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Jackson must have forgotten to knock because, when he walked into the bedroom, Holland showed no sign of noticing him. What he did see from his partner was him in front of the mirror carefully wrapping his chest in ace bandages.
“What the fuck did you do to yourself this time, March?” Jackson asked, his disappointed tone laced with genuine concern.
“Jesus!” Holland twitched, dropping the rest of the bandage roll to dangle pathetically at his waist. He turned to face Healy directly. “You can’t just sneak up on a guy like that!”
“You’re a P.I. you should be able to tell when someone’s watching you,” he deadpanned.
“Well, sorry I’m not constantly scanning my surroundings in my own damn house! Rental house. Whatever.”
“I would’ve noticed somebody walking in.”
“Right, well, that’s because you’re a paranoid freak, so…”
“Sure. And you’re an oxymoronic unobservant investigator,” Jackson snorted, the familiar rhythm of their banter eased his mind a little.
“I am /not/ a /moron/, thank you very much,” March huffed, turning back to the mirror to finish wrapping his chest.
“No, idiot. Oxymoronic. Like-“
“Ooh, look at me, Mr. Big Words. Get that from your calendar, did you?” Holland mocked, mostly muttering it to himself. Healy sighed.
“Alright, cut the bullshit, March. What kind of injury did your drunk ass stumble into getting?” Healy asked, stepping closer.
“Back off!” Holland squeaked, voice rising to an embarrassing pitch. He jumped back from his partner and put his arms up defensively. “I know you can still kick my ass but I can also put up a better fight now, so, don’t try anything.”
He would’ve laughed at March’s, well, everything, had the circumstances been even slightly different. “March, you wrapped it like a toddler. Let me see the damage, I can help,” Healy scolded like a father about to give an I’m-not-mad-just-disappointed lecture.
Before Jackson could reach out to undo the dressings, Holland whined out as loud as he could manage in his panicked state. “I’m not injured, Healy!” He took a deep, shaky breath before continuing. “Jesus, aren’t you supposed to be a detective or something?”
Healy blanked. He felt dumbfounded. He struggled to find any good words and instead settled on: “What?”
“Who’s the oxymoronic one now?” Holland snarked.
“Still not how you use that word. What the fuck do you mean you’re not injured? What are the bandages for? Dressing up like a mummy?”
“Yeah, something like that,” Holland barked dismissively. “What did you even want in here, anyway? Get the hell out of my room.” He slipped a tank top over the bandages and reached for a less gaudy hawaiian button-down than the one he wore yesterday.
“This isn’t the end of this discussion, March.”
“Actually, it is. Thank you.” Holland put his hands on Healy’s shoulders and started guiding him backwards through the open door. Before he could slam the door in his face, Healy paused.
“Does Holly know about this?”
Holland froze. His hands turned to fists around the fabric of his partner's shirt. His face was turning pink. Instead of pushing Jackson out the door, he pulled him ever-so-slightly closer so their faces were inches apart.
“Healy,” he wheezed. “Do /not/ go asking my daughter about my personal business.”
“Alright, alright,” he paused. “But is that because you don’t want her to know about it, or because you think she would give up the answer if I asked?”
“Shut up. Please. Healy. Don’t.”
“Y’know, you’re really a man of many words,” Healy joked. The desperation in March’s words, though, and the pleading puppy dog look in his eye made Healy want to drop it altogether. He couldn’t, he told himself, he cares about March.
“Okay, you win. I’ll drop it for today. Only because we have actual work to do,” Healy conceded. “You just finish getting dressed. And maybe brush your teeth. You can’t smell but I can, and our clients can. Nobody wants a P.I. who smells like a bar.”
Holland made a face. A scrunched up sarcastic expression, but a clearly relaxed one compared to his earlier panic. “Right,” he said while pushing him out of the room. “Go wait out in the car.”
“Hi, Mr. Healy.” Holly smiled as he walked past.
Holland peeked his head out from the doorframe. “Holly. What did I say about talking to strange men,” he scolded.
“That… ‘strange men sometimes give you free things, just be careful and don’t follow them’?” Holly quoted, exchanging a smirk with Healy. March really didn’t like when they conspired against him.
“Not- not that thing,” Holland pulled a face. “Don’t talk to him. He’s too nosy for his own good.”
“Got it, Dad,” she said before returning to… whatever it is 13-year-old girls do. Journaling maybe. Or playing with dolls. One of those.
March slinked back to the mirror and lifted his tank top. “‘Wrapped it like a toddler…’” he echoed. “Whatever.” He tucked the end of the bandage in, pulled his top down over it again, and smoothed his hair before heading out.
“Keys,” March said, holding his hand out for Holly to throw the keys in as he walked.
“Mr. Healy is driving, Dad.” She shot him a look up from her… whatever.
“Well, I need my house keys, sweetheart. How else am I gonna get back in?”
“Fine,” she tossed the keys begrudgingly. “Go solve crimes with the strange nosy man. But, Dad…”
“Yes, Holly?”
“If I wasn’t allowed to talk to strange men, how would I talk to you?”
“Very funny, sweetie. Y’know I think I did an alright job raising you after all,” he snarked, and made a face at her before strolling out the front door.