff’ could mean anal.
“So they’re close, then?” Healy murmured.
Holly nodded and sighed, turning herself around and pushing herself up onto the counter, swinging her legs, her back now facing the living room. “They’ve been close ever since mom… you know. Mr. Johnson was there for Dad when no one else was. He drove me to school sometimes when Dad was too sad to get up.”
Oh.
Oh.
He drove Holly to school. And comforted a grieving man. That’s so fucking nice. What a good Samaritan.
That’s really sweet.
Healy inhaled and exhaled audibly, tipping his head back and swigging the last bit of chocolate milk from the bottle. His jaw hurt from how hard he was clenching his teeth together. He placed the glass down with a heavy hand and wiped a hand over his face, trying to rub off whatever ailment was currently plaguing him. It could have just been the three Yoo-Hoos he just chugged, but his stomach hurt in a way it hadn’t since he got food poisoning by the diner down in Hollywood. He may have saved a few lives that night, but his stomach had been the real victim. Salisbury steak. Never again.
This feeling might be even worse.
“That’s nice,” Healy whispered. “That’s- That’s really nice. A stand-up guy.”
Holly glanced over at him, squinting her eyes. He knew that look. She was trying to pick him apart. He tried not to make eye contact with her because if he did, it was over. She’d see right through him. A slow smile spread across her lips. Damnit.
“You’re jealous,” She said quietly, a scoff of disbelief escaping her. “I can’t believe it. You’re jealous!”
“I’m not jealous,” Healy said quickly, rubbing his hand over his mouth, willing himself to just shut up. “It’s a nice thing for him to do. That’s all I said. What, I can’t acknowledge a nice thing?”
Holly’s grin widened. “You know Mr. Johnson has a wife, right?”
Whoopdie-fucking-do.
It wasn’t as if Healy was expecting Johnson to flip March over and fuck the living daylights out of him (though the thought made him consider grabbing his brass knuckles just in case). It was 1978. It wasn’t like the place was crawling with men who loved other men so openly as to do it in front of a guy’s kid and “friend.” That was what March had introduced Healy as when Johnson first came over, which was fine. Friend. They didn’t know how people would react, so it was best to just keep it under wraps. Despite the logic behind it all and the knowledge that even if Johnson was trying to do something nefarious with his boy, Healy couldn’t help but worry.
After all, March was the most important thing in his life.
“I don’t care if he has a wife, kids, a dog, and a white picket fence,” Healy griped, gesturing vaguely toward the couch. “I mean, look at ‘im. He’s made himself right at home. Y’know, he didn’t even take off his shoes when he came inside. Do you know how much dirt he tracked through the place? And it’s me who has to clean it up because your dad couldn’t be bothered to clean his own ass, let alone the house. I watched him put an empty jug of milk back in the fridge instead of walking the five steps it took to get to the garbage. Now I have another pig to look after.”
Holly huffed a soft laugh, shaking her head. “Now you know how I feel. Dad left a dirty plate in the sink for so long once that it got stuck to the bottom.”
“He’s a filthy animal,” Healy bit the inside of his cheek. “That makes two of them.”
“Mr. Johnson’s fine,” Holly shrugged, playing with a strand of hair behind her ear. She didn’t have anything against the guy, really. He didn’t come around as often as he used to, and she was glad for it because it meant she didn’t have to hide herself up in her room all day waiting for him to leave, so she wouldn’t have to make small talk about school. “He just doesn’t know when to leave.”
“And he’s ugly,” Healy murmured, then closed his eyes, as if he couldn’t believe the words came out of his own mouth. “His ears-”
“Look like Dumbo’s,” Holly finished with a quiet giggle. “And his laugh sounds like-”
“A kitten dying. And his teeth-”
“Are fucked up!” Holly said, a smidge too loud.
Healy clamped a hand over her mouth just as March and Johnson looked over at them. The creep in question smiled and offered a small wave, because he was just so incredibly amiable and sociable. March raised an eyebrow, then smiled and made a kissy face behind Johnson’s back so he couldn’t see. Healy bit his cheek harder.
“What’re you yelling about, you crazy kids?” March grinned.
“Nothin’.” Healy murmured.
Johnson laughed, and the kitten in his throat died again. “Doesn’t sound like nothing.”
“Get your ears checked, then.” Healy’s toes curled in his loafers. He bit his tongue to prevent himself from saying anything else. A moment passed in awkward silence as March and his friend turned back toward each other. Once the two men went back to their own conversation, Healy released the girl, nodding to her. “Don’t cuss, sweetheart. But, yeah. They’re really messed up. Good job.”
Holly bit her lip to stop from laughing and looked back over toward the pair. “If it really bothers you so much, why don’t you just go over there and… I dunno. Make it obvious.”
“I’m a grown man,” Healy explained. “If I go over there and make a big deal out of nothin’, I look like an idiot. I’ll deal with it later. In private.”
The younger girl shrugged. “Whatever makes you feel better. It’s not like Mr. Johnson is even touching him or anyth-”
Oh, my fucking God.
Let God strike him down if he’s just seeing things. Healy never had great eyesight. By the time he was thirty, he needed reading glasses just to see the numbers on the pay phone, and it took him weeks to get through a single book because the words blurred together into one mass of black font until it frustrated him bad enough that he put the damn thing down. But he swore on his life, on the life of everyone he loves, that he wasn’t making this up. How could he? It was right in front of his face, mocking him. Teasing him.
“I’m gonna kill him.” Healy interrupted in a whisper, pupils small as pin-points as he stared straight ahead through the opening of the kitchen out onto the couch. His fingers dug into the edge of the counter, short nails turning up at the ends.
“What?” Holly’s face pinched up. She turned back to look at her dad. “What’re you talking-... oh.”
Months ago, Healy had made a promise to himself. Said promise was that he would never kill anyone ever again, unless he had probable cause. This included, but was not limited to: anyone threatening to, or hurting, March or Holly (the gray area being stupid teenage boys who could go with a strongly-worded lecture or sucker punch if they messed with the girl). Healy didn’t have a body count. As March would say, he wasn’t Jack the Ripper… or Amelia’s mother. But that’s not to say he was a saint. Blueface was dead because of him, and John Boy would have been too if Holly hadn’t stepped in.
This may be the one and only time Healy would ever break that promise. It was almost half past ten by now, and most neighbors would be asleep. If he acted quickly, none of them would hear the gunshot or Johnson’s scream. It had to be quick, despite how badly Healy wanted to slow down and make the fucker suffer.
Johnson’s hand- probably sweaty, clammy, undeserving- had found a new home on March’s ankle, where his slacks had ridden up as his knees were bent.
Squeeze. Settle. Squeeze. Settle. Thumb-rubbing back and forth.
“Holly,” Healy whispered, rounding the counter. “Get the gun.”
“What?!” Holly whisper-shouted, shoving herself off the counter.
“In the jar,” He muttered, gesturing for her to grab it. His movements became frantic as she slapped his hands down, the two of them in a brief, gentle slap-boxing match. His eyes flickered between his target- Dumbo- and Holly, who looked seconds away from biting his hands just to get him to stop trying to push her toward the cookie jar. “Go, go, go.”
“No, you’re crazy!” She snapped, grabbing his forearm and yanking. Healy fought it for a moment before relenting as her heels tug into the tile for leverage. Holly dragged him back into the kitchen, the two of them stumbling on their feet. Healy was still staring daggers through the kitchen doorway. Holly dug her nails into his forearm. Nothing. The guy was on a rampage. “Mr. Healy, you can’t just-”
“I can.” He growled. Growled! Like a goddamn animal.
Holly let go at the sound, face scrunched up in disgust. “You’re being weird. You can’t just kill a guy who didn’t do anything wrong! You can't kill a guy, period!”
Healy’s eyes never left the couch, zeroing in on where Johnson’s thumb was still doing that lazy, proprietary little rub on March’s ankle like he owned the place. Like he had any right to be here. Like the picture-perfect, ankle-grabbing, clammy-handed son of a bitch belonged in their living room. In their house. Near his March.
“I might just.”
Holly rolled her eyes to heaven for the umpteenth time and tugged on Healy’s sleeve. “He’s a cop, Healy. A cop. You shoot him, and we’re all doing twenty-to-life before the eleven o’clock news. Do you really want me to spend my developmental years in prison?”
Healy glanced down at the girl, then back up, then back down again. He waved his hand. “He’s touchin’ him,” He said, like it explained everything, because it did. That promise he made months ago was hot air! “Look at him. Smug. I’m gonna-”
“You’re gonna nothing,” Holly sighed, planting herself in front of him. She was not unlike those little purse-dogs Healy equated to March, except she could actually be a little terrifying. “Dad’s handling it! Look at him. He’s not even uncomfortable. They’re just friends, Mr. Healy.”
March, who was probably too drunk to even notice what was going on with that asshole making love to his ankle, laughed at something Johnson said. A bright, easy sound. The kind of laugh that made Healy’s heart want to do violent things, but that usual energy had manifested itself into clenched fists and a strong desire to make Johnson feel as much pain as possible as soon as possible. So, he’s being dramatic. He knows that. It’s just that Healy likes keeping the good things in his life close, and right now, March had never felt so far away.
Healy raised both his eyebrows and stared down at her. “I’m gonna break his fingers,” He muttered. “I’ll even let you help.”
Holly glared up at him, wondering what the hell happened to all those promises he made. “Jesus Christ, you’re acting unhinged. He’s not trying to kill Dad! He’s just… being friendly.”
“Sweetheart, if that’s friendly-” Healy jerked his thumb behind him. “-then that loser’s flirting might be worse than any film you saw in Shattuck’s place.”
She stared at him like he had grown a second head. “You are so jealous it’s embarrassing. Besides, Dad loves you. He’d never mess around with someone else.”
Dad loves you. Healy ignored the heart attack he felt coming on, mentally added it to the list, and tried to focus. It wasn’t his fault that he had his doubts, his fears. It wasn’t too long ago that he was sitting at a restaurant with the supposed love of his life, his ex-wife, when she declared she was sleeping with his own dad. That sticks with a guy. And right now, seeing March ignore what Johnson was doing was, admittedly, freaking him out a bit. Was there something so wrong with just being careful?
“It’s the principal,” Healy tried to explain. “It’s inappropriate to do that in front of a child.”
The two of them poked their head out of the doorframe and stared into the living room. March was doing a very poor impression of Blondie. Johnson was acting like George Carlin himself had possessed March and was doing a stand-up act in the middle of their living room. Laughing his fucking ass off. Slapping his knee. The nerve of this guy.
Holly pursed her lips before whispering. “I don’t see what’s so wrong about it.”
“He’s rubbing it. Like a pervert.”
“It’s a cop thing. They do that weird reassuring touch thing. Like that one paramedic, when they were questioning me after Sid Shattuck’s party. I don’t know. I play with Jessica’s hair all the time. And she hugs me out of nowhere, and it’s super annoying. But it’s, like, a friend thing.”
“Sweetheart, respectfully, you’re thirteen. That’s normal. This is not.”
March’s voice floated back from the couch, light and airy that way it always was when he was a little drunk. He had promised only two to three drinks tops tonight, not wanting to make an absolute fool out of himself in front of Johnson. March was a changed man, he had told the guy, and he wanted to live up to that expectation. Was it working? Debatable. Healy had seen better performances from circus monkeys.
“- so, yeah, no, Healy’s been helping out,” March drawled. Healy’s eyes narrowed at the mention of his name as March continued. “Y’know with Holly and stuff. Have you ever had banana bread? We made some the other day, and my mind was blown. Healy’s gotta lot of recipes.”
“Everyone’s had banana bread,” Johnson murmured, index finger brushing a careful circle along March’s bony ankle. “Sounds very domestic. Cute.”
Healy made a choked noise in the back of his throat.
Holly dragged him back into the kitchen and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Okay. New plan. You stay here and do not commit homicide. I’m gonna go in there, act normal, and tell dad we’re going to bed. He’ll get the hint that it’s getting late. If he doesn’t, I’ll tell him I don’t feel good. That usually makes him feel bad or guilty or whatever. He’s weird about me being sick. So, then he’ll kick Mr. Johnson out.”
She waited until Healy nodded before moving to continue her mission. He caught her sleeve.
“What?” Holly huffed.
“Tell that prick he’s got something on his shirt,” He whispered, lips twitching. “Or he smells bad. I don’t care.”
Holly’s eyes found solace in heaven again. “You owe me for this.”
“Fine,” he conceded. “I’ll buy you a whole goddamn store if you get that shmuck out of here in the next ninety seconds.”
Healy stayed behind the counter, fingers white-knuckled on the edge, watching her like a hawk as Holly began her little acting spiel. Her tummy hurts, but she might also have a fever, and her nose has been running the whole day, and her head is pounding. If Johnson’s hand moved even one inch higher, promise or no promise, Healy was going to find out if they ever put that little gun back in the cookie jar. It would be very useful.
Over the top? Maybe. Dramatic? Sure.
Healy was just under the assumption that if you cared about something, you’d do whatever it took to keep it safe. They may be assholes to each other nine times out of ten, but he would be damned if he let some sweaty, washed-up, big-biceped son of a bitch touch even a hair on March’s head.
Holly’s voice was bright.
“Oh, Mr. Johnson! Your fly’s down!”
Atta girl.