Skrimpy

20s she/her mdni

[ixeyi]

Been on tumblr for way too long and somehow never made a proper introduction post

Not a writer or artist, just reading and reblogging!! Feel free to say hi

(working on) Tagging all the characters/ships i've read and reblogged for under this post so that this blog can kinda function as a fic recs blog. Most are x reader

(There's some hp characters in the mix but FUCK JKR!! Pls don't mistake my participation in that fandom as support for her terrible agenda)

Thanks for stopping by!! but MDNI please

[iqccnt]

[surturedberries]

fighting and biting

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, not like you were expecting visitors. 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.

[undoxt]

Who Loves Ya, Baby? 𖤓 masterlist

holland march x fem!reader

summary: you're a seasoned hitman tasked with the job of killing off the two private detectives sticking their noses in other people's business. the only problems with that are your ever-growing doubt in who you're working for, and the very blue eyes combined with the charming, slightly dopey, grin of one of your targets; plus, he might also be unkillable? the jury was still out on that one.

warnings: canon typical violence, gangs, mentions of drugs, alcohol + cigarettes, mentions of sex work, human trafficking, murder, sexism, sexual harassment, suggestive themes, period typical attitudes, English is not authors first language

part one

taglist: @ahfkwnxkgndk @cosmicyeehaw @desiredgosling (comment to be added)

ao3 link

[sgkg]

[emziess]

Holland March + <( ⸝⸝•̀ - •́⸝⸝)>

[orbiten]

RYAN GOSLING as DRIVER and KEN DRIVE (2011) // BARBIE (2023)

[astrotheyge]

Whatever.

The Nice Guys (2016) dir Shane Black

[lessthcn3]

Who the heck is teaching these to 6th graders??

[ixeyi]

Yeah literally!! Why is he teaching them classical mechanics??? They're like 12??????

[ixeyi]

Is this a safe space to say I can't take the 6th LIs name seriously

[bibigo-lover]

stealing hearts.

summary: you spend nights stealing luxury goods in the heart of 1970's los angeles. inserting yourself into your own active investigation proves to be less productive than expected, especially when you start dating the private investigator. (based on this ask // @ladyelena112)

pairing: holland march x gn!reader

word count: 5.3k

tags: tw for canon-compliant smoking, fluff and humor, mutual attraction/mutual pining, romantic tension, implied kleptomania, holland is a flirt, making out, implied sexual content, serial robber!reader, gn!reader

cross-posted to ao3

There’s glass splattered into shards all over the sidewalk. You wish that you would’ve acted more carefully, breaking into the store. But the Rolex watches in the front window were just so close. You couldn’t help it, the palladium watch faces, their opal and jewel-reds. You needed to take them. They were there, and so were you. The only poor choice is in the method. It would’ve taken you an hour to try and sneak through the back, and so you went through the storefront window, grabbed the three watches. This was a decent hit-and-run, minus the actual running.

You’re still at the site, Klosky’s, just a few feet from where you’d broken in just earlier that evening. You’ve been asked to keep tight to the back of this LAPD car, until someone’s free to question you. They’re still busy talking to the titular Mr. Klosky, and so all you can do is wait, all too patiently, for your turn. Interjection into the investigation is a hell of a way to make sure you aren’t getting caught. You’d be bored right about now—thinking about those Rolex watches, stuffed in a plastic garbage bag, tucked just beneath a dumpster right around the corner—if it weren’t for the two newcomers.

One Mr. Holland March and one Mr. Jackson Healy. From the ads in the papers, private investigators, a part of an independent firm. It’s intriguing, really, because they only seem to get along just barely. March, you’ve been watching him for upwards of fifteen minutes. He’s doing this grand act of looking over the shattered pieces of the glass window and tracking the angle of breakage. A few feet away, Healy is doing the heavy lifting of talking to a shaken Mr. Klosky. You don’t know what the police are doing, letting these two guys take a first-stab at the case. It’s all appearances to the LAPD, clearly, because they’re all tied up with the press over at the yellow-taped barricade.

You’ve been waiting to give your statement and be on your merry way. Healy, ever the empath, gives you one long look and seems to pull Holland by the sleeve for a quick talk. You take the chance to examine the state of your shoes as they talk amongst themselves. “I need you to go check that witness,” you hear Healy grumble. Holland’s putting up a few quick complaints. “Been standing there for the last twenty minutes. I don’t know why. It’s getting late. No. You go,” Healy insists.

Finally, you chance it to look up at the two of them and find that Holland has his eyes already set on you. “Jesus, Healy. Why didn’t you say something earlier?”

Healy grunts, “I did. You were too busy watching paint dry.” Holland’s staring—really, you don’t think his eyes could get any wider. You try to avert your attention, looking over at the barricade, the shattered glass, a nearby street lamp… and when you look back at him, his eyes are flitting up and down, then back up. Like a cartoon dog. Then, Holland is fumbling into his pockets for his pack of Lucky Strikes and a lighter. As soon as he’s lit the cigarette, balanced carefully between his lips, he mumbles to himself, “Okay. C’mon, March.” Healy seems to swear under his breath as Holland tugs at his tie, making his way towards you with an air of confidence.

As soon as he’s at the cop car, watching you lean against the back door with your arms crossed, he’s grinning. The cigarette dangles between his lips with a rising trail of smoke; he pulls it with two fingers, hand coming up to rest on the roof of the car beside you. “Hi,” Holland murmurs, “Are you cold?” Gentlemanly, you think.

He’s even more handsome up close, with his slightly-slicked, slightly mussed hair. The tight suit on him, navy-blue suit jacket and trousers to match, are making you ogle. You don’t mean to. You really do have a reason to be there, and it’s not to be charmed by the on-site PI. “No, I’m fine. Thank you…” You’re smiling stupidly at the sight of him. And he’s smiling right back.

“Holland. My partner and I just want to ask you a few short questions,” he says. “Hoping we can get you outta here a little faster.” He makes the whole show of pulling out a tiny ringed notebook and a clicky pen to take notes. It’s endearing, really, how big his hands are in comparison to the thin pages. Holland keeps that new-lit cigarette tucked between his two fingers as he scribbles a header. “Could you tell me a little bit about what you’re doing in the neighborhood? D’you live here… with a boyfriend, maybe?”

“No, no, I live closer to the city college,” you murmur sheepishly. “No boyfriend.”

Holland clicks his tongue. With narrowed eyes, he begins to note this down on the page, repeating under his breath a murmured “No… boyfriend…”  You watch as he pokes a period next to these two words, and then draws a pin-straight line just underneath. “Well, that just can’t be right.” He doesn’t seem too disappointed, you think.

—

Holland’s very attentive in the next fifteen minutes, writing down your name, the details of your very minimal witness report, and a couple other additional notes about your appearance that you think are wholly unrelated to the investigation. You tell him just the right details, carefully planted—you were visiting a friend down the street when you heard the commotion, but it’d been well-cleared by the time you made it. You were among those few confused passersby. Good. Not too eager, and not too street-smart, either.

By the end of Holland’s short round of questioning, he’s already pocketing the notebook and slotting the cigarette between his lips once again. You blink slowly at the sight of him, all done already and scanning the site for Healy. With a pout, you ask Holland, “Is that all?” It’s not like you’re wanting for him to question you any further. The vaguer the better. But you’re inclined to keep him around a little while longer, as good-looking as he is.

“Well, it’s more of a preliminary check than anything else. Obviously, you’re not on our prime suspect list for a… multitude of reasons,” he tells you. “Right. Well, I’m gonna go flag down an officer. You stay here.” Holland gives you a nod, before turning to scan the street for the nearest cop. He’s about to wave one over, when you reach your hand out to tug on the sleeve of his suit jacket. His jaw clenches as he looks down at your quick hand.

You pull it back with a hum, “Mr. March?”

He gives you a huff and a grin, cigarette wavering in his mouth as he speaks. “Yes, sweetheart?”

“I wanted to say thank you for doing this work that you’re doing. It’s a shame that the perp had to bust the window, and that Mr. Klosky’s going to have to board up his storefront.” He’s looking you over, as respectfully as he can—and it’s abundantly clear that he’s only partially paying attention to your words. You think he might’ve checked out at “thank you.”

Holland blinks a few times. “Well, it’s all run of the mill. LAPD are on it too, but it’s good to have a fresh set of eyes on the whole thing.” You’re really fanning his ego, and it seems to be working, because Holland is leaning on the car heavier to lean in his face closer to yours. It’d be difficult not to note the way his lids are getting a little heavier; he’s being a little too coy. Then, Holland says humbly, “Rest assured, we’re handling this one just the same as the other cases.”

“The… other cases?” you echo back to Holland. You have to mask that feeling of utter dread at the thought that they’re onto you. At least, they think they are.

“Well, there was another one down on Palm Street, the old jeweler’s. And the boutique on Loma. And now there’s this. They’re all within a three-mile radius, which leads us to believe they might be the same perp.” He’s taken it as a great excuse to tell you more about his work. You’re grateful, really.

“That’s just terrible.” Just terrible that these private investigators have somehow gotten around to tracing you. You’d been generally careful the last three months trying to sparse out your targets, make them unpatterned. Clearly, you haven’t done a good enough job of doing so. They’re on your tail.

“I can lend you my business card, so you can call me if your friend in the neighborhood sees anything out of the ordinary.” He’s pulling his wallet out of the inner-pocket of his suit and drawing a cardstock little business card out to hand over to you.

If you aren’t mistaken, Holland’s giving you the card for the sake of giving you his number. You try to trace his words properly. “…Wouldn’t it be more efficient if she called you directly?” It’s hard not to tease him.

“No,” he chuckles softly, eyes glazing thoughtlessly towards your lips. Then, he finds a little bit more clarity, brows creasing together. “Yeah. I’ll give you, uh, two.” He sobers up a bit, pulling a second card out of his wallet and pressing them both together into your hand. “There you go, hon.”

—

It takes a bit of deliberation—you on your bedside, eyes trained on your scrappy, off-white rotary phone. You’ve got Holland’s business card in your hands, decorated with poor caricatures of him and Healy, their names, a P.O. address, and a home phone number. You’ve been meaning to call for the past couple of weeks now, having run through another two storefronts since Klotsky’s. You’ve got to cover your tracks—and it also wouldn’t hurt to see Holland again. You hate to admit that he’s charmed you a little. But you’ve got to prioritize. Evasion of arrest first, him second. Finally, you pick up the handset, dialing in his number in the round. There’s a buzzing, wait-tone—one, two… and then a pickup. It sounds like a lot of rustling around in the background, like someone’s fumbling to grab a solid hold of the phone. You push out a hesitant, “Hello?”

There’s another short stall, before you get a reply: “Nice Guys. This is March.” Good. It’s him. You perk up, holding the receiver closer to you; the cold plastic of it brushes against your warm-tipped ear.

“Mr. March, we talked earlier yesterday evening at the Klosky storefront.” You give him that, and your name, in a shyer tone. Holland seems to knock into something on his end, a side table or a counter that makes him yelp a bit.

“You called.” He sounds surprised. “Are you… well?” His half-worried tone reminds you that you were supposed to call in case of emergency.

“Oh, yeah—I’m great! I’m fine,” you chortle. “I just thought, well… we had a nice chat the other day. I had a pleasant time talking to you.”

“That is so funny you say that, ‘cause I had a similar experience. Mhm.” The sound of Holland’s voice underneath this crackly landline quality delights you. He’s got a handsome sound to him, too.

“So, I wanted to call,” you start, “And I was wondering if you’d maybe like to take me out to dinner sometime. You could maybe tell me more about your detective work.” There’s a brief pause. You imagine, for this empty couple of seconds, Holland pumping his fist into the air—making a tangled mess of his telephone wire. Hook and sinker. Finally, he speaks up again.

“That would be very productive. You know, my partner, he’s really good at his job, but he’s sick of me. It’d be nice to get outside and bounce ideas off somebody new. And you seem smart,” Holland breathes out, “Like, really smart.”

You give a long, hard stare up at the popcorn ceiling over your head, the rough, glittery top to your small apartment. “It’s a date, then.”

“Uh-huh. It’s a date, beautiful.” Holland hangs up with a soft “call soon.” You think the handset of your rotary phone on your forehead a few soft times. This could very much be a bad idea, but the thought of being out with Holland, like some kind of couple, is irresistible.

—

For dinner, the two of you decide on a nicer diner with checkered-tile floors and cherry wood booths. He insists on paying, tells you to order whatever—really, whatever—you want. And, over decent Italian, Holland spends a lot of time asking you about yourself. He wants to know where you grew up, what you’re doing in downtown Los Angeles, why you haven’t shacked up with anyone yet. You tell him a majority of truths, save for the fact that you’ve been living alone to negate suspicion. Your lack of a roommate conceivably means there’s one less person in your life to ask you why you own so many luxury goods without a luxury-providing job.

The two of you eat, laugh—he loves to make you laugh, you realize. All is sweet until Holland’s investigatory nature seems to flare up. He’s staring at the bandage on your hand that you’ve tried to conceal with the longer sleeve of your suede coat. He seems to ghost his hand around yours. “Did you cut your palm there?”

You look down, and back up at Holland. He wears a look of concern, eyeing this bandaged hand of yours. “I got sloppy washing a wineglass. Pumped in too much soap, the thing slipped straight out of my hand. It was a total mess.” The laugh that you force out, reserved as can be, seems to calm his nerves a bit more. Really, you’d cut your hand on your last store robbery—on the stray shard of a display case. It was a killer to pull that out on your way out the back door, and even worse to give yourself the stitches at home.

Gently, Holland takes your wrist into his hand, pulling your arm closer to him across the table. You let him ghost his thumb over the thing, white bandages that you’ve wrapped tight around the coagulated wound. The sensation of his calloused fingers makes you want to shiver. He mumbles, “That’s just no good.”

Your lips twitch into a smile. “Really, could’ve been worse.” Holland makes another small stroke against your bandage with his thumb, before letting you take your arm back over the table. He likes it, you think, how relaxed of a personality you seem to have. If he only knew…

“I’ve gotten pretty large gashes, you know, trying to break in for intel and things like that. Broken window nicked me from here to here.” Holland raises his forearm up, dragging his index down his carpal. “S’not that easy changing the bandages with one hand. If you ever need…”

He’s so gentle about it you hardly want to say no. But, you don’t think it’s a very good idea to give him a straight answer. A small part of you is really very worried that he’ll somehow deduce the origins of your cut. So, with a quaint look of appreciation, you tell Holland, “I’m glad we’re doing this.”

“Me too,” Holland hums. You watch as his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip; though it’s a small act, it isn’t missable. He’s checking you out, and you’re checking him out. There’s a chance that you won’t be sticking around at the diner for dessert.

—

The walk to Holland’s car shouldn’t be as long as it is, but the two of you are taking your sweet time in the alley halfway down the block. His large hands are hovering over your neck, and his lips are hovering over yours. Holland has his suit jacket off and hanging over your shoulders, a light barrier between you and the brick wall he’s pressing you up against. You can smell the spearmint gum he slipped in right outside the exit of the diner. “We never talked about that investigation of yours,” you say, eyelids heavy.

“Good. It’s good,” Holland insists, “We’re still trying to figure out how they keep on dancing around getting caught. We think there must be some interior knowledge. Somebody with a buddy or a family member in the force who’s keeping tabs.” He’s surrendering the information over to you in a hurry, too excited to be all over you. 

“Oh, really?” You get on your tip-toes to press a few hard kisses down his neck. It’s hungry, the way that you’re laying them on him. The scruff of his stubble scratches against your lips, and you can feel the vibration of his throat as he groans.

“Mm—yeah. It’s a whole thing,” Holland nods, barely able to get a word out with you all over him. Finally, he’s pulling you strictly by the chin, slotting his lips against yours. Holland’s a great kisser, a little handsy. He tastes like mint and he’s trying to suck the breath out of your lungs. It’s as if he can’t decide between soft pressure or hard pressure on your body—and so you’re getting a little bit of both, soft on the midsection, hard on your back, soft on your chest… Holland likes how reactive you are, breath hitching in tandem with his touch.

You don’t need to hear any more about the investigation; it’ll only freak you out more. Now, you only want to focus on what’s in front of you. Holland and the hot trail that his hands are making down your sides. When you get the chance, you’re pulling him by the shirt and pushing him back against the brick. His chest is heaving, all worked up from the way you’re handling him. “Sorry,” you whisper, “Too hard?”

“No, no. I like it.” Holland shakes his head, hands coming down to grab your ass. He knocks his head back against the alley wall as your hips grind up against his. The friction’s too good, and he can barely think.

—

You’ve stolen significantly less since meeting Holland—mostly, because going out with him takes up a whole lot of time. He’s always sure to treat you to dinners and desserts. Really, he’s scrambling to pull his wallet out for you at the smallest opportunity. In a way, you’re still running away with money. But, in this case, the person that you’re robbing wins just as much as you do.

Though you’d like to tell yourself this is self-preservation—that you’re only doing this to cover your own ass—it isn’t true. You think that you’d like to keep seeing Holland, because he really is a sweet guy. There’s something in the way he looks at you, with pure adoration and a bit of lust, that’s captured your attention. You’re proud to recognize that your last robbery was three weeks ago. You’re on a bit of a streak, and you’re assuming the best case scenario: that Holland and Healy might give up on trying to find you.

You’re proven wrong rather quickly. It’s an early morning Holland finds himself having to pick up Healy before taking you to your apartment. The order’s unfortunate, but Holland insists that it’s far more convenient and it’ll take a lot less gas. You’d spent the night over at Holland’s while his daughter was having a sleepover. It hadn’t become anything too heated, but Holland still seems to be invigorated by the fact that you’ve been in his bed.

It’s a warmer day in L.A. today, and he has the convertible roof down to let you both catch the breeze. “Maybe you could let me tag along on one of those stakeouts of yours. Could be kinda hot, playing detective,” you murmur. You’re only joking. Coming along with Holland and Healy would be like throwing yourself to the lions. He’s meant to drop you off at your apartment before he goes scouring around with Healy for evidence—which means you’ll only be in the car for a solid twenty minutes with them both. Shouldn’t be a problem.

“You’d make a great detective, baby. With a trench coat, maybe somethin’ pretty underneath…” Holland nods. He’s trying to shove one hand into his glove box in search of his Lucky Strikes. You’re able to find it rather quickly after pulling his hand back down to your thigh and grabbing it yourself.

“I bet you’re worse than Hugh Hefner. Really, I’d bet twenty bucks,” you shake your head with a chuckle. You take a cigarette out and toss the box back into the glove, shutting it soft and raising it up to Holland’s lips.

“Thanks, baby. The lighter…” Holland glances down at your hands. The lighter’s already there, with your hand wrapped around it. There’s a stoplight; he hits the breaks softly, to a rolling stop, and takes the lighter out of your hand. Careful not to singe his fingertips, Holland lights the cigarette. “If I’m Hefner, then you must be Marilyn.”

“Wow. Flattering,” you murmur. He’s a real talker.

But Holland really is being sincere. “Better than Marilyn, really.” He has his hand squeezed around your thigh as he pulls into the street parking in front of Healy’s. As soon as he’s double-parked, Holland is turning to face you. “D’you think you could slip into the backseat for me? I wanna make sure Healy’s not too pissy when he gets in.”

You nod, “Of course, Holl.” You have to appreciate how worried he is about this first meeting. You’d think you were meeting Holland’s mom by the way he’s asking. You lean over to give him a smooch on the cheek, before slipping out of the shotgun and into the backseat with a series of open and closed car doors. Then, Holland’s putting his arm over the back of the seat to get a look at you.

“He has this thing about strangers; he’s like a house cat, you know? It’s not personal.” 

Before long, Healy’s coming out to meet you both with his keyring swinging around his pointer finger. He stops at the sight of you, eyebrows creased together. Then, he’s looking at Holland with a tilt of his head, blinking eyes. He seems a little… surprised. It’s making Holland antsy. “What? Why’re you looking at me like that?”

“Nothing,” Healy says, shrugging him off. He reaches his hand down to shake yours, a gentle smile on his face. “Hi. Jackson Healy. You were—”

“I remember you, yeah. From Klotsky’s,” you tell him, “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Healy.” He gives you a nod, before getting into the shotgun. Holland is still giving him a rigid look. You can’t quite understand what they’re saying with their back-and-forth of stares and frowns—until Healy finally speaks up.

“I didn’t actually think you were dating. Thought it was like a Canadian kinda situation,” Healy says to Holland. He waves his hand, “Nevermind. I pulled these maps off a buddy in forensics. Apparently, our perp might live within this radius.” Healy reaches into his front pocket and unfolds a printed map; it’s a black-and-white bird’s eye layout of Los Angeles, with a circle that’s been protracted around the upper-left side.

“Baby, that’s not far from your place.” Holland squints at the map, tracing his finger across the circled neighborhoods. “Good thing we’re dropping you off. Might not be too safe.” You have to bite your tongue a bit to keep yourself from groaning in frustration. They’re so undeniably on your tail.

—

A week later and you’ve got Holland over at your place. You’re both on the sheets of your queen bed, wearing nothing but underwear, and you’ve been on Holland for the past thirty minutes. It’s a day off from the usual cases, including your own, and while his daughter’s in class on this random Tuesday, you’ve convinced Holland to spend the morning with you. Holland watches with heavy-lidded eyes as you prop yourself up on his abdomen, lap straddled by your thighs. He has your wrist in his big hand, rubbing his thumb into your scabbed-up cut. Your bandages are off now. Holland’s got soft eyes looking at the coagulated cut. “Is this healing okay?”

Holland looks so pretty concerned about you like this. The gentle grip that he has on your elbow makes you swoon. “I mean, yeah,” you tell him, “I’ve been tossing Neosporin on it.” He hums in response, still examining it as thoroughly as a nurse. Your nurse. Holland’s eyebrows furrow, eyes narrowing.

Then, cutting into the serene silence of your bedroom, he shouts: “Jesus!” The way that Holland shouts makes you jump a bit in his lap. He shoots up in a frighteningly quick matter, hands clasping around your waist as he tries to examine the scarring. He opens and shuts his mouth quickly. Holland scrambles out from beneath you, leaving you half-naked on your own sheets. “It’s a glass cut,” Holland murmurs, padding across your bedroom.

“Yeah, that’s what I told you. I dropped the glass,” you nod. He doesn’t respond. You watch as he paces towards your dresser, hands stirring around your underwear drawer. “If you’re looking for a toy or something—” The joke dies in your throat, shriveled up by the shock.

He’s going for your closet next, opening it with a whip of the slatted door. There’s a bunch of open shoeboxes inside—your “winnings.” Holland picks one up quietly, turning to you with his jaw tight. This one’s the Rolex’s; your loot from Klotsky’s is right on top. Holland picks up a few, looping them through his fingers. “It’s a glass cut,” he repeats, “From a broken window. Mine healed the exact same way.”

You’re looking down at your bare legs with a frown. All that effort to throw off Holland and Healy’s gone straight down the drain.  Your absolute lack of panic is caused only by the absolute fear that you’ve put Holland off; you don’t want to lose him—but there really is no way around the obvious. “You don’t have to report me,” you tell him, “You can just… work another case.”

Holland can only gawk at you. “You’re a serial robber.”

“Well, it’s not like it hurts anybody. It’s just… stuff, you know?” you say meekly. He’s looking down at the watches and back up at you.

“You’ve taken over ten-thousand in stuff. That’s grand theft!” Holland’s nearly close to shouting; you’re lucky, really, that he knows you have thin walls. He’s trying to dampen down his yelling to a very low volume.

“Holland, just give me a minute—” You try to reach for the button-up shirt you discarded on the lamp on your bedside table, putting your arms through the long sleeves and wrapping it over your bare figure. He drops the box of watches down in front of you on the bed, dropping the ones on his fingers right in.

He points a finger toward your face. “You. You are like some kinda siren. First, you’re distracting me with your pretty face, and then you’re… fuck, I don’t know—stealing stuff!” He isn’t quite sure how to keep up the analogy. “And now, you’re getting me in your bed, trying to convince me to not turn you in. What do you think I am?”

“…A really good boyfriend?” Too soon. He chooses amiably not to respond to your question. It was worth a shot.

Holland whips back around towards the closet, perusing all the boxes. “Why are there so many?” He starts to search for his shirt and his pants on your bedside, rushing to put them back on. “With, with the cut, and the map—and we knew there was some kinda leak going on,” Holland groans, “It’s me! I’m the leak!” He can’t find his belt. You can see it right over the side of your bed, and you’re leaping off the bed to grab for it. You beat Holland to it and he raises his hands up over his head, peeved. You hold the belt stubbornly behind your back. He huffs when he realizes you’re not going to let him have it. “Are you even into me?”

“I’m so into you, Holland, and you treat me really well. Really well,” you insist. It’s the dinners, sure, and the sex—but you’ve found Holland to give you a lot of time “So, I used you a little bit. But it’s not everything! We started going out, and I really do like you, Holland. I want to be with you.”

“I shoulda listened to Healy when he said something had to be wrong with you. He said you were too hot. There’s gotta be a balance,” he rants on. “Can I have my belt—? You know what, just keep it. I can buy a new one.” He’s buttoning his shirt, then his pants—trying to make it for his shoes at your front door. You drop the belt on your belt and cross in front of him with your hands splayed out on his chest.

“Holland, would you just slow down?” At your command, he tries to take in a deep, shaky breath. He’s trying his best to look you in the eyes, but he’s clearly shaken up. So, you ask him, “When was the last robbery?”

His hands are sliding into the pocket of his trousers, trying to make sure his wallet’s still intact and as thick as usual. Holland does a little bit of mental calculation, before answering with a grumble: “Three weeks ago.”

You’ve got to carry through with the argument, no matter how pissed he looks at you. “Three weeks ago. And we went out to eat—”

“—A month ago. Yeah, I get it.” Holland tries to look past you, back at the closet, and you have to stand on your toes to get in his way.

“Case in point. I’ve only stolen once since we started going out. That has to be a good thing,” you tell Holland, “Right?” Finally, he gives up on the closet and looks down at you.

He’s a little butt-hurt, rightfully so—but you do mean what you say. You haven’t stolen anything for three weeks, and it’s because of him. Because you want to be a little bit better for him. He’s trying to get a good look at your eyes. He surrenders when he sees your unfeigned expression, shoulders shrugging as he slowly brings his hands over your own. “You’re crazy,” Holland mumbles.

“It’s an issue. Everyone’s got issues.” You shake your head, “You’re going to be crazier if you stay with me.” You’re pulling his hands up to cup your jaw. You feel slightly more assured that he isn’t so scared to touch you. Holland blinks a few short times as he thinks it all over. You’ve got him all foggy, as usual. In a way, Holland’s been chasing you for a couple months now; it’s only changed in capacity very recently. It isn’t the worst thing in the world to carry on how you’ve been, at least if you can adjust your minor quirk.

“...What the hell am I supposed to tell Healy?”

You let out a soft breath. “Didn’t you say he used to beat guys up for money? You’re really good at being there while people turn themselves around.” You bring your hands up into Holland’s hair, and he’s leaning down with a heavy sigh. “Just give me a little while. I’ll get rid of the stuff, and you can keep me in check.”

“You can’t get mad at me if I run out of here and race straight to the police department,” Holland says, trying not to lean too heavily into the pressure of your fingers on his scalp. “It’s a reasonable reaction.” He really is wrapped around your finger, no matter how much he tries to act against it. It’s a superficial threat; Holland’s going nowhere. As soon as you’re coming up to kiss him, he’s as handsy as ever.

[fatalytie]

what the fuck is his problem

[stargirl-meltdown]

something waiting, something remembered

pairing: dr ryland grace x reader

summary: something enormous waits outside the window, watching. grace, somehow, seems to know you better than you know yourself. what you don’t understand is why guilt, a feeling you abandoned years ago, has suddenly found its way back in.

warnings: panic attacks, grief, guilt, deception, manipulation, impending extinction, and canon-typical life-or-death stakes.

a/n: this is a long one so buckle in!

series masterlist

Your body moved before reason developed, with little dignity in the zero gravity. Your hand was still gripping Grace’s sleeve, and the next thing you knew, you were pushing away from the console beside him, floating toward the window with more force than intended. Your shoulder struck his halfway there and Grace caught your arm instinctively, his fingers closing around your sleeve before both of you drifted sideways together. 

The window was ahead, and Grace’s hand found a wall to grip, halting both of you with a soft jerk. You ended up suspended beside him, shoulder to shoulder in midair, the two of you pressed close.

Outside, the stars were disappearing. Something was crossing in front of them, blotting them out in sections, a shape moving through the black.

Your mind tried to give it ordinary language. A vessel, some kind of structure. It was rectangular, except it wasn’t. The longer you stared, the less your eyes could settle on its boundaries. It had edges, but the edges seemed layered, built in sections that overlapped and receded and angled away from each other in ways that made the shape feel bigger than the outline suggested. A lattice ran across its exterior, dark and earthen in colour, something like rust or clay or old bark, though earth had no place here. Earth was very far away. 

The structure caught the light along its ridges. Thin lines of pale gold travelled through the layers as it turned, each piece glinting and vanishing again, the whole thing glowing faintly against the pitch black. It did not look manufactured in the way human machines looked manufactured. No comforting seams where one might imagine hands, human hands, putting one section against another.

And yet it had been made.

It had been made.

No natural object moved like that.

Intelligent life.

Beside you, Grace had gone completely still. You could feel him rather than see him properly, the line of his arm brushing yours, the slight tremor in his breathing. He was looking at it too, his face reflected faintly in the thick glass, eyes wide behind his crooked glasses.

That object was larger than the Hail Mary.

Your instincts came up automatically. Distance. Speed. Direction. Relative size. Escape routes. Intent. Behavioural indicators. Patterns of aggression. Likely escalation. Your brain reached for the old pathways and found only empty space.

You could deal with threats when they had bodies. You could deal with government officials in sharp coats or operatives lying badly under fluorescent light. You could follow micro-expressions, inconsistencies, the thousand tiny betrayals of men who thought themselves unreadable.

This was not that. This was a thing built by something you had no category for. You felt your breath shorten.

Not fast enough.

The ship continued around you as the foreign structure floated in its slow approach, larger and larger and larger until it felt like the whole window had become an eye and you were the thing being watched through it.

You were in space.

You were in space.

You were in space, in a stolen body with a stolen memory, beside a man you barely knew and trusted too much already, while something impossible moved toward you through the dark.

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the window frame. The metal dug into your palm. The pain was useful. Pain belonged to a body and therefore could be understood.

That thing outside could not be.

Your breath hitched, and humiliation flared through the fear. You were trained for composure. Or you had been. There was nothing in you that knew what to do when the threat had crossed interstellar space.

A hand settled on your shoulder. You flinched anyway, but Grace didn’t remove it. He only held there lightly. You turned your head to look at him. 

His eyes were still wide, still frightened. He looked pale beneath the harsh control-room light, his hair floating slightly around his face in weightless strands. He was terrified; anyone could see that. Even without your expertise, you knew fear when it was less than a foot from your face. If you looked close enough, you recognised the subtle hints of concern that painted his fearful expression. Concern that was pointed at you. 

You weren’t used to that. 

It seemed to surprise him, seeing you like this. He had seen your fear when you first woke, but that had been fear with direction. Fear that could become anger if it needed to.

Grace swallowed. His hand pressed a fraction more firmly against your shoulder.

“Hey,” he said quietly, not sure what else to say in this situation, not that you could blame him. You stared back at him, breathing shallowly. 

That was a terrible reassurance.

“Okay,” he said, mostly to himself. “We don’t like this.”

“No,” you managed.

“Okay…”

What else was there to say?

You might have laughed if your throat had not been trying to close. The structure outside continued to move. The last of its momentum vanished until it hung there in space beside you, dark latticework shining faintly.

Waiting.

Grace’s hand slipped from your shoulder as his mind seemed to catch up. Fear was still in his expression, but something had hardened underneath it. A decision, maybe. Or the fragile performance of one. He turned away from the window.

“Okay,” he breathed. “Nope. Absolutely not.”

“Grace?”

He pushed off from the wall. His body moved badly. Too fast at first, then too slow as he overcorrected. Under other circumstances, it might have been funny. 

You remained by the window, unable to make yourself look away from the object. It stayed exactly where it was. Grace hauled himself toward the pilot’s chair in the centre of the control room. He moved with visible effort, jaw tight, shoulders stiff. He was trying to look determined. He was also, very obviously, one bad noise away from screaming.

“Alright, Mary,” he said, grabbing the side of the seat and pulling himself into position. “Let’s go.”

The chair accepted him with cold indifference.

“Pilot detected.”

He forced himself down into the seat, one hand gripping the armrest, the other braced against the console.

“Yes,” he said breathlessly. “Pilot detected.”

“Please engage restraint.”

A sharp, irrational anger rose in you. You were beginning to understand Grace’s hostility toward Mary after all.

He fumbled for the straps. His fingers missed the buckle twice before he managed to drag the restraint across his chest. You watched the movement, watched the tremor in his hands, watched the way he pressed his lips together to steady them. 

Though the deep haze of fear, he was still trying. 

“Pilot detected,” Mary repeated as he clicked the buckle into place.

Grace stared up at the ceiling. “Yes. Pilot detected.”

That pulled your attention from the window at last. His gaze was fixed on you with such absurd conviction that the room seemed to steady around it.

“We’re gonna get out of this,” he reassured both you and himself.

You had no evidence. No plan. No understanding of the controls. And from the looks of it, neither did he. There was a vast alien craft outside the window, and the man promising your survival had already admitted to naming the ship Mary.

But you believed him.

You pushed away from the window and drifted toward the second chair at the side of the control space and caught its back with one hand. Grace had already turned to the console, scanning the panels with growing despair.

“Controls,” he said as he began to fiddle. “Controls. Controls. Controls.”

“Engage spin drive,” Mary said. “Incorrect.”

Grace snatched his hand back as though the console had bitten him.

You pulled yourself fully into the other chair and hooked one hand around the side to stop yourself drifting away. The restraint straps floated uselessly near your shoulder. You ignored them for now, eyes moving over the console in front of him. None of it meant anything.

“Is it this thing?” he muttered. You opened your mouth. Several possible responses presented themselves.

How the hell would I know?

Would you like me to psychologically profile the lever?

Yes, Grace, obviously that’s the correct foreign stick.

“Try it,” you said, voice tighter than intended, “so we can try something else.”

His hand closed around the control and something deep in the belly of the ship locked into place with a heavy mechanical thunk. Your chair jolted sideways beneath you. You slammed one hand against the armrest and the other against the console, catching yourself before your body floated clean out of the seat. Grace made a strangled sound as the restraints held him in place.

“Erratic movement detected,” Mary said.

“Oh, is it?” Grace snapped.

You gripped the chair harder. “Try it smoother!”

“I’m trying!”

“You are yanking it!”

“I am not!”

The ship jerked again. The stars outside tilted, sliding across the window in a dizzying arc. The alien structure shifted out of frame. 

“We’re moving,” Grace said. 

“Thanks, Einstein!” you snap at him, not able to control the words leaving your mouth. You almost expect him to snap back at you, but he doesn’t; in fact, you could have sworn you heard a nervous chuckle, a huff leaving his throat. You don’t have time to focus on it as your body begins to unwind.  

Your fingers slowly loosened from the chair as you became aware of your breathing again. Too fast still, but no longer shallow enough to hurt. Your pulse was pounding in your ears, but it was no longer the only sound in the universe.

After what felt like several minutes but could not possibly have been, the ship’s movement eased. The stars steadied and the vibration beneath you softened back into the usual hum.

Grace released the joystick. He sat there breathing hard, as his head dropped back against the chair.

“You good?”

You nodded, though it was not entirely true. Your body still felt hollowed out by adrenaline. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a colder part of you was already cataloguing what had happened, how quickly you had panicked, how poorly you had adapted, how little control you truly had. But Grace was looking at you like your answer mattered more than any system status. So you nodded.

“Yeah,” you said, voice rough. “You?”

He looked down at himself, still strapped into the pilot’s chair, then back at the controls he clearly did not understand.

“Oh, thriving.”

The laugh that escaped you was small and mostly shock. Grace laughed again too. He rubbed both hands over his face, forgetting one was still partially caught beneath the restraint and nearly hitting himself with the buckle.

“Gosh—” he said into his palms. “That—that was close.”

You let out another unsteady breath. The space between you and him felt changed again, altered by panic and proximity. It should not have been comforting; the sight of him frightened, but it was. You didn’t like the idea of him afraid, the notion hollowing out your stomach. But you couldn’t deny it, Dr Grace was brave. Possibly braver than yourself right now. 

He was afraid and still here, looking back at you, trying to turn terror into a sequence of solvable problems because that is just what Grace did. You didn’t know why he made everything feel survivable, only that you were unbearably grateful he was beside you. You looked at his hands on the chair, still containing an unsteady edge.  He noticed you noticing and immediately folded one over the other, as if that hid anything.

You opened your mouth to tell him some reassurance, some kind words in perhaps the greatest hour of need. That was until there was more movement that crossed the far window. 

No.

“Grace.”

He did not hear you at first. He was tugging at the buckle, trying to free himself, still turned half away.Something massive entered the edge of the window, dark lattice catching the light.

“Grace.”

He looked back at you with a lopsided smile, that was until he followed your eye line. The smile vanished from his face as the foreign structure moved into view.

“Blip-A detected.” 

“Oh, for fuck’s—”

Not on your watch. 

You took matters into your own hands as you lunged toward the control stick, shoving yourself out of the chair hard. The strap across your chest yanked you back, pain flaring along your collarbone. You swore again, dragged yourself loose, and grabbed the console with both hands.

Grace’s head snapped toward you. “What do they want?”

“If you ask me one more question about this, I swear to God—”

You closed your hand around the control before he could answer as the ship responded immediately. The Hail Mary roared back awake, the low mechanical vibration rising up through the chair, through the console, through your bones. The foreign structure slid out of view once more as the ship jerked away.

“Erratic movement detected,” Mary said.

“Oh, you can fuck right off, Mary.”

Beside you, Grace made the correct decision to stay silent.

Smart man. 

You pushed the stick farther than you meant to. Your stomach rolled. Your knees hit the underside of the console. Pain sparked up your leg, but you kept your grip.

Anywhere but here.

That was the only strategy left in your head.

You angled the ship away from the structure as best you could, though best was generous. You did not know what you were doing. You did not know if the direction mattered. You did not know whether you were piloting the Hail Mary to safety or directly into some other catastrophic object hidden in the dark.

A shadow moved at the edge of it again.

“It’s still following,” Grace said.

“I got that.”

“It's not changing course.”

"I heard you."

"I'm just saying—"

“What are you saying, Grace?”

Your breath had gone shallow again. The control stick felt slick beneath your palm. Sweat, probably. Fear, definitely. Grace’s eyes moved from you to the window and back.

“I’m saying we should stop the ship.”

Yeah, right. 

“We are not stopping the ship.”

“It’s just going to keep following us.”

“Yes,” you snapped. “And potentially enslave and kill us.”

His expression shifted, and you felt a tinge of resentment creep up the back of your spine. He said nothing as he reached across the console.

“Grace, don't!—”

His hand closed over yours, firmly enough that the movement stopped. His fingers slid between your grip and the control, lifting your hand away as he took the stick from you with his other hand.

Your wrist turned against his hold and every practical part of you rejected the idea of being physically moved aside, especially now, especially here, especially when the thing outside had already proved it could track you. But he did not even seem to notice that he was still holding you; his attention had gone to the window.

His hand kept yours folded in his own, your fingers trapped against his palm while he took the control. He leaned forward in the pilot’s chair, eyes fixed on the foreign structure, jaw tight with concentration. His breathing was still too fast, but his movements were suddenly, impossibly careful.

He nudged the stick forward.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Then he stopped entirely. You stared at him, still breathing hard, your hand still locked in his.

“What are you doing?”

“Testing something.”

You could barely believe what you were hearing, not dignifying him with a verbal response as your hand quivered in his own. The silence filled every part of the control room, pressing against the walls, stretching out through the window, out into the impossible space between you and the thing that had followed.

Then the foreign structure moved.

Once.

Stopped.

Twice.

Stopped.

Three times.

It settled again beyond the window, enormous and silent and your grip went slack inside his. Grace turned his head slowly toward you.

“That was...” Grace began.

Deliberate. It was deliberate. 

Your throat tightened.

No. No, no, no.

Deliberate meant choice. Observation. Response. Deliberate meant something inside that massive dark lattice had seen you move and answered in kind. It meant agency. Intelligence. Interest.

Interest could become curiosity. Curiosity could become dissection.

“We don’t know anything,” you said quickly. “We don’t know its threat capacity, or if it has weapons, if that was mimicry or warning behaviour. We don’t know if it recognises the ship as occupied or if it thinks we’re a machine, or prey, or a contaminant, or—”

“Hey—”

“—or an invasive object. If it has the technological capacity to approach and match course, it almost certainly has the capacity to disable us. If they can build that, they can breach this. We have no diplomatic framework. We don’t even have a shared sensory assumption, Grace! They might not hear! They might not see the way we see! They might not even conceptualise us as alive—”

“Hey, hold on—” 

“And first contact scenarios—God, even human contact scenarios—are statistically terrible when there is an asymmetry of power. We are trapped in a sealed vessel with limited manoeuvrability and no possibility of external intervention. If this turns hostile, there is nowhere to run!”

Your voice broke on the last word. You blinked hard, furious with yourself, but the tears had already gathered. They did not fall as you would not let them. You had some standards left, even at the end of the universe.

He could feel the fear radiating off you, the adrenaline pulsing through your veins.  He unbuckled the restraint properly this time and pushed himself out of the pilot’s chair. He moved slowly, one hand braced against the console so he would not float into you by accident, the other still locked in yours. You could see him choosing each movement.

“Listen to me,” he said.

You shook your head once.

“No, I—”

“Listen to me,” he repeated, still gentle. “I know. Okay? I know this is—this is possibly the worst case scenario, but this is what we came here for.”

He nodded toward the window, toward the vast shape outside, toward the impossible thing that had followed and answered.

“Not that, specifically. I really hope nobody planned for that and forgot to leave us a note, because that would be a major oversight.” He swallowed. “But problems, big ones, that’s why we’re here. To find something we don’t understand and figure out how it works.”

The panic did not vanish. It remained inside you, pacing the edges of your ribs. But his voice did something to it. Grace drifted closer by inches, stopping at the edge of your reach.

“We don’t know if they’re hostile,” he said. “We don’t know if they’re friendly either. They could have attacked us. They could have done... whatever they do. I don’t know. Vaporised us?”

“Grace.”

Not the time. 

“Right. Sorry.” He breathed out. “The point is, they responded. That means communication might be possible.”

“Or manipulation.”

“Yes.”

“Or containment.”

“Yes.”

“Or a display of dominance.”

“Okay, yes—” he said again, and this time his voice was very quiet. “But it might also be hello. Did you think that?”

You looked away from him, the foreign structure hanging there. 

“We might be killed.” The words that left your mouth came out small, small but soaked with truth. 

When you looked back, the look on his face hollowed something in you. Something older than the last ten minutes, though you knew that was impossible.  He gave you the saddest smile.

“We’re going to die out here anyway.”

He said it so gently, almost like an apology. Like he had known for a while and had been waiting for the right moment. You searched his face for the fear you expected to find, but there was only resignation. It hurt more than fear would have. 

“What?” You stuttered. 

Grace looked down, his lashes lowering behind his lenses.

“Not long ago,” he said, answering the question you had not yet managed to ask properly. “I figured it out not long ago.”

Your heart sank so fast it felt physical.

“When, though?”

He rubbed one hand against the back of his neck, suddenly unable to look at you properly.

“It came to me a little more than a day ago, by Earth time at least”

The guilt sat heavy on your chest as you stared at him, round eyes staring right back into yours. 

“Grace—”

His hand was still holding yours. 

“Thank you,” he said, giving your fingers a light squeeze. The guilt sharpened so suddenly you almost pulled away.

“Huh?”

He looked at your joined hands rather than your face.

“For letting me believe we had a bit more of a chance.” His thumb shifted once, barely there. “No matter how short.”

Grace seemed to understand, or maybe he simply chose not to address it. He held your hand for one more second, then slowly let go. The cold that replaced him was immediate. He turned back toward the console, drawing in a breath that shook only at the very end.

“Okay,” he said. “Task at hand.”

You nodded, though your throat still felt tight.

“Task at hand,” you repeated.

He settled back into the pilot’s chair and you did the same beside him. Beyond the window, the alien structure remained in position, waiting.

“Let’s leave it,” he said.

You looked over. He did not look confident. If he had tried to look heroic, you might have disliked him for it. 

“We can see what they want,” he continued. “If they wanted to hurt us immediately, I think we’d already be hurt. So... maybe we don’t make any sudden moves? Maybe we watch.”

“And if watching gets us killed?”

“Then I will feel very silly.”

You huffed despite yourself. He glanced over, and something in his face warmed for half a second before he turned quickly back to the screen.

“Okay,” he muttered, fingers moving across the controls now with more intention. 

“Mary, show position of Blip-A.”

The display changed and a scatter of data appeared across the screen, most of it meaningless to you. Grace leaned forward, eyes narrowing as lines and numbers reflected in his lenses. He tapped one part of the display, then another, muttering under his breath.

“Thanks, Mary. Can we get a—wait—”

You straightened.

“What?”

He lifted one hand, not looking away from the screen.

“Hey. Wait.”

“What is it!?”

“There’s something happening.”

You followed his gaze to the window. At first you saw nothing except the same massive structure, the same layered darkness, the same glow along its ridges. Then a section of the lattice shifted.

A smaller shape detached from the vast body and moved outward, separating itself from the darkness like a splinter of night coming loose. It was difficult to track against the black, but once you saw it, you could not stop seeing it.

“Blip-B detected.”

Grace went very still as you turned to him.

“Current distance from Hail Mary is eight hundred metres,” Mary said.

Your heart had already started its violent climb again, but the panic had changed shape now. 

“Lab?” you asked.

“Airlock first,” he said quickly. “Maybe. Or observation. Or—actually, I don’t know. I’m open to suggestions.”

“Brilliant.” You sighed as you followed him, leaving the control room behind you both. 

The ship never truly went quiet. Even at this hour, long after most of its temporary inhabitants had surrendered themselves to whatever passed for sleep aboard a military vessel. Pipes shuddered somewhere behind the narrow metal panels. Every few minutes, the structure gave an aching groan.

You sat upright against the headboard, freshly showered and dressed for bed, with an open book resting across your lap. You had been reading the same paragraph for nearly fifteen minutes.

Your eyes continued to pass dutifully over the words, but your attention remained fixed on the corridor beyond your door. Each distant footfall made your gaze lift from the page. Each time they faded in another direction, you returned to the beginning of the paragraph and pretended you had ever cared how it ended.

Changing rooms had been your suggestion.

It had not been difficult to arrange. You had mentioned to Stratt that closer proximity would make your work easier, and she had approved the move before you had finished explaining it. There had been no discussion of comfort or convenience. Stratt did not care where anyone slept, provided they woke somewhere useful.

Grace was useful.

He was not quite a loose cannon. Loose cannons were unpredictable because they lacked conviction; Grace, on the other hand, had far too much of it. His objections were principled and profoundly inconvenient. He was unused to governments and the particular arithmetic required of those operating at their highest levels. He understood sacrifice perfectly well in theory, but he had not yet learned how the greater good could function in reality.

His morals remained painfully clean, which might have been admirable under different circumstances. Here, with the world ending around you, it made him dangerous.

Grace’s mind was indispensable to the mission, which meant his cooperation could not be left to chance, and fortunately, you had always been good at making friends.

Dr Ryland Grace, with his nervous jokes and poorly concealed suspicion of authority, would hardly be your most difficult assignment. He was already warming to you. A well-timed smile here, an honest answer there. A shared look across the room whenever Stratt issued a particularly ruthless command. Nothing excessive. 

People trusted those they encountered in unguarded moments. Late at night. Early in the morning. Half-dressed, half-awake, too tired to remember that every conversation revealed something. And so you had moved into the room beside his.

You turned another page without reading it as footsteps sounded at the far end of the corridor. Your gaze lifted.

They were heavier than usual, each one landing against the metal floor. The pace was slow and uneven, belonging to someone whose body had continued moving long after the mind controlling it had begun begging for bed. Only one person aboard would fit the criteria in such proximity.

You closed the book and placed it on the bedside table as the footsteps drew nearer. You climbed from the bed, moving quickly but quietly toward the door. Before opening it, you paused to glance down at yourself. Matching pyjamas. Soft fabric. Your hair was loose, your face bare. 

Perfect.

You waited until the footsteps reached the neighbouring door before you opened yours. Grace was clearly startled at your presence.

It was a muted reaction, dulled by exhaustion: his shoulders jerked upward and several papers shifted precariously in his arms. He caught them against his chest before they could escape, pinning the bundle beneath one forearm while a tablet remained awkwardly tucked beneath the other.

He looked terrible.

His clothes were rumpled, his glasses sat slightly crooked across his nose, and his hair appeared to have endured repeated attacks from his own hands. Shadows had settled beneath his eyes. Recognition softened his face.

“Oh,” he said. "It's you?"

A small smile appeared, the tension around his mouth eased; his shoulders lowered slightly. He looked almost relieved to find you standing there. Interesting.

“Hi,” you said, allowing a soft laugh to colour the word. “I was wondering when you’d turn up.”

“You were waiting for me?”

There was something endearingly hopeful beneath the question. He attempted to hide it by adjusting the papers in his arms, but the movement only made him look more awkward. You giggled again, lowering your gaze.

“Kind of. Stalker-ish, right?”

“Kinda,” he agreed, chuckling.

His eyes remained on you a moment before he glanced between your open door and the one beside it.

“So… are we neighbours?”

“Yeah.” You leaned lightly against the doorframe. “Something was going wrong in my room, so I got reassigned here.”

The lie came easily.

“Oh, yeah?” he asked. “Well, I promise to keep the noise to a minimum, neighbour.”

“Same here.”

Silence settled between you. His gaze dipped toward your room behind you, then returned to your face. He looked too tired to disguise the faint colour rising into his cheeks.

“Are you doing okay?” you asked.

Grace released a short laugh and shook his head. One hand rose to push through his hair, worsening its already considerable disarray. The movement nearly cost him several pages.

“I don’t really know anymore,” he admitted. “It’s a bit of an adjustment.”

Understatement seemed to be one of his preferred forms of self-preservation.

You nodded slowly. “Yeah, you could say that.”

Grace glanced toward your room before looking back at you. The opening you had been waiting for.

You softened your posture and stepped slightly aside, allowing him a glimpse into your space. The small lamp cast a pool of warm light across the bed. Beside it sat two mugs, along with the small collection of snacks you had spent the afternoon acquiring.

A coincidence, arranged down to the last detail.

“If you wanted to come in for a chat,” you said, making the invitation sound spontaneous, “I have tea. And a few snacks, if you wanted to talk about everything.”

Grace looked past you into the room. His exhaustion briefly gave way to startled uncertainty, as though you had offered him access to a private luxury rather than a cup of tea several metres from where he slept.

“Are—are you allowed to do that?”

You laughed. It was such a Grace question. The world was ending, the ship was carrying several of the most powerful people alive, and he remained concerned that visiting the room next door might violate some regulation.

“I’m second-in-command,” you reminded him, stepping farther aside. “I can pretty much do anything I like.”

Grace hesitated before stepping inside. You shut the door behind you both, letting the latch click softly into place. He turned at once, eyes moving around the space, taking in the bed, the plain metal walls, the small desk in the corner, the little wardrobe. There was very little to see.

The ship had not exactly been built with warmth in mind. Still, you had managed a few things. A folded jumper over the back of the chair. A scarf abandoned near the end of the bed. Books stacked unevenly on the bedside table, several of them already marked with slips of paper. Grace’s gaze settled on the books for a moment longer than the rest. Of course it did. Typical academic.

You brushed past him before he could stare too closely and crossed to the small table in the corner, where the kettle sat. The movement was casual as you pressed the switch down, listening as it began its mechanical bubble, glancing back at him over your shoulder.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” he said, still looking around, papers held awkwardly against his chest. 

You chuckled before you could stop yourself. A real one, strangely.

“It’s what I could do on short notice.” You reached for the small box of teabags and held one up between two fingers for him to see. “Is chamomile fine?”

“Yeah,” he said quickly. “That’s perfect, actually.”

His eyes flicked once more over the room before he wandered toward the table and chairs, careful not to touch anything without permission. Even now, half-dead on his feet, he still was measured in your space.

He gestured to the chair. “May I?”

“Of course.”

You were, despite yourself, pleasantly surprised by the manners. 

“Make yourself at home,” you said, turning back to the mugs. “Or… at least as at home as you can.”

He chuckled as he sat, the sound tired but genuine. “I’ll try my best.”

You poured the tea slowly, letting the steam rise between you as he sat down, placing his papers on the table in front. Chamomile was not your favourite, but it suited the moment. The kind of thing a person drank when they wanted to be soft. You slid one mug across toward him.

“You miss San Francisco?”

An easy conversation starter, and more about his past.

He looked down at the tea, then let out a breath that seemed to come from somewhere very deep.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I really do.”

You kept quiet. It was one of the easiest ways to make people continue. Silence made people nervous, and most rushed to fill it, spilling things they would have kept contained. Grace took the bait without even noticing there had been a hook.

“It was kind of a big change, you know?” He wrapped both hands around the mug, not drinking yet. “One minute I’m in the classroom and then…”

“You’re accosted on your way home?” you supplied, teasing lightly.

“Yeah, pretty much—” He paused, blinking as the thought caught up with him. “Wait. Were you there?”

You giggled at that and crossed one leg over the other beneath the table, leaning just slightly closer.

“I was in the car when Stratt approached you,” you admitted. “She thought it would be less intimidating if only one of us went.”

He stared at you. “And she was the less intimidating option?”

Another laugh escaped you, smaller this time. “Are you saying you would have preferred me?”

“Yeah,” he said, the honesty leaving him before he could catch it. You watched the realisation hit him a moment later. His eyes widened slightly behind his glasses, colour rising along his cheekbones as he looked down into his tea as though the answer might have been there.

“Uh, I mean—” he began quickly. “You—you just have a way with people. More than her—I’m not saying she doesn’t, I mean. She has a certain way with people, too? It’s just—it’s effective! It’s certainly effective in some regards, but you’re—”

You smiled, and his words immediately cut off. Interesting.

“She can be cold sometimes,” you admitted, giving him an escape route before embarrassment swallowed him whole. “But I wouldn’t have anyone else in charge.”You turned your mug between your hands. “Did you know she waited outside my house for nearly an hour before I got home? I nearly reversed into her SUV to make a clean getaway.”

This would be safe to share. 

“Were you scared?” he asked.

The question was soft as you considered telling another half-truth. You udecided against it in that moment. 

“More annoyed,” you said. “I don’t enjoy the performance of threat.”

Grace’s brows lifted faintly. “You’d hate me as a teacher, then.”

“Oh?” You looked at him over the rim of your mug. “How so, Dr Grace?”

Something changed in his face then. His eyes shifted away from you, his expression going distant around the edges, softened by a memory that belonged somewhere warmer than this ship. A classroom, perhaps. Sunlight through windows with bad drawings on a board, multiple children asking impossible questions.

Nostalgia. Dangerous, if handled poorly. Useful, if handled well.

“Well,” he said, setting the mug down, “I’ve found that the only way to get them to behave is to pretend you’re going to do something. I have a warning system.”

“A warning system?” you asked, smiling as the image arrived before he had even described it. “A three-strikes-and-you’re-out sort of thing?”

“No, I’m not that predictable.”

Wasn’t he?

Grace sat up a little, animated despite himself. “It’s called the Doom Comet.”

You blinked. “The Doom Comet?”

“Yes. Very official.” He lifted one hand, already beginning to get lost in the explanation. “I draw a comet on the board at the beginning of class.”

You found yourself smiling. This is going to be good, you can feel it. 

“Every time the class gets too loud, the Doom Comet moves closer to Earth. First warning, it enters the solar system. Second warning, it passes Mars. Third warning, it reaches the moon.”

“And what happens when it hits Earth?” you asked.

“Well, that’s the thing.” Grace leaned in a fraction, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “It never hits Earth.”

“Never?”

“No. That would be irresponsible teaching.” He looked genuinely concerned by the idea. “But if it gets close enough, then I have to pause the lesson and give a very dramatic speech about how humanity’s future depends on everyone opening their textbooks to page forty-seven.”

You laughed then as his face warmed at the sound, his mouth lifting.

“And that works?”

“Shockingly well,” he said. “Middle schoolers have very strong opinions about hypothetical extinction events.”

“I imagine they do.”

“They take it seriously. One time a student asked if the comet could be redirected with enough collective good behaviour.” He looked faintly proud. “So obviously we had to discuss orbital mechanics.”

“Obviously.”

“And then they were quiet for twelve whole minutes.” He shook his head, eyes soft with the memory. “It was quite beautiful.”

You watched him carefully. This was what Stratt had meant, whether she knew it or not. This was the problem with Grace. He did not think of children as future statistics or useful minds or human capital waiting to mature. He thought of them as noisy, ridiculous little people capable of caring whether a chalk comet destroyed a badly drawn Earth. That sort of decency was difficult to move around, especially when you held some admiration for it. 

“And what happens if you get to the end of your tether? For real this time,” you asked. “Detention? Suspension?”

“Gosh, no.” He looked almost offended. “I don’t think I handed out a single detention in two years, actually.”

Huh. Two years was a long time.

Children, in your experience, respected very little on principle. Authority was usually tested, mocked, negotiated with, or plain ignored. If Grace had made it years without handing out a single detention, then either his students liked him very much, or he possessed a level of patience that should have been studied.

You leaned back in your chair, letting the mug rest between your hands as you looked at him properly. He had relaxed since entering your room, though not completely. One knee had angled beneath the table, glasses slipping down his nose again. He seemed unaware of it.

“I’m impressed,” you told him honestly. “I feel like if I had you as a teacher, I would have paid a lot more attention in class.”

Grace smiled at that. “I try my best.”

It should not have been charming. He shifted in his seat, rearranging the papers to give his hands something to do. A few corners had bent during the walk over, and he smoothed them with the side of his hand before glancing back at you. He seemed nervous. 

“I bet your work is far more compelling than my own,” he told you. “I mean, what was it you said you did again? A consultant on…”

“Criminal Behaviour and Cognitive Analysis,” you finished for him. “But as I said, I’m just a profiler.”

“No, you’re not,” he looked at you over the rim of his mug, smile still there but gentler now. “You’re not just anything. People don’t get pulled into something like this by accident.” He seemed to consider that, then added, “Well. I did. But that’s different. I was ambushed by a terrifying woman in a parking lot.”

You laughed softly.

“My point is,” he continued, lifting one finger as if lecturing a classroom, “you hardly got here without merit. It’s like I tell my kids: accuracy matters. That includes accurate self-reporting. If you did something well, you’re allowed to say so. ”

A laugh escaped you before you could smooth it into something more useful. 

“I basically get called for advice,” you said. “Essentially. Behavioural threat assessments, negotiation strategy, suspect modelling, witness reliability, that sort of thing.”

He leaned forward a little. “That sort of thing sounds like quite a lot of things.”

You shrugged. “Do you remember the Larkspur Interception?”

His expression shifted at once. “The embassy thing?”

“That was one version of it.”

“The one with the biochemical threat?” he asked. “That was you?”

“Not…. entirely me.”

Grace stared as you took a sip of tea, buying yourself a second. Chamomile was a poor substitute for wine, but at this hour, on this ship, in this crisis, one learned to be grateful for mediocrity.

“I was brought in when negotiations stalled,” you said. “They had a man inside who was threatening to release a nerve agent into the ventilation system unless several political prisoners were freed by midnight. Everyone thought he was ideologically driven.”

Grace’s eyes had gone wide behind his glasses. “He wasn’t?”

“No.” You set the mug down. “He was humiliated. He had attached himself to ideology, but the core wound was personal. He wanted to be witnessed. Admired, if he could manage it.”

Grace was silent now. You gave him a faint smile. 

“Men with martyr complexes are usually much less mysterious than they’d like to believe.”

A startled little laugh left him, then vanished beneath his fascination.

“So what did you do?”

“I told them to stop negotiating with his politics and start negotiating with his pride.”

“That worked?”

“It bought us forty-seven minutes.” You tilted your head slightly. “Which was enough time for the response team to breach the west service corridor and arrest him before he could open the canister.”

You left out the uglier parts. The forged implication that one of his allies had betrayed him. The media leak that had made him believe his public image was already collapsing. The way you had used his sister’s recorded voice not to comfort him, but to fracture him at precisely the right moment. Those details were locked behind contracts, reports, official secrets, and the very understanding that some truths served no one when spoken aloud. Grace was still looking at you as though you had hung the moon.

“Wow,” he said.

You looked down. “It was messy.”

“That’s like—I mean…” He shook his head once, unable to arrange the sentence. “I can see why you were chosen for the mission.”

“Stratt needed someone used to handling a room,” you said casually.

“You do more than that.”

His fingers were wrapped around his mug, both hands holding it for warmth despite the room being neither cold nor comfortable enough to justify it. The exhaustion around his eyes made him look almost boyish, which was absurd given the scale of the work sitting beside his elbow.

“I, for one, am relieved you’re on this mission,” he said.

“Oh, yeah?”  You had meant it lightly, but curiosity crept in despite you. A dangerous indulgence. “Why?”

“Because…” He looked down, searching for the correct words. “I don’t know. You basically put your neck on the line to make sure people are safe. That’s humanitarian.”

Humanitarian. That was one way to put it. 

It was an optimistic way of describing what you did, but far too generous. You wondered what he would say if he knew the rest. If he read the files. If he knew whose names had been sacrificed, whose careers had been ruined, whose loyalty had been exaggerated or erased because it made an operation cleaner. If he knew how often you had chosen the least catastrophic cruelty and called it success because no better option had survived contact with reality.

You doubted he would look at you the same way if he heard half the things you had signed off on.

“Thank you, Grace,” you said. Your voice was softer than you intended. “That means a lot from you,” you added. “But I think your job is far more important in the grand scheme of things.”

Once again, you were not lying.

Without people like him, the world became full of people like the ones you were usually called to manage. You had seen what happened when adolescence had no support system, no adult steady enough to make curiosity feel safe. You had read those histories in case files so many times that the pattern had become nauseating. Neglect. Shame. Isolation. Anger given nowhere clean to go. His job was foundational.

Grace looked down, the smile returning slowly, touched now with something private.

“I like to think of it that way. I mean, when I took up teaching, I never knew how attached I could get,” he said as you could see the classroom return to him.  “I felt real bad when I left the kids behind—not like I had much of a choice.”

His eyes flicked up to yours with a teasing look. You rolled your eyes and giggled.

“I’m just saying! There was some very forceful recruitment involved.” He took another sip of tea. “But I hope I’m doing my part. I always wanted to create a better world, even when I was in academia. I wanted people to think outside the box. Ask strange questions. Not be scared of being wrong for once.”

You watched the movement of his thumb along the side of the mug.

“I want my kids not to be scared to grow up,” he said, quieter now. “I want them to look forward to something. To believe that anything is possible.”

The room seemed to still around that. Outside the door, the ship continued, but here was only you and Grace and the impossible sincerity of his tired eyes.

“Anything is possible,” you said.

The hope in his expression faltered at the edges, thinning into something almost melancholy.

“I really hope you’re right,” he said. He stared into the mug a moment longer. “I really hope you’re right.”

He finished the last of his tea and set the mug down, careful not to make too much noise. The gesture felt unnecessarily considerate. 

“I really should be getting to sleep,” he said with a sigh.

You could tell he did not want to leave. It was there in the way his hand lingered, the way his eyes drifted once more to the books by your bed, the way his body seemed to prepare itself for standing without actually committing to it. More concerning was the fact that you did not particularly want him to leave either.

“I’ve got to be up in what…” He squinted slightly, calculating with visible pain. “Four—no. Five hours?”

You nodded. “My schedule is about the same.”

“Right.” He grimaced. “At least we're in the same boat.”

You both giggled at his pun. Damn him.

Grace gathered his papers from the table, tapping the edges into a stack. You stood as he did, the two of you moved toward the door, close enough that his shoulder almost brushed yours. He paused before you opened it, looking suddenly as though several thoughts had collided at once and none of them had survived intact.

“If you need anything,” he said, then stopped. “Uh, my door is always open as well. I’m a light sleeper, so if you need anything—I mean, it’ll probably be the other way around because you kind of have everything here or could have—“ He glanced back at the room. “But I guess what I’m trying to say is…”

He sighed at himself. You watched him with an expression you hoped looked amused rather than affected.

“I’m next door if you need me,” he decided.

Your chest tightened. 

“Thank you.” The words were gentler than planned as they left your lips. “Genuinely,” you added. “Sometimes it’s nice to have someone to confide in.”

The feeling moved then. You felt it beneath the ribs, the internal flinch. There were worse kinds of deception; you had used almost all of them. So why was this one hurting?

Grace nodded, relieved by the sincerity he believed he had been given.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s what I think too. Problem shared, problem halved.”

You leaned one shoulder against the doorframe. “Another one of your teaching mantras?”

“It hasn’t failed me so far.”

He lifted one hand in a small wave, the gesture made awkward by the papers. He turned toward the neighbouring door, walking the short distance with tired steps. You remained in your doorway, leaning out slightly to watch him go.

He reached his room and paused with one hand on the handle. He looked back at you. His face was softened by exhaustion, but there was something else there.The dangerous warmth of a man who believed he had found an ally in a place where allies were rare. He smiled and stepped inside, and his door shut.

You closed yours a moment later, the room changing at once.

Without him in it, the space looked bare again. The books became props and the tea became evidence. The carefully softened bed, the open invitation—all of it returned to its original shape.

The strategy.

You stood with your back against the door and felt the small ball in your stomach tighten. You did not want to name it guilt.

You had grown too much in your career for something as silly as that. Guilt held people back. It tampered with clean decisions, and you had never had patience for people who confused remorse with morality.

Grace was different from the targets, profiles, ministers, insurgents, ideologues, liars, grieving fathers, ambitious cowards, and political animals you had dealt with before. You were used to dangerous people. People who would sell friends, family, countries, principles, anything at all for the chance to do damage.

Ryland Grace did not seem capable of that.

You let your head fall back against the door with a dull thud and dragged both hands over your face, pressing your fingers into the ache that had settled behind your eyes.

Ryland Grace was going to be difficult.

He spoke about his students like they were the whole point of the future. He asked permission to sit down. He looked at you as though you were not a weapon Stratt had placed neatly in his path, but a person sitting across from him in the middle of the night with tea cooling between her hands.

He was earnest and unguarded and painfully, ridiculously good.

And you were going to have to get inside him anyway, it was a direct order after all. 

a/n: after two weeks it is finally finished! im really excited about the next chapter omg, but i dont want to spoil anything

hope you enjoy, as always let me know what you think. work has been a lot as well as the second heatwave in the uk, but alas i have monday and tuesday off next week, so hopefully i can get another part out!!

@wickedslashdivine@writingforrhys @rockyeatrock @ambertiger5 @nightlyadbreak @ellasaddiction2 @somewhatobvscray @hoshhhiiiii @lastwandastan @deadbeatphobos @vitaminnzz @scentedstarlightyouth @shittyprofilebutfuckit @kuro-mimi @troubleonryloth @cheeseman @sixtiessongs @cemeterystardust @ireadmorethantalk @savy-luvs-dilfs @epple-benene @lowbudgetdoll @bbeadyeyes @odysseywaffle @catastrophises @tremendoustragedybard @inbetween-styx @belfry-bat @gloomourai @cocowomp @rockyeatrock @justaninchident24 @wickedslashdivine @writing-afterhours @bite-me-pls-xoxo @its-stayville-forever @wishyoudaskme @samiwashere @shovelwieldingmaniac @whatislifebutlemons @awfullyinlove @twiceasbright @burningnerdchild @yu-lynn @potania @sysibat-blog @nogendersinthishouse @s4turn3st @k3nxk3n @45silverwormsinatrenchcoat @vroomvroommbtch @kitkatky123 @dailyrgosling @thelilypadlounge @halfautumn @deadlymistress24 @its-stayville-forever @bunnervous @skinned-knees @willow-vixen @bitchykittenconnoisseur @kylimarz @ohnogovno @ieatkidsdailyeyekon @sarahskywalker-amidala @qardasngan @justiceforfoxface @keigohawks @bowtruckleninja @ilovvesleepp 

[gosverse]

jackson’s sister ˚⋆ฺ ♡ ⋆˚࿔ | “partner, let me upgrade you.” [long hcs]

holland march x healy!detective!reader

—strangers to coworkers to lovers

࿔ the first time holland saw you, jackson had made the mistake of introducing you too casually. like you’re not the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen in his entire life. your house was the spot for your brother to relax for a bit, and you were casually walking around, perfect hair and a prettier face. looking entirely too refined to be standing in the middle of whatever chaos your brother and his partner were causing.

࿔ holland had heard jackson say something along the lines of “..my sister..” and it was like he had a full system shut down, completely stopping mid sentence. “that’s your sister?! like genetically?? biologically???” “march.” “no, jackson i’m serious, like look at her and look at you.” you’re trying not to laugh while jackson looks like he’s one more word away from homicide.

࿔ he’s attempting to recover and stands up too quickly, banging his knee against your coffee table, you laugh at his whiney voice, and he looks at you with this lovesick look on his face. jackson noticed immediately.

“no.”

“i didn’t say anything..”

“your face did!”

࿔ you spent the first week of knowing him wondering how the fuck did this man make it to his age. you’re helping them with cases because jacskon keeps dragging you along with him, paperwork, phone calls, and picking locks a little too well for someone who claims to not know much about criminal activity. and holland is unbearable about it. constantly hovering around you, offering you drinks you don’t want, dramatically acting wounded whenever you take a jab at him.

࿔ the chemistry is outrageous because you’re composed and razor-sharp while holland is… holland. drunk, chaotic, dramatic, shamelessly flirtatious. you spend half your time glaring at him while secretly trying not to laugh.

࿔ he starts showing off constantly when you’re around too. suddenly every story becomes exaggerated. every punchline gets louder. he’ll do something objectively dangerous during a case and immediately glance at you afterwards to see if you looked impressed. you usually looks horrified instead. which somehow encourages him more. jackson immediately and absolutely hates it.

“stay away from my sister.”

“i’m not going near your sister.” while holland is visibly staring at you from across the room while saying this.

࿔ you’re one of the only people who can genuinely fluster holland too. not because you flirt openly, but because you catch him off guard. you’ll straighten his tie absentmindedly mid-conversation and suddenly he forgets what year it is.

࿔ you’ll lean close to light his cigarette and holland goes completely silent for once in his life.

࿔ the best part is that you clearly like him long before you admit it.

࿔ you start lingering after work. calling him instead of jackson when there’s new information. rolling your eyes affectionately instead of genuinely.

࿔ holland notices every tiny change instantly because he’s paying an absurd amount of attention to you. one night the three of you are working late on a case and you fall asleep on the couch beside holland while reading files. he goes dead quiet immediately. just sits there staring at you with this soft bewildered expression like he cannot believe someone this lovely trusts him enough to sleep near him.

࿔ holland gets under your skin gradually, which makes you also become weirdly protective of him over time. because beneath all the sleazy charm and nonsense you realise he’s actually… kind. pathetically kind, honestly. it’s the little things you notice when he thinks nobody’s paying attention. the way he always positions himself between you and danger automatically. the way he lowers his voice when you’re tired. the way he looks at holly like she hung the moon.

࿔ you realise one night while watching him with his daughter that most of his sleazy persona is armour. performance. a distraction. underneath it is someone painfully soft. and unfortunately for you, you start finding that really attractive.

࿔ you begin looking forward to his visits without meaning to. listening for his obnoxious knocking. catching yourself smiling before you even open the door because you already knows he’ll walk in talking nonsense at full volume.

࿔ holland becomes part of you routine frighteningly quickly. coffee cups left in your sink. his jackets hanging over chairs. the sound of him arguing with jackson in the next room while you secretly try not to laugh.

࿔ you’re memorising him too: the exact tone his voice takes when he’s genuinely worried. how his hair curls slightly when it rains. the fact he gets quieter after bad cases. the way his bravado slips whenever you touch him unexpectedly. holland does get shy around you eventually. that catches you off guard most.

࿔ below all the confidence and flirting, there’s this strange almost-boyish nervousness whenever things become sincere. holland can flirt all day long, but if you compliment him genuinely? he’s finished.

࿔ one night, you’re patching up a cut on his eyebrow after a fight and he suddenly says very softly: “you always look at me like i’m better than i am.” and you answer without hesitation: “maybe you’re worse at seeing yourself than i thought.” holland genuinely doesn’t know what to do with tenderness like that.

࿔ the moment you both realise you’re truly in trouble happens late at night after a rough case. holland’s drunk, bruised, tie hanging loose, sitting at your kitchen table talking quietly for once. he’s telling some story about holly as a child, smiling softly into his whiskey glass. and suddenly you see it. the loneliness in him. not pathetic loneliness. just deep. old. the kind someone jokes through because they don’t know what else to do with it.

࿔ and your chest physically aches looking at him. because beneath all the chaos, holland wants to be loved so badly it’s almost heartbreaking. he can see you looking at him that way, and he knows you feel it too. after that, you’re both softer towards each other.

࿔ he starts drinking less around you eventually, though not intentionally at first. he just likes remembering conversations with you clearly. likes staying sharp enough to notice every little expression you make. you notice immediately of course. “you’re sober.” holland shrugs awkwardly. “trying something new. felt seasonal.”

࿔ one of your favourite things becomes watching holland attempt to act cool when he’s nervous. because he’s terrible at it. he’ll lean casually against walls and immediately lose balance.

࿔ you’re smoothing his clothes out, brushing lint off of him, brushing his messy hair, keeping ashtrays and lighters in every room for him, letting him crash at your house anytime he wants.

࿔ holland notices every single thing. he starts looking at you differently too once he realises you’re caring for him on purpose now. your chemistry gets infinitely worse you begin flirting back intentionally. leaning close while talking just to watch him lose focus. touching his arm casually and feeling him go quiet. calling him “handsome” in that dry teasing voice that makes him stare at her like he’s been shot.

࿔ at some point you catch yourself defending holland automatically whenever jackson insults him. “he’s an idiot.” “he solved the case.” “by accident.” “he still solved it! stop being mean to him!”

࿔ and jackson looks at you with the most confused expression because what the fuck do you like him too???

࿔ holland falls hardest during the quiet moments though. you asleep in the passenger seat while he drives. when you’re humming softly to old jazz records. when you’re instinctively reaching for his hand during stressful moments without even realising you’re doing it.

࿔ one night after a case goes particularly badly, holland shows up at your house bleeding slightly and pretending it’s “mostly superficial”. you clean him up in silence at the bathroom sink while he watches you with unusually soft eyes. and you realise, very suddenly, that trusting holland march feels terrifyingly easy. which is absurd. because he’s a disaster. but he’s your disaster now.

࿔ the first time you kiss him happens almost accidentally. you’re adjusting the bandage near his jaw while he talks quietly about something unimportant, and suddenly he stops mid-sentence because you’re looking at him differently. really looking at him. holland’s voice goes softer immediately. “what?” and you don’t answer. just kiss him. for once in his life holland march is completely speechless. like genuinely stunned silent. then, after several full seconds: “wow.”

࿔ and holland looks at you with this dazed, overwhelmed expression like he cannot believe something this good actually happened to him.

[evilmosquito47893]

Computah increase the number of The Nice Guys fics on ao3 by one billion

[scandalscontained]

i love how you characterize holland march he's literally my wife :( can you write something small about holland and reader calling him out whenever he's a mess? like reader is nice and sweet and normal! but when it counts they're just like "holland. you stink. take a shower :/" he needs someone to just tell him to lock in

first, this is such a high compliment, thank you so much, hun!

I really loved this request. It took me down a few rabbit holes (I was very happy to go down, by the way) to bring you this! And I know you asked for something small, and I tried.. really, I did. But then somehow I ended up with something not small.

˚౨ৎ ⋆ the two times you tell holland to lock in— and the one time you kiss it better

h.march x fem!reader ⋮ mentions of drinking ⋮ allusions of alcoholism ⋮ un-labled relationship dynamics ⋮ coworkers to lovers ⋮ fluff and angst ⋮ misplaced weapons ⋮ Holland just needs some love and reassurance ⋮ reader being a mature queen

ONE - The Time You Were On A Case Together

"It's better to split up." You say, gently tugging on the sleeve of Holland's blazer to get his attention.

The house you're in is alive with bustling movement. Drunk and drugged bodies are grooving to disco music, base thumping loud enough to be felt in your chest. If Holland could smell the weed permitting the place, he'd be horrified.

He looks over at you, eyes squinting as if that would make it easier to hear you. "What?"

You cup your hands over the sides of your mouth. "Find more clues. Talk to more people. Split up!"

Holland finally understands. His mouth opens into an 'o' shape, a hum falling from his mouth. He nods. "We can do that. I'll, uh, go over there!"

When you follow the direction he jutted his chin in, your eyes fall to the bar and woman dancing on the counter top. She was wearing next to nothing. but you knew she wasn't who Holland was looking at.

You look back at him, brows furrowed. You weren't surprised. "Focus on the case. Don't drink too much."

Holland rolls his eyes, moving his hand to pat your shoulder. "I won't. This is detective work, sweetheart. You know I'm good for it!"

You weren't sure.

But he's an adult. One who has a steady job, so, it would be rude of you not to believe him. You offer a nod before walking in the opposite direction.

While you were gone, you'd been able to talk to three people. Two girls and a guy. They were all related to Victoria Shnaps, the daughter of a dangerously wealthy local politician, who's recently gone missing. The girls were her sisters while the guy was her cousin. Two days before she went missing. None of them gave you viable information— except for her youngest sister, Jazalyn. She's seen her sister talking to some guy called Steve.

You only knew she was being honest because she's got quiet after she said that. Like she wasn't allowed to. Her words had faltered, mouth hanging open, before closing and forcibly clearing her throat. She wasn't media trained. And that was a slip up if you've ever seen one.

When walking through the throng of bodies, your eyes glaze over the room in search of your partner. It doesn't take you long to find his dirty blonde mop of hair.

He's not at the bar.

But even from a distance, you can see him swaying on his feet. It looked like he was being subjected to a gentle breeze like a hung up piece of linen. He's talking to someone. That's good.

When you walk up behind him, your fingers graze his back. Just a gentle way to announce your presence. A soft smile captures your lips when you gaze up at him and glance to the woman he's talking to.

Holland startles, looking down at you with hazy eyes. It takes a minute for him to realize who's touching him and to feel comfortable. His eyes light up when he recognizes you.

"Oh!" His voice sounds like water running over rock. He motions to the woman standing in front of him, amber liquid sloshing out of the rim of his glass. "T—This is her! My partner.. in detective work. Told you 'bout her, yeah? Best—" Holland cuts himself off with a hiccup. "In the country, no, world."

The woman glances down at you, utterly perplexed.

You offer a tight smile.

The woman standing in front of you both was Cassandra Nettles. Long blonde hair, silk wrapped body, and a string of pearls around her neck that costs more than the budget for a presidential campaign. She's a person of interest.

And he's talking to her about things that don't matter— even if they are sweet.

"Okay." You splutter, taking the glass from his hand so he wouldn't spill any more of it. "My apologies, ma'am, it's been a long night."

Holland huffs. "We got here an hour ago." He looks back at the woman, eyes narrowing. "Wait, do I know you?"

Your hands fall to the small of his back and onto his bicep. The hand on his arm squeezes hard enough to shake him, not to be painful. "No you don't. You're drunk as a skunk— and you need to rest."

Holland relents, tearing his gaze from the woman fully. He looks down at you. Red-rimmed blue puppy eyes. Just a single look at the slight frustration in your eyes makes him quiet.

After an apology is given to Cassandra, you practically guide him by the scruff like a mama cat towards the door.

"M'sorry." He murmurs on to way to the car.

"We were here for Intel." You sigh, pointing in the direction of the car. "Not to drink."

"I know." He murmurs quieter this time, like those words coming from you hit harder.

TWO - The Time Holland Lost His Gun

"We'll be back later tonight." You're crouched on the ground, speaking to Holly with a soft smile on your face. "I left twenty bucks for pizza and cookies— don't tell your dad about the sweets."

Holly rolls her eyes. "He won't care. He doesn't."

You frown down at her. "He does care, kid. I promise. He'll be sad if he knows you got cookies without him."

She shrugs, standing from her criss-crossed position on the rug and walking away from you. She turns the corner down the hall towards her room.

A sigh leaves your lips, chest feeling the dull ache from the implications of her words. She didn't think Holland cared. You knew it wasn't your place to say anything more than 'he does'— but gosh, you really wanted to.

But you'd only joined the Nice Guys Agency a few months ago. You weren't enough of a permanent person to have any precedent in their lives.

So, you force yourself to stand up and walk towards Holland's room.

He'd been in there for the past twenty minutes, supposedly getting ready for a stake out. But he'd been in there for a little too long. Your knuckles wrap against his half-opened door to push it open further.

Holland is pacing around the room, dirty-blonde hair mussed and shirt half unbuttoned. His fingers rake through his hair. When he sees you, he stops in his tracks. An annoyed huff leaves his lips.

"I can't find it!" He grunts.

"What?" Your hands fall to your sides, head tilting slightly.

"My gun." Holland turns around, hands jutting out to rip the comforter half-off his bed. There's nothing there. So he moves on to demolishing the pillows.

"Your gun?" Your voice rises, unable to curb the surprise that gets frayed with panic. Your throat works around a swallow. Then, softer. "You lost your gun?"

"Lost?" He breathes, turning to look at you. "Misplaced. It's just... not here."

A silent curse falls from your lips. Your hands find purchase on your hips. "Where'd you leave it?"

Holland shrugs his shoulders, a frustrated noise leaving his mouth. "If I knew that, I wouldn't be looking for it. Would I?"

His words land harder than they should. You physically recoil, taking a step back to look at him with widened eyes. There was no reason for him to have been rude.

"Shit— I— sorry." His voice quiets, head dipping down. "I'm frustrated. I can't— I can't just have a gun laying around the house."

You nod. Being sensitive was something you understood. Especially when you were on a time crunch and lost something important. "I know. I'll go look— just, please, lets find this quickly. Healy's gonna be pissed if we're late. We'll find it."

Holland runs his palm down over his mouth. He hums.

On a whim, you turn to walk down the hall. The bathroom was just a few doors down. You'd seen him go in there a few times in the mornings you came by to pick him up for work. Maybe, if you were lucky, you'd find it in there.

The bathroom light is turned off, the room bathed in darkness. It takes a few seconds of whacking your hand on the wall to find the switch. When the room is emerged in golden overhead light, the first thing you notice is the Jack Daniels.

It's practically empty— say for the sliver of brown liquid barely coating the bottom of the bottle. There's an empty glass next to it.

Walking into the room, you step on a balled up towel. The sudden change in flooring startles you, almost taking a tumble. A ghost of a smile twitched at your mouth. Getting scared over a towel. Yep, seemed like you.

You bend down to grab it when you see it. The glinting metal. Half shoved under the bathroom sink, like it had been kicked by accident. It was Holland's gun. You could tell by the 'H' poorly etched into the handle.

The towel drops to the floor. You grab the weapon and stand back up.

Your eyes once again drop to the empty bottle of booze. It didn't take a genius to put two and two together. As much as you adored March— he had a problem. Enough of one to make him forget where he 'placed' his killing machines.

"Hey, March." You call his name, trying to keep the frustration in your chest from fraying your words. "Come here for a second?"

There's a moment of silence.

Then, his feet pattering down the hall.

He slides into the door frame, hand grabbing at the wall to stop himself from tumbling. He looks at you with big, hopeful eyes. "Did you—"

"It was kicked under the sink." You say softly, trying to keep your voice down. So Holly wouldn't hear you and he didn't think you were accusing him of anything.

Holland pauses. His brows furrow like he was confused— he raked his brain for the memory of even bringing his gun into the bathroom. Just to come up empty.

"How the.." His gaze drops to the empty bottle.

Oh. That.

Holland's cheeks heat up. His arm bends to scratch the back of his neck, chuckling softly. "Guess I must have had a bit too much last night."

"I can't believe you're legally allowed to carry this." You sigh, looking at him with a disappointed expression.

Your words sink into his skin. His mind immediately puts him on the defense, arm dropping back to his side. "Christ, c'mon now—"

"Holland." You whisper-shout his name, shaking your head. Your voice stays a fevorent whisper. "You can't leave this for Holly to find."

Holland gapes at you, trying to find some way to come back to that. There wasn't much. He puts his hands on his hips, grasping at straws. "She knows how to handle a gun."

You stare at him.

He looks at you.

Holland wants to flinch. It sounded terrible to admit out loud. What other twelve year old little girl knows her way around a gun? Most girls were probably drawing rainbows in their notebooks and listening to the beetles.

You just keep looking, waiting for something. Like he'd take back his words. But he doesn't.

You inhale a deep breath to keep yourself grounded. "That doesn't matter. She shouldn't be around this stuff— you know that."

Your voice is quiet, almost a plea.

Holland's lips press into a line. He glances down at the floor, like the tiles turned into the most interesting thing in the world.

He's quiet for a minute.

"I'm a good dad." He says quietly.

Your guard falls at his words. The gun gets placed onto the counter, your arms falling to your sides.

"Of course you are." Your voice is gentle, filled with conviction. "I never said you weren't. This—this is an accident. It happens. It doesn't mean I'm calling you a bad dad—I'm telling you to be more careful."

Holland absorbs your words, sniffling.

He nods.

"You're a great dad, Holland. Okay?"

"Yeah."

THREE - The Crisis That Leads To Cuddles

The more time you spent with the March's, the more glaringly obvious it became that Holland had no idea how to handle a teenage girl.

His approach to more sensitive topics was that of a man's: meaning, if Holly was upset about something, he'd ask her if she was getting her period. He'd have such a straight face when he did it too. Then, of course, he'd wonder why she got even angrier.

Holland tried. Don't get him wrong. He'd bend over backwards for his daughter in a heartbeat, no matter how he acts. Being in any kind of argument with Holly felt like his chest was being ripped apart.

That leads you to tonight.

You came over to make them dinner— something you did on Friday nights. It started a few months ago when you joined the Nice Guys Agency. Holland made a passing comment about not having a real home cooked meal since his wife passed, and you decided then to make sure he and his daughter had a slice of familiar domesticity. Even if it was once a week.

Over those few months, you and Holland got closer. There would be laughter drifting through the kitchen, the occasional mini-food fight, and even, if he was feeling bold, hands trying to take bites of the food before it was set. That always got him a chaste whack to the hand.

For a while, Healy would come too. It would be all of you sharing a meal after work. Eventually Healy didn't come as often. He had other arrangements on Fridays. So, it would just be you, Holly, and Holland.

Tonight was different. Holly was sitting at the counter, swiveling in her chair. The two of you were talking about school and whether or not she was excited about the next year. Her answers were less vague than they used to be— she was coming out of her shell around you.

When Holland came into the kitchen, he'd have to swear his brain turned off. There was just something about seeing his daughter comfortable with you. It was a glimpse back in time to what used to be. His heart broke a little when you told her a story about your 8th grade graduation. Holly threw her head back like a little kid and let out a big belly laugh.

He hadn't heard that laugh in over a year.

He walked up behind Holly, palm pressing against her back. He leaned over himself to press a kiss to the top of her head. "Hey, ladies."

Holland made his way around the counter top, acting on pure instinct. The floral pattered button up he was sporting was less buttoned than usual— with no glinting ring strung around his neck.

You look over to watch him advance towards you. The scent of aftershave and pine filled your senses. It was unmistakably Holland, earthy and cozy. His hair was damp like he'd just gotten out of the shower.

"Hey, dad." She muses, leaning over to grab a piece of pepper you'd cut up.

Holland wraps his arm around your shoulders like he'd done it a hundred times. The warmth of him instantly bleeds into your skin. The proximity makes your pulse jump, throat working around a swallow. You fit perfectly against his side when he pulls you into his side.

Then, he presses his lips to your temple.

It's gentle. Loving.

Holly watches the interaction, expression falling. She blinks. Almost like she couldn't even begin to believe what she'd just witnessed.

"How are my girls?" He questions as he pulls back, a genuine smile gracing his face.

You look up at him in disbelief. Holland had never been so affectionate— especially in front of Holly. You were used to winks and side hugs when leaving. Or the occasional thumb swiping across your cheek if you'd wiped flour on yourself by accident. This was uncharted territory.

"We're fine." Your voice comes out heavier than you intended it to. "Uh, tacos are almost ready."

"Smells good." He nods, thumb rubbing a circle into your shoulder. When he finally drops his arm away, he looks over the both of you with a small smile on his face.

The smile doesn't last long.

Holly stands from the chair, offense clear in her eyes. "Where's your ring?"

Holland's head snaps to his daughter, her harsh tone startling him. His ring? His hand goes to his neck, finding only the neckline of his undershirt. He wasn't wearing his ring.

He splutters for a second. "Honey, it's just upstairs. I took it off to shower—"

"You're never supposed to take it off!" Her voice rises, hurt fraying her tone. It sounds like there's something in her throat. Like the words are physically painful for her to speak.

She turns and stomps off, her hands going to her face before turning the corner.

Holland stands there absolutely stunned. His jaw is hanging open, eyes wide, and palms facing upward like he'd just gotten smacked.

You didn't even need to be observant to know what that was about. A dull ache forms in your chest for Holly. She must feel betrayed— like her father was replacing her mother with you. And that's not your intention at all.

With a flick of your wrist, you turn the stove knob down.

"What the hell was that about?" He questions, turning to look at you.

"Go talk to her." You breathe, glancing in the direction she ran off in.

Holland bites his lower lip, hands taking purchase on his hips. "I don't understand. I just forgot to—"

"Holland."

He quiets at the serious tone of your voice.

You watch as his shoulders deflate, slouching in on himself. A somber expression takes over his face. You can see the gears turning in his mind, replaying exactly what happened.

"She's sad." Your words come out soft. Almost gentle. Like he's fragile and you're horrified of breaking him. "You should go talk to her."

Holland absorbs your words.

He lets them sink into his skin and roll around in his mind. Finally, he nods.

"Alright." He shakes his head, reluctantly turning on his heel and following in Holly's footsteps.

Your palm flattens over your chest, trying to soothe the ruminating ache. There was no way you could imagine just what she was feeling. You weren't in her mind.

Minutes pass.

Or, what feels like minutes.

Your fingers drum against the counter top. Anxiety starts to creep up your throat. There's a second where you think it would be best to leave.

Then you hear it.

The unmistakable muffled sound of Holly shouting 'I hate you'. You flinch. Your eyes close and a sigh leaves your lips, head dipping down. This was not how you envisioned your Friday night going.

Glancing at the half prepared chicken tacos, you give leaving some extra thought. That's what's probably best. To do it quietly, maybe make up their plates before you do so. But you were probably the last person Holly wanted to be near.

You're about to grab your purse. It's hanging right on the edge of the counter chair. It almost glows like an exit sign.

Holland sulks back into the kitchen. He looks like a smaller version of himself. Slouched shoulders, trudging steps, and gaze tilted to the floor. Your name falls from his lips like a plea.

A curse enters your mind.

Then, you get a good look at him. His eyes are glassy like he's about to cry.

One thing about Holland that most people don't know: he values his daughter's opinion more than anyone. Losing his wife was terrible. But if he even thought Holly had a negative view of him? His whole world shattered.

"I don't understand." His voice sounds paper-thin. There's a lost look in his eyes, like he was a second away from falling off a cliff. It broke your heart.

"Hey." You murmur, motioning for him to come over. Moving around the counter, you tentatively step towards him.

"She... she.." He clears his throat, head turning away to blink roughly. Try to stop the tears that threatened to fall. "Am I bad dad?"

A frown tugs at your mouth.

"No." You say quickly, shaking your head. Certainty drips from your lips like honeysuckle. "She doesn't mean that, March."

His gaze stays on the ground.

He blinks hardly.

"She does." He whispers.

You want to hug him and slap him at the same time. Once he gets an idea into his head—good or bad—he's a damn bull. Too stubborn to avoid tunnel vision.

Is this even your place?

It's not like he's your boyfriend or anything— though those professional lines have been blurring. And that kiss definitely meant something. But do you even have any place here? If anything aren't you just his kinda-situationship?

Maybe it was best to have left.

But now you're here.

And you feel like you're being ripped in half knowing some of your favorite people in the world are hurting.

So, you outstretch your arms and motion for him to come in.

Holland accepts. He walks slowly towards you, arms snaking around your waist. His nose gets buried into the crook of your neck. Little droplets land on your skin. Your arms wraparound his back and give him a gentle squeeze.

Silence envelopes the two of you.

There's a moment where you just let Holland soak up your embrace. He shakes a little, sniffling to hold back the mess of tears that threatened to fall.

"You're doing your best." You whisper, voice barely audible. "Kids don't come with manuals, right? Even the best of the best make mistakes."

Holland slumps against you. Like a giant dog jumping onto your lap, thinking he's smaller than he actually is.

"Mhm." He mumbles, pulling away from you to wipe at his face. His movements were quick— like you'd suddenly burned him. Or he realized he was leaning on you and got embarrassed.

"You're a good dad." Veneration wraps your words. "Say it."

Holland huffs. "I'm a good dad."

"Little louder. Like you mean it." You offer a gentle smile, rubbing at his arms for motivation.

Despite his saddened expression, the ghost of a smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. "I'm a good dad."

"There he is." You murmur, chest warming a little.

Holland wipes at his eyes with his wrist. He blinks and gazes down at you. Eyes hazy, he looks like a kicked puppy.

"I still don't know what I did to make her..." He trails off, cutting himself off with a sigh.

There's a moment of silence as you try to gather your thoughts.

There wasn't any good way to say this. Especially since you and Holland weren't together.

"I think she's feeling a little betrayed." There's a softness to your words. "You usually wear your ring. Tonight, you didn't. And these past few weeks I've been coming over to cook for guy—"

"I don't see why that means—"

"Let me finish." Your correction is gentle, keeping your voice calm.

Holland closes his mouth. He nods and mumbles an apology.

"She might think you're replacing her mother." You opt to get straight to your point, trying to cushion the blow with your tone. "Having me here, cooking for you guys. You even kissed me tonight, Holland."

For the first time ever, he's quiet.

"I know that's not your intention." You watch for his response, trying to see how he was taking your words. "But she doesn't. She sees me doing things her mom did— and that makes her feel some kind of way."

Holland darts his tongue out to wet his lower lip. His head twitches in a half-nod, like he's barely able to move anything. Like he's frozen.

Silence settles.

It's the uncomfortable kind of silence. The kind that worms into your ribs and presses against the walls of your bones, stabbing at your lungs when it tries to make space for itself.

Holland sighs.

"What should I do?" He asks gently, puppy eyes boring into yours.

"Give her some space. Then listen to her." You raise a brow at him. "Really listen to her. Then talk with her."

"Okay."

You tuck some of your hair behind your ear. "I'm gonna.. uh, get out of your hair. I feel like I've outstayed my welcome." A soft chuckle leaves your lips. "Dinner's ready. All you've gotta do is assemble the tacos."

Holland's brows furrow, taking in your words. "No." It tumbles from his mouth quickly, hands jutting out to grasp at your wrist. But he drops his hands, teeth sinking into his lips. "You... you could never overstay your welcome here."

Your heart flutters at his words. "I know." You offer a smile to reassure him. "But I think it's best for Holly to be alone with just you."

Holland eventually accepts it. That was what was logical, after all. You were always right about things like this.

"Okay." He scratches the back of his neck. "Thank you... for everything tonight. I'll see you in the office tomorrow?"

You nod, turning to collect your purse. "You will."

Holland follows after, gingerly grabbing your coat and handing it over to you. He watches you slip yourself into it. There's something stirring in his chest. Something he hadn't given much thought to.

He did kiss you. Pressed his lips to your temple like it was nothing. Called you his. He wasn't sure what that meant. Though, he knew he'd have to dissect it to know.

The two of you walk towards the front door. He opens it for you, standing at the threshold to make sure you get to your car okay.

"Have a good night, March." You say with a small smile, waving your fingers at him.

He does the same. "Yeah. You too."

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[ixeyi]

This was really really sweet

[bibigo-lover]

an evening show.

summary: holland is making a big fuss out of holly inviting you to her upcoming school play. he’s pleasantly surprised by the way you show up for the both of them. (based on this textpost // anon)

pairing: holland march x gn!reader

word count: 2.6k

tags: fluff and humor, domestic fluff, established relationship, developing relationship, family bonding, bickering and bad flirting w/ march, make-outs, basically co-parenting, holland smoking (canon), pervy!holland, pet names used (hon, baby), holly and healy featured, gn!reader

cross-posted to ao3

“You don’t have to go. You can say, ‘no, thank you,’ and she won’t bat an eye,” Holland insists. Holly’s in the living room with Healy, talking over some film noir movie running on the box TV. They might as well shut it off, both equally entranced by the conversation at hand. Holly has her knees tucked up to her chest, and she’s telling Healy eagerly about her part in the school play. To your surprise, Healy’s much more of a Broadway fanatic than you’d ever expect. Very indulged in high culture.

“Look at her,” Holland murmurs to you, “She probably won’t even notice if you’re not in the crowd; there’ll be so many heads.” He’s drawing on straws, still. There’s another point he finds abruptly, probably the most obvious of the bunch: “And she’s backstage! You’re not even going to see her sing or dance or anything.”

So, Holly’s doing the lights. She’s been fancying technical theatre the whole year, and she’s got a real knack for spotlighting. Holland’s been telling you it’s genetics. He’s got perfect aim—a bit of an exaggeration, you think, but you’d never tell him otherwise. Holly asked you just an hour earlier, over dinner, if you’d want to attend her show. Two complimentary tickets, one for Dad and one for you. Healy isn’t offended in the slightest; he’d gotten the Christmas showcase, so it’s only fair. It’s about time you’d get to one of Holly’s shows.

It’s a major milestone. But, since dinner, Holland’s been offering up excuse after excuse for you to bail. You’ve already said yes to Holly, and you’re not quite sure what the problem is. What you do know is that your boyfriend’s self-made calamity is making you impatient. “If you don’t want me to go, Holland, just say so.”

“That—now, that’s not what I said.” He raises his right hand up to take another hit off his cigarette, before blowing the smoke out at an angle away from your face. “I’m just giving you an out. You could be busy that evening, I don’t know.”

“That’s so funny, because we spend basically every evening together when you’re not working.” It’s nothing out of the ordinary; ever since you’ve been dating Holland, you’re either at the house, he’s treating you out to dinner, he’s kissing your neck at a drive-in movie… You take your index finger and your thumb up to snatch the cigarette out of Holland’s hands. He tries to take it back, one arm swinging around your waist to hold you still. You wrestle away easily, trying not to be swayed by the sensation of Holland’s hips pinning your own down.

“Baby, baby, baby—” Holland hangs his head as you grind it against the ashtray on the kitchen counter. He eases up his grip on you as you go to throw the cigarette butt straight into the trash bin. You win. Holland throws his head back with a sigh; you’ve been doing this more, lately, trying to get him off smoking. He lets you, aiming to please. The only caveat, really, is when you use it against him as punishment for when you’re mad.

And now, you’re mad. “You’re pissing me off, March.” You’re not trying to be too loud about it, not wanting to rouse too great of a suspicion from Holly or Healy. But Holland can see the way that you’re glaring at him. It isn’t an over-exaggeration.

“Honey, I’m just trying to give you options.” Holland frowns, “Maybe, you don’t want to go and you’re just too polite to say so. I don’t know many hot, twenty-somethings who’re opting to spend their Friday night attending middle-school productions of The Sound of Music.”

“I’m trying to be supportive!” You hiss, “Now, stop being a wuss and let me attend Holly’s show.” You can see the hair hanging over Holland’s forehead swaying as he looks you up and down. He’s getting distracted. Clearly, he’s enjoying the sight of you pissy a little bit too much. So not the time. You’re inclined to snap your fingers at him; the sound jolts his attention back up to your face.

“Okay. Fine,” Holland yields. He’s trying to run through the night in his head. The two of you in the car, enjoying each other’s company up until the top-of-show, where you’re watching those stupid, little middle-schoolers perform and suddenly find yourself wanting to break up with him. Holland, the perpetual single father. He grits his teeth, “If you want to go, then we can go. I’ll pick you up after I drop her off, and we’ll watch it front-row.” 

“Good.” You stand up straighter, expression much brighter than before. Even if he’s so terrified by the thought of you coming to Holly’s play, Holland can only really aim to please you. If this is what he has to do, then so be it.

“Happy?” Holland asks cautiously, glancing over your features with a tilt of his head. You’re much more touchy now, a good sign, hands coming up to fix his collar.

“You’re in the safe-zone for now,” you tell Holland. Without further delay, he’s bending down to give you a sloppy kiss—pointer-fingers pulling you by the belt loops. You’re grinning wide as he moves upwards, laying a kiss on your nose, and then your forehead. All is right in the world.

Healy’s muttering carries over into the kitchen. “Jesus. It’s like they can’t go a minute without touchin’ each other.” His acute observation causes Holly to begin twisting her head with naive curiosity—but he stops her with a tap to the shoulder and a shake of his head. “Don’t look, kid. S’gross.”

—

On Friday night, Holland’s five minutes early—double-parked on the street of your apartment with the convertible roof down. The two of you are already well-agreed on the attire for tonight. Not too casual, not too formal, just charming enough to impress. As soon as you’re outside and locking the door behind you, Holland is beaming. “Hon, you look perfect.” But, as soon as you turn around, he’s dead quiet. Holland’s very caught off-guard, you think, by the large bunch of carnations cradled in your arms, all wrapped up in cellophane and ribbon. Holland gawks as you approach the car, open the side-door, and plop yourself onto the seat behind him. “Is that a bouquet?”

You shut the door and adjust the carnations carefully above your lap. It’s difficult to navigate where to put them exactly; the petals are rising out of the plastic film in generous bunches of off-white and fuschia. The bouquet’s big; you don’t know where to put it. “It’s for Holly. Opening night’s always a big deal, and I’m sure that all the parents are gonna have these kinds of things, too.”

Holland’s looking down at your lap like you’re carrying some kind of contraband. “Did you buy it? When?” He’s acting absolutely clueless, as if he’s never even seen a flower before in his life.

“There’s a florist a few blocks down,” you explain to Holland, half-distracted. “Would you hold it for me?”

He ushers the bouquet towards him with his hands. “Of course, baby. Give it here.” As soon as Holland takes the bouquet off your hands, he’s glancing down at your hands. You’re pulling a 35mm Canon from your side, pulling the thin leather strap over your head and placing it gently for a moment on the dash. “And you brought a camera. Of course.” Once the camera’s secure enough, you’re taking the bouquet out of Holland’s hands and putting it gently in the backseat. You can feel Holland watching you—particularly, the backside of you—as you make an exerted effort to secure them with a seatbelt. His entertainment is cut short as you sit back down in the shotgun with him. He’s restless, hand coming down to adjust his pant leg.

“You really need to keep up, March. Momentous occasion calls for momentous effort. Once I get them developed, they can go up on your fridge or something.”

Holland revs his car up a little bit, before rolling the car slowly down the block. “You’re running laps around me. I’m being… bested,” he says, palm hitting the steering wheel softly. As stumped as he sounds, you can see right through the facade.

You lean over for a quick second to kiss Holland soft on the cheek. “That’s how you like me, right?” And, unfazed, you slide back to plug your seatbelt in. Though Holland’s making a grand show of checking both sides of the street before he turns, you can see the way his lips twitch up into a smile.

—

This middle-school performance of The Sound of Music, though prepubescent in nature, has its charm. During the intermission, you spend a resolute amount of time conversing with Holland about Holly’s lighting prowess. He can only listen and nod, seeing as he doesn’t understand anything about the technical. But he is happy to be there—has a little bit of a frame of reference with the Christmas show—and just knows that his daughter’s somewhere in this auditorium, behind the handlebars of a giant spotlight, buzzing with excitement.

After the bows, it’s very easy to find Holly. She’s all the way up in the lighting booth, first. Then, skipping down the stairs, she’s running her way down to the two of you. Dressed in all show-blacks, Holly’s light blonde hair pops. She sticks out like a sore thumb amidst all the other families, bouncing around, hand shot straight in the air to flag you. She’s practically hopping up and down at the sight of you and her dad, shoulder-to-shoulder. “You came!” Holly exclaims, hand reaching to squeeze yours.

“Of course I came. I said I would come, didn’t I?” you tell her. Then, you’re tugging soft on Holland’s sleeve. “Flowers, baby.” Holland pulls the bouquet out from behind his back with a soft “ta-da,” holding them right in front of Holly’s face. She takes them heartily, looking straight down into the carnelians with a giddy look on her face.

“That’s for being the best kid offstage tonight.” Holly won’t stop saying ‘thank you’ over and over, and so, you’ve got to wave your hand and nudge her towards Holland. “Go stand next to your dad with those. I wanna shoot a picture of the both of you.”

The sight before you in the viewfinder is lovely. Holland is standing just behind Holly with both his hands on his shoulders; she’s holding the bouquet up for you to get a clearer shot. There’s the same wide grin shared between the two of them, and you can feel your heart just swelling at the sight. As soon as the camera clicks, Holly’s peeling off of Holland in an instant. “I’m supposed to go help put the spotlights back in the storage, and I’ve got to say bye to Jess. Can I meet you outside?” she asks you, bright-blue eyes blinking rapidly.

Holland decides, maybe too eagerly, to respond on behalf of both of you. “We’ll go warm up the car. You take your time.” You cast him a sidelong glance—the tone alone telling you that he’s too excited to rush out of the auditorium.

Upon further inspection, Holland is jumpy. He’s checking for his keys in his trouser pockets, fixing his already-straight tie. It’s like watching an old German Shepherd wag its tail. His daughter can only narrow her eyes with a scrunch of her nose. “Gross,” Holly says. “Meet me in twenty minutes near the flagpole.” Holly’s always getting dropped off there in the mornings; it’s a solid landmark. The two of you watch as she skitters away from the both of you to go close up for the night. Holland is turning to face you, hand finding the small of your back with a feathery, brush of your spine. It’s going to be a very short walk to the car.

—

Holland insists on bringing the roof up on his convertible for the sake of privacy, though his windows are fish-bowled and you’re sure that anyone within a couple of yards can see you both. Still, he seems very urgent about ushering you into the shotgun and the both of you sitting there for a moment before swinging the car around to grab Holly. Once he’s able to toss the bouquet in the back, he’s taking your hand up; his mustache brushes against your knuckles as he kisses them. “You’re getting sappy on me.”

“I’m not used to bringing anyone to these things,” Holland tells you, “Besides Healy, maybe.” Not the time. He shakes his head and tries again, placing your hand back down onto your lap. “It’s pretty nice having you come and support Holly. You, uh… make great backup.”

You’re turning to face him. In the dimly-lit lot of the middle school, you can only barely see the antsy look on his face. Softly, you chuckle, “It isn’t a case, Holland.” He nods. You’re right, as per usual.

“Right.” He finally cracks. “I’m not used to this. And I love it, baby, I do. It’s more than I could possibly ask for.” Holland had only been burning through the occasional one-night stand before he met you. And before that, there’d only been his wife. You’re steady, and it’s not what he’s used to. It’s really all as new to you as it is to him. That last thing you want is to impose on the March’s home life—but the closer you get to Holland… It's starting to resemble a family.

“I just want to make sure that you know that you’re not running it alone. It takes a village, or whatever.” Warily, you confess to him, “And I wanna be good for you and Holly.”

“Oh, honey.” He’s giving that same old look that he always does, pupils blown, lips parted. He just can’t help it. “You’re perfect,” Holland assures you earnestly. There’s an irresistible urge for you to plant a tender kiss on his jaw. As soon as you do, he doesn’t let you get much further away from him. Holland tilts your chin up with his thumb, leaving a gentle peck on your lips. He’s always impatient when it comes to you, never able to keep it short and sweet. Quickly, Holland is bringing his hand up to your neck, calloused fingers pushing against your pulse point. He’s following the trace of his fingers with hard kisses, then capturing your lips again with a fluttery groan.

“Holland,” you whisper. You have to pull back from him, though you’d really kill to carry on. He’s muttering “already?” under his breath and you have to insist with a squeeze of his knee. “She’s going to be out any minute now.” Holland drops his head onto your shoulder, taking in a deep breath. Then, he grabs for your seatbelt, clicks it into the lock, and gives you one last smooch on the cheek.

“Okay. I’m gonna treat the kid and you out to a nice dinner tonight. Ice cream after. She can’t go without ,” Holland nods. He sits up straight, raising his arm over the back of your seat to pull out of his parking space. “And next weekend, we’re gonna go take a drive, you and me—find a hotel room and make good use of that film camera of yours.”

With a swift swat to the arm, you mutter, “You’re such a perv. Go pull up to the flagpole.”

[ixeyi]

THIS IS SO SOFT AND SO HIM I LOVE IT