summary: you try on one of march's suits.
warnings: erm none not really, mentions of alcohol and being drunk
A/N: just watched the nice guys...guess you could say it was....pretty nice....heh...anyways holland march is me i am him goodbye i must question the mermaids
not proofread
“Hun, have you seen– Oh my god.”
Holland was just going to ask if you knew where Holly was. He didn’t expect to peek into your shared bedroom and see you—wearing one of his suits. You even wore one of his undershirts, the buttons undone in a way that looked natural on him, yet looked almost downright scandalous on you, with the neckline dipping so low down your chest.
He didn’t mean to gawk. He doesn't gawk. He’s a gentleman—but he just can’t seem to pick his jaw off the floor.
“March, I-I’m sorry,” You sputtered an apology, and March had to look up at you and do a double take. “I know you love your suits, and…and I just wanted to try one on.” Holland’s heart almost burst when he saw the way you fiddled with your fingers.
Long strides instantly had him standing in front of you, large hands cupping the firm shoulders of the suit jacket on you.
“Honey, sweetie,” He started, eyes pulled shut. “Don’t you ever apologize for looking this good.”
A smile quirked the edge of your lip upwards. “March, are you drunk?”
Holland's expression sank ever so slightly, his heart dropping to his feet with the implication that you thought he was drunk just because he thought you looked good. He quickly shook his head ‘No’, stray strands of hair falling in front of his eyes. Your soft hands brushed them back over his head, and he immediately leaned in to press a brisk kiss to your lips. No lingering taste of alcohol on his lips.
“No, I’m not drunk. If I was, I think I would have already passed out just from looking at ‘ya.” He winked, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “ ‘M sorry if you think I only call you pretty when I’m drunk.” His voice turned reverent, a hand slinking up your body to cup your cheek.
“I don’t, I swear!” You counter swiftly, leaning into his hand, your cheek smooshed against his palm. “I just, I don’t know. I thought you’d be angrier about me wearing your suit.”
Holland huffed, head bowing before he brought his head back to look up at the ceiling. “God, hun, you thought I would be mad about you wearing my clothes?” He looked down at you. “That’s like…one of the hottest things you can do. No, the hottest. I changed my mind.”
“But it’s one of your nice suits. That’s different.”
“Nothing different about it to me, sweet cheeks.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Yes ma’am.”
Holland’s hands grasped the lapels of the jacket you wore, holding them closer together to let the fabric sit better on your shoulders. He tilted his head as he actually took in which suit you were wearing—the cream colored one, paired with the bright teal undershirt. A classic.
“You like this one?” His eyes flicked up to yours.
You nodded. “Yeah, it’s really nice.” Your eyes darted down to where he was holding the jacket.
“D’ya want me to get this tailored for ‘ya? You’d look even better with it actually fitting you.”
Him? Offering to get one of his own suits tailored for you? THE Holland March? You had to be dreaming. You knew how much he loved his suits—he had barely any lounge clothes because his whole closet is just suits and nice looking undershirts.
You remember the time he accidentally spilled red wine on his sleek white suit the day he had gotten it. This is why I don’t drink wine! You remember him yelling to you from the bathroom, an uncharacteristically high pitched squeal suddenly ringing throughout the house.
“Oh, no no no, it's really okay–” You waved a hand in front of your chest, but Holland leaned down so he was nose to nose with you.
“I want to.” The intensity in his eyes shocked you—the heat behind almost burning you physically.
Holland noticed he came off a little too strong and pulled his face back, no longer crowding your personal space, yet still clutching the jacket.
“I, I mean,” He sucked in a large breath. “It would be super cool if we could like…match suits, one day, you know? I got a similar colored one already so…” Yeah, March. Smooth, Ha ha.
The edges of his mustache pointed flipped upward in a smile as he saw a spark of interest in your gaze.
“Really? Are you sure? Because I know how much you like this one—” He surged forward suddenly, cutting you off with a kiss.
He pulled back just slightly, lips still brushing against yours. “I like it better on you.”
a/n: I dead ahh dont know how i cranked this out in 20 minutes when i have other drafts that ive been working on for like a week. actually finish drafts challenge IMPOSSIBLE i guess. still feel free to request....i promise im working on them i just want them to be good
the sitch ⋆˚꩜｡ holland and healy have really made a name for themselves with their new detective company, the nice guys. things really couldn't be better. apart from the alcoholism, his reliance on his daughter, and the steadily growing number of injuries he gets throughout his life. but things take a turn when he meets you through an incident with his daughter, and he realizes that this single dad is oh so lonely.
dynamic ? holland march x reader
word count : 3.4K / genre : fluff!
includes: holland march talking way too much, holland march being a crybaby, mentions of one (1) house fire and one (1) dead wife, reader is a normal level of funny and nice and that makes holland want to explode, lots of pining and holland being stupid cause he makes me laugh
notes: i've watched project hail mary twice and im now revisiting everything ive watched ryan gosling in, so i needed to write holland march stuff because he's my wife. maybe i'll write ryland grace stuff someday.......
there are very few times that holland's life has noticeably improved. the day of his daughter's birth, one hundred percent. creating a detective duo company with healy, for sure. apart from those two specific events, everything he has ever endured was founded on last-minute prayers for survival. something about the weakness of his spirit, his addictive personality, and his tendency to find the hopelessness in everything has often left him doggy paddling to shore. this is objectively a bad thing.
not to holland, though. to holland, that just means that the highs are so high that, on the rare occasion they hit him, it's incredible that he doesn't pass out when they occur. but this third noticeable improvement of his life might actually be the first time he does faint.
holly was reteaching him how to drive a car by spewing unsolicited advice at every street sign. they were cruising by yet another beach. a particularly bad investigation hit him and healy last weekend, and it left him bruised up like a dropped mango. he had a black eye and a trickle of purple dots from the neck to the chest. doctors also suspected his ankle might have been sprained, but so far there had been no clear signs, which was enough for him to pop a few pain pills and call it a day. his hands were good too. at least, his left hand was. the knuckles on his right were wrapped in gauze that would not stop staining. no matter. he kept that hand on his lap as he drove with his left. but the suckiest part was that they didn't even solve the case. a man named mr. watkins was still missing and they had ran out of clues.
"i don't think jess is gonna notice one cookie out of a dozen missing," he was telling holly, ignoring her backseat driving.
"it's called a dozen for a reason, dad. it's a number. and i baked enough cookies specifically for me and her family."
"ah! it's actually 'her family and i,'" he corrected and beckoned his hand again. still, nothing dropped.
"no, it's 'me and her family.' the choice between 'me' or 'i' depends on how the sentence would sound without the additional object."
holland readjusted in his seat. "... you and her family," he muttered.
if his memory served him right, jess' place would be two streets down to the left, then another three streets until they got to a two story house on the slope of mitchell drive. he turned down his music to focus a little more, but suddenly two hands grabbed his shoulders from behind. "w-wait, that's her house!"
holland screamed and his head whipped to check all surroundings, then followed holly's pointed finger to see a different two story house, five streets before the expected destination. his daughter's grip was so tight, he pulled over regardless and turned into a calmer street to park by the sidewalk. "you sure? i could have sworn it was a little farther down."
but holly was adamant. "nope, this is it," and she jumped out of the car like a bat out of hell. holland looked around again.
"but we saw that motorcycle accident by the four-way stop," he said, half to holly and half to himself. weird. normally, he didn't doubt holly on these things, but the motorcycle was a pretty vivid memory. they saw it together two weeks ago, right after healy told him the story of his worst crash. it made holland want to puke.
just like that, holly was gone with the bag of cookies in her hand. he settled into the driver's seat and watched her carefully tread up to the stairs, but still keeping her head high. he thought to say hello to the parents. surprisingly, he hit it off with them last time. maybe he should go after holly, he thought. he rested his arm on the outside of the car and saw the door open after three polite knocks.
jess' parents didn't greet her at the door, though, unless jess' mom got a new haircut, hair color, style, and shoes. from afar, he couldn't see much. the woman was young, maybe his age (jess' parents waited a long while before kids), and dressed casually. she spoke to holly with a calm expression, but guarded in a way. did they get jess a babysitter? no, holly baked for their family. and he wasn't even sure this was the right house. but again, it was hard to doubt holly when she was usually right about everything.
you were the one actually at the door. you were trying to do your own research on your latest case, but someone knocked at the door, not like you were expecting anyone. your new air freshener already got delivered yesterday. still, you opened it and were met with a sweet, blonde teenage girl.
"excuse me," she said politely, and asked if this was the house of a person with the same name as yours. naturally, you said she had the right person, and she nodded, pleased with herself. "my name is holly march and i'm looking to ask you a couple questions about a man named mr. watkins."
you huffed out a laugh, intrigued but incredibly confused. the girl was well spoken, but she couldn't have been older than twelve, and what was her involvement with mr. watkins? "i'm sorry, i'm not too sure i follow," you said politely.
she seemed to grow irritated and covered the reaction poorly with a deep breath. "mr. watkins was an insurance agent on the edge of california that went missing approximately a week ago. i'm trying to find information about his most recent whereabouts and what occurred before his disappearance, and i was told you might have some intel."
you smiled at the bizarre nature of this conversation. she was talking about a real case that you were very well aware of, but she sounded like a spy in a children's television show. "i don't think i have any information you would want," you replied, still trying to figure out how in the world this girl got your address. "barely learned anything about the guy when i was involved with his family."
"miss, if you would cooperate, i promise this will be both quicker and easier for the both of us," she insisted, and you bit back the bigger smile that threatened to appear on your face. this girl was half a foot shorter than you, not to mention with a bag of cookies in her hands.
you pointed at them, unable to resist. "you gonna bribe me with these next?"
she didn’t find it funny. you did, though. and luckily, you didn’t have to answer to whatever scripted lecture she was going to put you through, because holland finally figured, ‘yeah, there’s no way this is where jess lives. i commented on the front yard ‘cause of their dog statue outside and they said it was the shining star of their decor—so where the hell is it?’ and he walked over.
his footsteps grew closer, which caused holly’s shoulders to tense and refuse to turn. something was definitely wrong. he couldn’t help but feel a tinge of pride. this was why he was a detective. he reached the stoop of the house and invitied himself onto it. he placed his hands upon holly’s shoulders in claiment. “deepest apologies, this is my daughter, i don’t know what she’s—!”
and he froze. quite possibly the most gorgeous woman in the world was standing in the door way, smiling, and looking directly at him. your hair framing your face, your clothes fitting you in all the right ways, the twitch of your nose as you smiled a second longer. you had a way of making casual wear look worthy of a editorial. he didn’t even know if you put on makeup today. maybe it was just your natural glow. was he crazy for already thinking about what to wear for a proposal? holland had a specific type. it wasn’t rare, but he knew what got his attention. and you seemed to had hit the jackpot without even knowing you were on a game show, called “can we kill march with just a look?” he had yet to say anything. but the importance of talking in a conversation hadn’t hit him yet, and instead, he just grasped holly’s shoulders even tighter to ground himself.
your smile never faltered, even as he gaped at you so obviously. instead, you leaned against the door frame and said, “hello.”
“hi,” he squeaked. a beat passed of the two of you just looking at each other, but holly seemed to have other plans that revolved around the logistics of the situation.
she squirmed out of her dad’s touch and announced your name with a tinge of defeat. “she’s another detective in LA looking into mr. watkins' disappearance,” she sighed.
holland was about to cum in his pants. he wiped any possible crumbs that were left on his mustache from breakfast and let out a hiccup of a laugh, nervous and completely out of his depth. “detective! what do you know, a chance to… network, it’s such a pleasure to meet you.” you didn’t miss the way he breathed out those last words. he did, though. he was too caught up in how pleasurable it was.
you crossed your arms and nodded. "nice to meet you too, detective...?"
"march! detective march!" he then felt his suit pockets, knowing damn well he had the flyer healy gave him. "uh, i work with my buddy, healy, we're new on the scene. or, not new, we were just—! we both did our own thing, and now we're together, heh! er, not together, i'm not—! not like there's anything wrong with that." he found his saving grace in his inside pocket, pulling out the small yellow sheet and unfolded it. "we're called the nice guys. it's funny, 'cause!" he cleared his throat. "we can do it the nice way or the... you get it. i thought it was cool. when i first heard it, i mean, i didn't make it up. just in case you didn't... think it was cool." and he finally held it out for you to inspect. "in which case, i can be swayed to think the same."
in his peripherals, he could spot holly visibly upset. he just hadn't had a lot of time recently on the playing field, that's all. he watched you carefully as you checked the paper front and back, then looked back up at him. "i like the graphic. you wanna trade?"
"trade? what do you mean, trade?" he stammered.
you pulled out your wallet and, from that, a business card. white, sleek, semi-matte, with your name and contact information. "i don't have a cool picture of myself on it, but since we're meeting," you offered, then held it out.
he took it with both hands and bowed in thanks. "great! contacts!" he then shook his head. get on track, holland, jesus. "um, again, sorry for bothering you. my daughter's very independent, and my partner and i have been struggling with a watkins case for a while now. she could be a detective someday, not like i recommend it," he said.
you held up a hand and replied, "it's no problem, really. i actually had a mrs. watkins reach out to me and i looked into it for a while, but i had to decline further investigation. i'm just too busy."
"ah, me too. everyone's dying in LA," he replied, leaving out the important fact that this was the first case he and healy have had in a while. they accounted it to a dry spell, or so they thought. "but um, how far did you get with your investigation?"
"i was talking to watkins' ex-wife."
holland paused. "he has an ex-wife?"
you smiled. his somewhat pathetic nature was unknown to him, but you still couldn't help it. there was a level of charm that his stammering held. "how about this: come inside for a drink, i'll tell you what i know, and i'll even throw in a little check-up 'cause those bruises aren't looking great."
holly's eyes lit up for her plan, albeit taking a turn or two, worked out. meanwhile, holland touched his eye unconsciously with his gauzed hand and looked down at his unbuttoned collar, the other bruises on full display. how badly did he look standing next to you? "that's... great. that'd be really great. i hope we wouldn't be disturbing your boyfriend or anything."
"i don't have a boyfriend."
a tiny, passable, desperate noise slipped out of his mouth, which he then stuffed with his gauzed knuckles until he bit down too hard and agitated the wounds; he pulled his hand out after. "that's... wow. me neither."
it took him a second for him to realize it, a second you willingly gave him. when he exclaimed, you just opened the door and said, "come in, detective march."
still recovering from his fumble, he walked in and his daughter followed. "you can call me holland, i don't mind." he turned around and began to walk backwards to keep his eyes on you. "but would you like me to keep formalities with you?"
"you can call me by my first name," you assured, and gently nudged him to turn back around. the brush of your hand made him squirm, but hopefully he hid it well (he didn't). "take a seat. make yourself at home."
your house was nice. extremely comfortable and stylish, but personal. he didn't have the time to look closely at any framed photos, but he spotted a few pictures of family and friends, vacations and award ceremonies. blankets were folded neatly across the couch, shoes were in line at the door, and was that an oil diffuser in the corner? "lovely place you got," he called out, tracing the edges of his gauze with his free hand.
you busied yourself going through your bathroom and office, collecting journals, notes, and your first aid kit that was under the sink. you replied, throwing your voice down the hall, "thank you! i paid it off a year ago." you balanced the items on top of each other, then walked back with the stack of items and placed them on the kitchen island. "want a drink?"
"oh—!" he raised his hand but soon pulled it back. did he really want to drink around you? one drink would turn to two, and then he'd be begging for you to drink his third with him. "i'll just have water," he corrected. he adjusted his hips and leaned back, his arm behind him, and zoned out watching you gather your things.
matter of fact, all he did was watch you. when you replaced his bandages, when you reported what you knew on the watkins. more so whenever you brushed your hair away from your face or laughed at a note you couldn't make out in your books. you were probably telling him really important stuff, but he decided quickly that since holly would remember everything, why bother paying attention? they were on a first-name basis now, he didn't have to be overly professional.
in the midst of you rewrapping his gauze and explaining the last conversation watkins had with his ex-wife, holland blurted out, "so no boyfriend." you raised your brow at him.
"no boyfriend. not for a while," you replied. "the last one didn't like my work hours. said i was putting myself in danger. i think he just didn't like that i came back unharmed from the danger all the time. made it look like i had my shit together. how horrible."
"you really do," he breathed out and held back the urge to look you up and down. no biggie, he could just stare into your eyes. "you got a good job, comfortable life, great house."
"where do you live?"
"not too far from here. got a nice place myself. this is kind of my area. which is why i was so confused when my daughter here tried to trick me into thinking this was her friend's house for me to drop her off at. i know all of LA like the back of my head." he tapped his temple, but in doing so, unraveled the gauze yet to be secured. he panicked, little oh, oh no's leaving his lips, but you grabbed them calmly and rewrapped the losses.
"back of your head, huh? here i thought the saying was back of your hand," you teased. the tiny, little gears in holland's head clicked about, but you continued speaking. "well, mr. march, after i wrap this up, you can take my notes with you back to mrs. march and enjoy a lovely early dinner."
he jumped on the opportunity you gave him, spurting out, "oh, there's no mrs. march." you raised your brows again, this time in acknowledgement. "she died. house fire."
after a quick pause, you dutifully focused on the gauze. you really shouldn't have entertained the flirting, now, huh? you replied with a solemn tone you quickly mustered. "that's horrible, i'm so sorry."
but he shook his head. "no, no, no! it's alright! it was a long time ago. and truth be told, i think she would've taken me down with her if i was home when it happened." he looked up in thought. "both of us knew the relationship would only end if one of us died. we would've done anything to keep arguing with each other."
"huh." you took in this information as you finished securing the gauze. when it was done, you gave it a gentle pat and said, "well, at least you both made peace with it?"
"of course. if it was me that went down, i wouldn't have been too bitter, so i'm sure she was alright going down." a beat passed and he turned his head back to you with a sudden, sweetie-pie smile. "thank you for the check up."
he was a real character, wasn't he? "anytime." this reply caused many scenarios to flash through holland's mind: him appearing at your door, bloodied and bruised, saying in a deep, gravelling voice that he had nowhere else to go. you taking care of him in the bathroom. a steamy make out session in the tub. but he blinked and was back in reality.
"so, if i have any questions or if i can't make out a word or two in your notes?"
"you can call me."
"i'd be happy to come over—i mean, call you," he corrected. you stood up and packed the books and printed packets into a box for him, then escorted him to the front door where you said your goodbyes, not like holland wanted to leave. he had the thought of pretending to faint so you had to take care of him more, maybe bring him to a bedroom, but holly was too excited about the new information.
"been great meeting you. uh, parting gift!" he looked to his daughter and whispered, "the cookies, holly."
she clutched them to her chest. "but they were just a decoy. i was gonna bring them to maxine's tomorrow."
"yeah, you should've thought about that before bringing us to this lovely woman who really helped us out, now give her the cookies."
it wasn't like you couldn't hear, but it felt like familial matters that you shouldn't be intruding on. holly sighed and held out the bag, which you took with a sincere thanks and an additional vague apology, to which holland just waved his hand in dismissal. "you did more than enough," he told you.
you took one final look at him. he wasn't all that bad looking. the mustache, the suit, the slicked back hair that had easily fallen down in the past hour you've been together. again, the messy, pathetic nature of it all was a little endearing. he definitely noticed you looking too, because he gave you some eyes of his own, looking you up and down and smiling with a little more flirt. "get home safe," you said.
"you too," he giggled, too lost in his delight to notice his slip up. and not wanting to give the universe a chance to ruin this moment, he urged holly down the stoop and sped to the car. you lingered at the door. he hopped into the driver seat with a beaming smile, then checked himself in the rear view mirror. the smile then faded and he frantically drove his fingers through his hair to fix it, looked at you, realized you were watching, then drove off. you weren't even sure if he was a good detective. all signs pointed to that being unlikely. still, you couldn't help but check the flyer he gave you one more time before hanging it onto your fridge.
↬depicts: colt seavers, holland march, lars lindstrom, and ryland grace
↬warning: nothing serious. mild mentions of alcohol abuse and dangerous stunts. no spoilers for project hail mary either
↬notes: this is my first time writing anything in a year.. be nice. hoping that this'll push me to be more consistent with writing
𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐓 𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒
• you know how little kids will beg you to turn around and watch them do a cool trick, only to show you a three inch jump off the ground? yeah, that's colt. only those three inch jumps are more like dangerous, life threatening stunts.
• he tries sooooo hard to impress you. not because he needs to, but because he loves the look on your face after when you're hitting him on the shoulder with a poorly contained smile and asking what the fuck is wrong with him.
"whattt, you can't tell me that wasn't a good shot! come on, i did, like, three rolls in that car and barely have a scratch! that's *got* to get some sort of recognition." colt wraps an arm around your shoulder, peering down at you with a much-too-excitable expression for your taste. it made pretending to be annoyed with him pretty hard— his ultimate goal at the end of the day, you knew that by now.
"yeah, that's ignoring the bruise on your side the size of texas, you adrenaline junkie." you snarked back, barely managing to push down a smile at his antics. it didn’t matter, colt knew you well enough to sense your amusement no matter how well it was masked.
"you, my friend, need to get new insults." he huffs playfully. "do you know how many times i've heard that? it's practically recycled material at this point—! i didnt take you for a plagiarist.." he leans in closer to your face with a proud smile before pulling back moments later. you notice a flush spreading to his ears, and silently avert your eyes with a small grin of your own.
"you know you've got about three minutes to meet ryder in his trailer for a stunt revision, right?"
"...shit—" is all he colt says before taking off, leaving a small cloud of proverbial dust in his wake.
• being a crew member constantly surrounded by moving parts and very loud, very demanding split-second decisions made it hard to get any real socializing done, but somehow colt had found a way to worm himself into your routine. it was like he'd just showed up on set in front of you one day, all messy hair and a teasing glint in his eyes, leaning down to smirk "watch this" into his walkie talkie.
• you'd be lying if you said you didn't enjoy it.
• thats why when he glances at you for a little too long, or smiles at you when he thinks you won't notice, you dont mention it. not the way he always seems to be hovering around you the second he's got a moment away from the scene, nor how his voice cracks when he says your name more than anyone else's (okay, thats a lie, you do mention that last part, but if only to tease him for the momentary high note).
• theres a part of both of you that is afraid to take the next step. to push your playful arguing into something more serious: more unexplored. not to mention the amount of explaining you'd have to do to your parents around dating a stuntman— rather than some secure, tight lipped businessman like they'd always imagined. and god, the paperwork surrounding workplace relationships alone was enough to have you retreating back into that old rhythm of push and pull with colt... never too much to break the seal, but never enough to satisfy the ache in your chest. you were sure he felt the same way, but it was better to stick with what you had. the both of you knew that.
• er, at least, you did. colt's search history said differently. "movie themed pickup lines," "love song playlist," "best food in town," "cheapest food in town," the list went on.. modern problems require modern solutions, okay?
𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇
• get ready to have a grown man pinning after you like a middle schooler, because holland march is a force of nature with a penchant for stupidity, and then some.
• how on earth you captured his attention is beyond me. there are simply too many places you could have caught the detectives eye— promptly saddling himself up by your side with a five o'clock shadow and a grin that screams trouble. that's almost assuredly what happens.
• the minute you ignore him to greet holly instead, holland knew it was over for him. someone who didn't roll over at his shit and liked kids??? label him as successfully whipped, for he just found his favorite new thing to daydream about. and a little more, if you know what i mean.
• god he wants to look cool in front of you so bad. boasting about cases that he's solved (and ones that he hadn't..) is his favorite way to pass the time around you— at least until holly calls him out for it, grumbling that "no self respecting adult wants to hear about the time you lost a suspect in downtown traffic."
• he neglects to mentioned failed cases from that point forward.
• when holland is sober, he's far more easily riled up by you than anything else. he has penchant for calling you his "secret weakness," even if its anything but a secret with the way he's practically tripping over himself to catch up to you at any point.
• on the rare occasion that he had enough money to spend on something other than food, bills, or booze, holland takes a trip down to the local radioshack in order to make a mixtape. whether or not he realizes it, a lot of the songs he puts on there are ones that bring the thought of your smile to his mind. holly notices a change in the type of music playing the next few times she's in the car, but she doesn't say a thing.
• drunk holland is a different story, but when is he ever not?
• healy can barely stand to be around him when he's drunk after you enter the picture. if he had to sit through one more drunken, hiccup-y monolog about how goddamn beautiful you are, he swore that he would give up drinking (a boldfaced lie, sure, but that's how fed up he had gotten with holland's blubbering).
• you definitely get more than a few payphone calls from holland, the detective doing his best to sound coherent as he giggles into the receiver how sweet you are, and that you should come over to... whatever street he happened to be standing on that night.
• on the rare occasion that you show up its always to get him back home safely. not that he remembers much other than the smell and interior of your car
"y'er sho good to me. i ever told y'that?" holland mumbled into the upholstery lf your backseat, face smooshed against the fabric unabashedly. you were sure there'd be a drool puddle by the time you got to his place.
"yes. almost every time we do this actually." the sight that follows your sentence carries a feeling of pity with it. mostly for holly for having to deal with them when you got him home, but also for holland. things had been starting to make more and more sense ever since healy let it slip about his wife (rest her soul).
the car makes a slow right turn into a cul-de-sac as holland shuffles around in the backseat, fighting with a seat belt for a moment before leaning up into the front seat.
"you smell like a bar." he giggles as your nose scrunches up at the scent, and despite yourself you feel your heart seize a fraction. "sit back and buckle up before you fly through the windsheild, march."
"y'sound sho nice when you say my name." he either ignores you or just doesn't register your words; either possibility could be true when he's in this state.
"sit back." you twist briefly to shove holland into your backseat, cheeks flushing with heat when you accidentally make content with his exposed chest instead of his shoulder. since when did he take his tie and jacket off?
"button your shirt up before we get inside." you demand, killing the engine and slipping out of the car to walk over to the door holland was currently using for support. your expression remained unchanged as you opened it, watching his frame spill out onto the sidewalk below.
"hi." came a toothy grin as he looked up at you from his spot on the floor. you had one hell of a time trying not to smile down at him.
"just— get indoors before the neighbors see you ass."
"whatever y'say partnerrr."
• god he was a mess. unfortunately, you happened to like that
𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐌
• ohhhh baby you're in for a treat... a very sweet, very awkward treat in the shape of one lars lindstrom.
• you probably met him through work or karin and gus. new to town, more likely than not, and new face for the rural wisconsin residents to welcome and usher around. it's almost like being surrounded by excitable toddlers in elderly church-going bodies— every one of them more excited than the last to show off their home (and, apparently, a few matchmaking skills of their own).
• besides visiting the chappel every sunday (sometime wednesdays!) lars doesn't really make much of an effort to show up around town. bianca helped with that some, but it's still a slow process. it's not impossible to get ahold of him, per se, just very... rare. even rarer to capture his attention longer than an initial meeting— at least according to his family, the likes of which had practically begged the two of you to meet just a month into your move.
• lars can't remember what he liked about you at first.
• no really, he couldn't even if you asked. he was too busy trying to turn in the opposite direction of the diner at the time. unfortunately, karin's bruising grip on his parka had long since decided his fate.
"they're nice lars! everyone has been telling them about you since they've got here," came karins encouraging whisper as she comandered lars into the warm embrace of a diner "they're excited!"
her crackling voice, while normally familiar and comforting, was instead sending lars' brain into overdrive. he'd been promised a nice calm trip to the thrift store, not an ambush.
he blinked in rapid sucession, doing his best to look he wasn't literally being dragged into a nightmare scenario. the intense fidgeting of his mittens and self-soothing sway to his stature broke that illusion almost immediately.
a desperate look was tossed gus's way, but his brother returned it with a sigh and a shrug as if to say "what can you do?"
"a lot, actually." lars' mind whispered back traitorously.
"lars.. just give them a shot." karin's tone sounds heavy with something he can't place, so he turns around to get a better look. he's unsettled to find that she's using her pleading face. she knows how lars feels about that.
"please, buddy?" gus finally steps in, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. he looks at something over lars' shoulder. "just this one time, okay?"
lars swallows thickly.
against his better judgement, he nods, and that's that.
• maybe it was your unabashed smile or the way that you included him in nearly every conversation, waiting patiently for lars to put in his (brief) two cents before speeding along, that has lars sitting in the booth longer than just a few minutes. whatever the case, he found himself unable to look away from you, even if his line of sight was fixed on the slope of your nose rather than your own cheerful gaze. baby steps.
• gus and karin did most of the talking on lars behalf that day, but by the time the two of them had driven lars home from the diner and said their goodbyes, he couldn't help but feel like your attention had been on him the whole time.
• he could be imagining things...
• ...but he could be right. and that thought was more exciting than anything else.
• hope you're ready to have a shadow. any chance he gets to cross paths with you from that point on, and lars is nervously asking you to visit, always for a new reason or another.
• it starts out with helping him collect firewood while he hacks away— innocent enough, even if the thoughts running through your head as you watch him are anything but —to coming over anytime karin and gus had leftovers, taking walks down by the lake for "vitamin d", and, eventually, borrowing extra sweaters that lars just so happened to have "lying around." the both of you know that's not really the case, but you wear them anyway, and come back smelling like him the next day. a fact lars can't seem to handle without a few dozen blinks to reset his brain.
• he knows it's a crush. you know it's a crush. karin and gus know it's a crush. hell, lars wouldn't be surprised if his local office creep and cubicle buddy kurt knew he had a giant, head over heels crush on you. the photo of you smiling at him behind the camera sitting on his work desk was proof enough. he really was just that obvious; especially when his ears happen to turn fire engine red at the mention of your name. every. single. time.
• one day he'll ask you out, theres no doubt about it in lars mind. mostly because he knows if he doesn't do it, the rest of the town will for him
• but for now, lars is content enough to take you to his tree house and help you up the ladder every step of the way— even if you don't need it. he's content to send you home with a sweater smelling like detergent and firewood, especially when you lean forward to whisper your thanks like its a cheeky secret between the two of you, breath ghosting across the shell of his ear like a phantom touch.
• yeah, lars lindstrom is content alright. as long as he has you to look forward to.
𝐑𝐘𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐄
• depending on the situation, he's either the most obvious man on the planet about it, or avoiding everything to do with his feelings. possibly a fine mixture of both.
• part of ryland grace is alight with excitement at the tell-tale signs of a crush (rapid heart rate whenever you're around, an increased flush to his cheeks, and severe loss of speech capabilities, just to name a few), but another, much louder part of him, wants to ignore it completely.
• he was afraid, simple as that. it's stupid, sure, but what if you didn't like him? thought his interests were dorky? what if he said something embarrassing?? or worse, cringe (as ryland's class so often described him). there were simply too many variables for his scientific brain to handle.
• unfortunately, avoidance wasnt an option when he happened to run into you at his diner nearly every week (well, not his diner, but it may as well have been with how often he showed up every morning, wallet already set out and stomach grumbling).
ryland always took the booth in the corner of the room. he liked to made sure that he could peer out the window at san francisco's rolling fog while he waited for his coffee— same as every morning. it was soothing. familiar.
so why was he currently sitting on a rickety bar stool at the counter, anxiously bobbing his knee up and down?
simple: you.
"nice shirt."
the force of ryland's knee hitting the underside of the counter caused a nearby salt shaker to spill over with a clatter, turning a few heads his way.
"uh— what?" his voice came out higher than usual, a breathy laugh tapered onto the end that sounded far too nervous for rylands taste.
"your shirt—" you had turned from your spot two seats down, fork poised in front of you with a bite of egg teetering on it. he'd noticed you by now, of course he had, but the sudden conversation had caught him severely off guard. he hoped you couldn't see how sweaty his palms were.
"i said it was nice. very science-y." the last bit of your sentence was punctuated with a playful wiggle of your fingers
ryland looked down at his chest, past the knit cardigan drapped over his shoulders. the cheery words 'i wear this shirt periodically!' stared back at him.
"thanks." his laugh is full of nerves, glasses sliding down his nose unhelpfully as he desperately tried to pretend your attention isn't pinning him to the spot. "my students say they're cheesy, but, uh, i might be the only one keeping the science pun buisness in tact so..." he trailed off, unsure how much more he should say.
"not the only one." you cracked a smile, tilting your head slightly. you'd set your fork down at this point, and ryland felt a jolt of electricity run through his spine at the knowledge that all your attention was on him. "i'm pretty sure my cousin has a whole collection at home of geology themed shirt-puns. not the same as—" you squinted closer at his shirt before pulling back, thankfully unaware of the flush spreading across ryland's neck. "—chemistry, but still!"
"well, good to know someone out there appreciates a good joke just as much as me." ryland gives you a boyish smile of his own, gaze meeting yours for a second too long before flitting away nervously.
you hum at him happily and turn back to eggs, spotting the approaching waitress by his side before he did.
"coffee?" she asks helpfully, and ryland does his best to sound thankful at the delivery instead of grumpy that she'd inturrupted a very rare moment for him. if only she'd come a few seconds later, maybe he would have built up the courrage to ask you more about yourself.
by the time the coffee had stopped pouring and his server had left to attend to someone else, you were gone. he hadn't even heard you get up and leave.
"darn it."
• the next time ryland sees you, you're wearing a science shirt with one more coffee than usual in hand. you seem to be just as nervous as him, if not more. it has a small smile tugging at the corner of the middle-school teachers lips as he approaches you, sitting down for what he hoped was another conversation.
• who knew stupid shirts could help you make friends in l.a? much less with diner-crushes that he'd been trying to talk to for weeks. now that was just a bonus.
germansingergirl
theartofmadeline
dailybridgerton
discoholicmusic
