Chapter Text
They don’t talk about it.
If the night all those months ago by the diving board was A Moment, then Jackson doesn’t even know what the hospital was. He tries to recall the openness of Holland’s expression and the warm pressure of his hand, wondering if he somehow misread the situation. Or maybe he imagined the whole thing.
To be fair, time flies by with hardly a chance to breathe. Holland is hobbling around on crutches for a couple of weeks. The new house is in its final stages of construction. Detective work doesn’t stop coming their way, although both Jack and Holly insist on a break from harder cases for a while.
Then the house is done and they have to pack, and move, and convert Jackson’s old apartment into an office.
They still don’t talk about it. But every time Jack starts to doubt, something happens that renews his belief that Holland is, at the very least, interested. When Jack helps Holland get situated on his crutches, Holland bites his lip. After their fingers brush while packing, Holland can’t meet his eyes. While Jack carries heavy boxes into the new house, sweat dripping off his brow, he can feel Holland’s stare.
Jackson just doesn’t know why the other man won’t do anything about this unspoken tension between them. He doesn’t like not knowing.
Holland finally stops limping and he says his wound has closed up into a scar. “Pretty badass, actually,” is how he describes it. Holly rolls her eyes. Jack wants to get his mouth on the shiny new skin immediately.
Holly starts high school. She acts like it’s not a big deal but she grins from ear to ear when Jack promises to get Holland up in time for the three of them to stop at the diner for breakfast on their way to drop her off.
Eventually, they reach a lull in the busyness. They’ve officially moved into the new house, The Nice Guys Agency’s office is open for business, and Holly made dinner.
(Jack grumbled about Holly cooking yet again, but she’s good at it, so he can’t complain too much.)
They’re settled around the kitchen table. The new place feels warmer, more comfortable than the rental’s sparse furniture and sleek style. They haven’t unpacked all of the boxes yet, but it already feels like home. Jack’s single, celebratory beer sweats in his hand.
“So, dad,” Holly starts, which usually indicates the beginning of some professional-level negotiations, “there’s this dance at school coming up, and…”
“Holy shit, I never taught you how to dance!” Holland gasps.
“Wait, dad!”
“Jack, turn the radio on.” Holland snaps his fingers, ignoring Holly’s protests. “God, I used to… your mom and I used to dance,” he says softly. “I guess I haven’t been much for it since— since then.”
Holly’s eyes immediately well with tears. Jack raises his beer as he flips on the radio. “To making new memories,” he says. Holly bites her lip and nods.
Holland smiles, one of those rare, genuine smiles. His eyes shine with the brightness of his joy. It’s beautiful.
A familiar melody fills the air and Holland begins to step back and forth to the beat, humming slightly. Holly giggles. Holland puts his hands on his hips and rocks them back and forth as the chorus starts to build.
“You are the dancing queen!” he sings in a horrendous falsetto. “Feel the beat from the tambourine, oh yeeaaahhh!” He leaned close and points at Holly. “Oh you can dance!”
“Dad, stop,” she laughs. But she stands and allows him to spin her around the room.
It’s the most sickenly sweet domestic scene Jack has ever seen, and he likes it. Loves it, if he’s being honest. He’s not sure he’s ever been happier than right now.
ABBA fades, transitioning into a slower track that Jackson doesn’t recognize. Holland tries to reposition Holly so that they’re in a sort of waltz position, with her hand reaching up to his shoulder.
“This is how we used to do it back in the day,” he says.
“It’s uncomfortable,” Holly replies. She trips over Holland’s feet when he tries to lead her in a simple box step.
“Well, actually, you’re just too short,” he says.
“Hey!”
Holland abandons his attempt in favor of spinning Holly in a circle again. “You dance, Jack?”
“Oh no,” Jack says. Can he dance? Sure. June used to love to go dancing. Does he dance? Certainly not, although for a brief moment he allows himself to consider what it might be like to dance with Holland.
“Oh Mr. Healy! You should dance with Dad!” Holly turns pleading eyes on him. “You can show me how!”
A thrill of nerves slides down Jackson’s spine. He looks at Holland, who doesn’t seem at all put off by the idea. No, Holland looks almost eager. Excited.
“I don’t know,” Jack attempts to deflect, and then Holland’s holding out a hand like Jack is a princess at a ball and everything inside him wants to take it.
Holland fucking winks. “I’ll even let you lead,” he says. Christ, he has to know how that sounds.
Jackson huffs. He takes the hand.
Holland’s fingers are thin, but strong, steady as the man pulls Jack to his feet. Jack wants to be brave. He wants to take, for once, without worrying if what he wants is too much.
Well, if Holland wants him to lead.
Jack slides his fingers lightly along Holland’s, feeling the catch of rough callouses against the younger man’s skin before interlacing their fingers. When he looks back up at Holland’s face, the man’s eyes are wide. He swallows. Jack merely smirks.
He rests his left hand lightly on Holland’s waist, squeezing once. He tries not to think about how huge his hand feels on that slim hip. He definitely does not consider any situations in which he would press finger-shaped bruises into the other man’s skin.
Holland looks almost panicked now. Jack’s reasonably sure it’s for the same reason that his own heart is pounding in his chest: the way the spark between them has roared with heat, the thrill of the forbidden, the overwhelming affection he feels. Holland puts his left hand on Jackson’s shoulder and Jack can feel the heat through his shirt. A few inches over and he could feel those long, slender fingers on the sensitive skin of his neck.
He tilts his head and with light pressure, begins to lead Holland through a simple, slow dance. The music is low and soothing. It cradles the moment.
And you may not think that I care for you, when you know down inside that I really do.
Holland follows every step with uncharacteristic focus and grace. They flow together. It’s an extension of the way they work together, a push and pull that has settled into easy synchronization.
And it’s me you need to show: how deep is your love?
The space between their bodies holds tension. Jack’s fingers itch to pull Holland closer, to finally touch the way he craves. To map the lines of the other man’s body, to taste his lips. When their eyes meet, Jackson shivers at the open want on Holland’s face.
We belong to you and me.
As the song fades, transitioning into something louder and faster, Jackson’s awareness of their surroundings returns.
“Wow,” Holly says. There’s something hidden in her tone. “You guys are good!”
Holland shakes himself, letting go of Jackson and taking a step back. It’s cold in the living room. Jack’s palms tingle.
“So!” Holland’s voice sounds too loud and too bright. “There you go, sweetheart. Now let’s boogie!”
He immediately leaps into a ridiculous dance that looks more like flailing than any real move and then Holly’s back on her feet and the sing-along has resumed.
Jackson slips out the back door.
There’s no pool at the new house, empty or otherwise, but the lights of Los Angeles still glow the same. They interrupt the inky black sky with warmth. It reminds him of what this house has become for him, or more accurately, the bright joy the Marches have given him. He can only hope that he gives them some sort of happiness, security, or comfort in return.
He stands in the grass, listening to the crickets and the noises of home that come from inside. The kitchen faucet, doors opening and closing, Holly’s shrieks when Holland picks her up and spins her around. Jackson is a part of this all, now. He could walk in the door and be swept up immediately in the nighttime routines. He belongs here.
Time slips by and the house quiets. The back door opens and closes with a gentle click. Jackson turns to face Holland.
“Holly’s in bed,” he says. “Why are you hiding out here alone?”
“Not hiding,” Jack says. “Waiting.”
Holland takes a step closer. “Waiting for what?” he asks quietly.
The deep indigo night and glowing streetlights have given Jack courage. If he’s wrong, he’s really wrong. But he doesn’t think he’s wrong.
“For you,” he says honestly.
Holland takes another step, unsteady, halfway reaching out as if he expects to be rejected. Jack pulls him in gratefully.
There’s no space between them this time. Holland’s arms come up to loop around Jackson’s neck, and Jack presses his hands against Holland’s lower back. Their bodies fit together perfectly. They sway softly to an unheard melody, turning slowly in place.
Then Holland’s eyes drop down to his lips, and Jack cups his jaw and leans in.
Holland tastes like menthol and something unidentifiable: warm and masculine. He lets out a little breathy whimper as their lips brush that goes straight to Jack’s gut. Jack grazes his teeth against Holland’s bottom lip before kissing him again, harder, deeper. Holland’s arms tighten around his shoulders.
Jack understands now why people say, “It took my breath away.” His ribs feel too small, his lungs not able to fully inflate. He’s consumed by the smell of Holland’s cologne, the scrape of his stubble, the pressure of his hands. He pulls away for a moment to gasp for air.
“Jack, please,” Holland groans. His voice is rough with arousal. Jack drops his hands lower, grasps greedily at Holland’s hips, pulls the other man flush against his thigh. Holland curses and drops his forehead to Jack’s shoulder. “Wait, wait,” he moans, and Jackson freezes.
“This isn’t… it’s not… I mean, you want…” Holland shudders, presses his face into the crook of Jackson’s neck to hide. “This isn’t a one-time thing right?”
Jackson’s time knowing Holland has been an experience of being systemically taken apart, his defenses torn down brick by brick. This is no different. He feels an ache in his chest and he cradles the back of Holland’s head, hugging him tight. “I love you, Holland,” he says. It feels right. “I want it all. Everything you’ll give me.”
Holland sobs. He clings to Jack, kisses carefully up the column of his throat. Jack hisses at the sensation. His fingers tangle in Holland’s hair, holding him still. He wants to consume the other man, to own him and be owned. Holland bites under Jack’s jaw and then licks over the spot, moaning like he’s the one who’s having his neck assaulted.
“It’s yours,” Holland says shakily. “Everything.” And he kisses Jackson again, pouring devotion into his body and pressing it against his lips.