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It was a shit afternoon after a shit morning after a shit night.
The trail they were on went cold after a full week of detective work, and now he and Healy were out a paycheck. Which, obviously, led them both to the bar for a drink or two, which Holland turned into twenty when he stumbled into the rental well after midnight.
When he woke up, he thought he was going to die. His head was killing him and his stomach felt like it was trying to claw its way out of his skin. His mouth is dry, and his bed is wet—he doesn't want to know if it's sweat or piss—and he just feels pitiful.
He cracks his eyes open (with great effort) and squints against the light pouring in from the still-open curtains. The bathroom. He just has to make it to the bathroom, and then he can start to feel human again. He throws himself out of bed and just barely manages to stay on his feet when he feels a sickening slickness in his boxers.
He whips around to look at where he was lying and sees the smears of red on the sheets from where he was tossing and turning in his sleep.
Of fucking course. I probably deserve this.
He hasn't had a goddamn period in over a decade, not since just after Holly was born. He wasn't sure it was possible anymore. But he should know by now that god has never been on his fucking side.
As if he weren't miserable enough, being vertical presents another challenge: cramping. Holland nearly doubles over at the searing, aching pit in his abdomen.
Stumbling into the bathroom, he rummages under the sink to search for a stray pad or lone tampon left behind by the previous tenants, but comes up empty.
Fuck.
Okay, easy. He can make plans. He can do this. He's a grown man.
1) Shower
2) Go to store and buy some supplies
3) Burn Wash the sheets
Just three things. You've got this, March.
After showering, bundling as much toilet paper in the gusset of his briefs as possible, and donning a dark brown suit, he's standing in the 'feminine hygiene' aisle. What a stupid fucking name. They're period products; just call it that.
He's torn between getting a box of pads or a box of tampons. Pads are more comfortable and don't make him as dysphoric, but a sanitary belt will definitely be visible with how tight his slacks are. Tampons give him the discretion he prefers, but the idea of sticking anything inside of himself makes him want to hurl.
He's bent over trying to figure out if he's going to need regular pads with a belt or the brand new adhesive ones (how would that even work?) when he hears it.
"March?"
Healy. Of course it is.
"Healy! Didn't know you went grocery shopping," he tries for casual and misses it by a fucking mile.
His partner gives him an odd look and gestures to his basket full of frozen meals, a loaf of bread, and a jar of peanut butter. "Man's gotta eat."
Holland lets his gaze slide to the softness of Healy's gut, and he feels a thrill run down his spine before he notices the man's basket.
"What, no jelly?"
"Excuse me?"
"You've got PB and bread, but you don't have any jelly."
"Jelly's too sweet, you don't need it."
"So you're just going to ruin the sanctity of a PB&J because it's 'too sweet'? It's a classic sandwich!"
"I'm not making a PB&J; it's a peanut butter sandwich," he deadpans like Holland is stupid.
"Whatever, man. You're just saying that because you haven't had one of my PB&Js. You know, when Holly was little, she would refuse to eat Lizzie's PB&Js. Even when we didn't tell her who made it, she would always know. Said that mom's just weren't as good." He always got sentimental on his period, but the thought of his two favorite girls brought a smile to his face.
"Ah, Holly. Poor girl, how is she?"
"Huh?" He literally saw her yesterday.
Healy nods to behind March. "That time of the month for her, yeah? Gotta be tough for a single dad. Lots of estrogen flooding the house, mood swings."
Holland can hardly hear past the blood rushing in his ears. He's been caught out. Healy is going to know, but as per usual, his mouth moves faster than his brain.
"No, she is NOT. Holly is still my little girl; she isn't ready for that shit yet," he insists, stamping his foot like a child.
"… then why are you in the feminine hygiene aisle?"
"They're 'period products' and what, a man can't browse?"
"Sure, but they usually browse for shit they can use. Unless… you're not seeing anybody, are you?"
He could lie. He could tell him that he's found someone and he's being a doting boyfriend by braving the judgment on his masculinity and bringing her pads in her time of need, but how quickly is that gonna fall apart? He spends days at a time with Healy, and Holly won't lie to cover for him—she likes making him squirm too much.
Fuck it. It was going to happen sooner or later.
"Nope. These are for me," he says plainly, swooping back down to grab a box of adhesive pads at random and brushing past Healy towards the checkout.
There's a moment where he thinks he gets away with it. He snags a 100 Grand bar from the checkout line (sue him, he's bleeding) and pays for it and the pads without issue. He's unlocking the car when—
"Wait up, March!"
Fucking Healy.
Holland turns around slowly, dread pooling in his stomach. Healy is standing there with a tentative smile on his face and a paper bag.
"Make me lunch?" He asks, hopefully, "I bought jelly."
Healy doesn't bring it up.
They're sitting at the bar and shooting the shit while Holland prepares them each a sandwich.
"I'm telling you, there's just something to the magic of salty, nutty goodness and sugary grape that is the cornerstone of every good American school lunch."
"I was a bologna and cheese kid, myself."
"Of course you were. That's why you're so gruff; your mom never let you have enough sugar as a kid."
"So that's why you're so sweet?"
Holland blushes; it's not like they've never joked like this before, but this feels more intimate.
"Yeah, yeah. Shut up and eat your sandwich. I'll be right back," he mutters.
There's still the blood seeping out of him that he needs to deal with. If he's lucky, it's still contained to just his briefs. If he's not, there's a bottle of bourbon with his name on it.
Fortunately for his newfound several-hour stint of sobriety, nothing spread onto his suit pants. Five minutes of trying to figure out where to place a pad with adhesive on it on a fresh pair of briefs (he's still not sure it's in the right place—a belt is so much easier) later, he finds Healy halfway through his PB&J.
A small smile creeps onto Holland's face. "It's good, isn't it?"
"You're a real sandwich artist, March, I'll give you that," he nods, raising the half in his hand in a toast.
"It's Holly's favorite. Sometimes when she’s over at a friend's house, and I miss her, I'll make a PB&J. It sounds stupid, but—it's like a little bit of her here with me."
"That's really sweet, Holland."
Holland. He doesn't use his first name very often; maybe that's why he'd let his guard down. Why he'd thought they could go back to normal and forget all about the grocery store.
He's never that lucky.
"You, uh, you wanna tell me what you're doing with a pack of sanitary napkins?"
"Jack," he says pointedly, eyebrows raised.
There are a few beats of silence before Jack's eyes drop from Holland's face to his groin.
"Oh."
There's no disgust in his voice, but there's no acceptance either—it's carefully neutral.
Might as well go all in.
"I don't have a dick. Lizzie and I were two sides of the same coin—we found solace in each other and moved out to LA for a fresh start right out of high school. New names, new clothes, new lives—after I had Holly, we were a normal, happy family to everyone else. Nobody needed to know except us. Now Lizzie's gone, and I've been alone in this for so long—I don't even remember if Holly knows."
"March—"
"I'm a man. End of story, Jack. If you can't deal with that, the door's right fucking there."
"Holland." Healy's warm, heavy hand comes to rest on his. He didn't realize he was shaking.
He looks up to find Healy looking at him with the sort of softness that was usually reserved for Holly.
"Nothing changes. You're the same man now as you were ten minutes ago; the only thing that's changed is now I know my dick's bigger than yours," he jokes, trying to lighten the mood.
I wouldn't be so sure about that, Jack. I've got quite the schwanz in my bedside drawer.
Holland lets out a long breath in a wheeze, relief surging through him.
"Thank Christ, I trust you and all, but I really wasn't looking forward to the possibility of you breaking any more of my bones. I like them very much intact."
His uterus decides to make itself known at this point. Holland braces against the counter with a whine, breathing through the pain.
Healy looks caught between standing up to help him and puffing up for a nonexistent fight. "What can I do?"
Holland lets out a mirthless laugh. "Unless you're offering me a Percocet or an orgasm, you can do fuck all."
"…I can do one of those," he says cryptically.
"I thought you didn't do drugs?"
"Very funny," he deadpans, "You wanna cum or not?"
Well, if he's offering.
Holland answers by pulling him into a kiss by the collar of his blue leather jacket. Jack kisses like he does everything—steady, methodical, and thorough. Holland feels overwhelmed in the best possible way, all of his senses flooded with Healy.
He tugs him off the bar stool and starts stumbling with him towards the bedroom. He pushes against Jack's chest to get him to sit on the edge of the bed, breaking their kiss.
"Okay. Some ground rules: you don't touch my chest, my cock is fair game, and nothing goes inside—not your dick, not your fingers, not your tongue. Got it?"
Healy's taken aback by Holland taking the reins here, but he's not about to back down. "Yeah, of course, whatever you want."
"Good." Holland lets his button-up slide off his shoulders and to the ground, leaving his white tank top on, before climbing into Healy's lap to kiss him again.
Those big hands are on him immediately, untucking his undershirt to slide warm palms over the smooth skin of his waist.
Holland trails kisses along Healy's jaw and neck while he tries (and fails) to wrestle that damn jacket off. Jack laughs at him fondly as he removes it and does Holland the favor of unbuttoning his shirt, too.
He dips his head to plant his face in that gloriously revealed chest hair when his body betrays him yet again.
"Jesus fuck," he groans as the cramping pain radiates through his hips and across his lower back.
Healy's hands are back and pressing warmth into the curve of his spine, and it's heavenly.
"Let me take care of you, yeah?" He murmurs against the crown of Holland's head.
"Please," he whimpers.
"Stand up for me, hon," he requests, voice low and just for Holland.
He does as he's told and stands in front of Healy, shifting his weight nervously.
"Show me what you've got," Healy teases, tone light and familiar. His eyes full of want.
Holland takes a deep, fortifying breath and undoes his slacks, shimmying them down his thighs until he's left in his briefs. Healy's eyes widen slightly where they're trained on March's groin. He glances down at himself and realizes he did not, in fact, have the pad placed correctly. The front of his white briefs is slick and saturated with fresh blood.
"Fuck, I'm sorry, Jack. These new pads don't exactly come with fucking instructions. Just let me clean—"
"Can I suck your dick?"
That stops Holland in his tracks.
"Come again?"
"March. There's nothing I want more right now than your dick in my mouth."
Jack Healy is a goddamn freak.
It's a good thing Holland March is, too.
"Yeah, yeah, okay," he agrees breathlessly. Hurrying to slip his briefs off and toss them in the direction of the tiled bathroom for easy clean-up later.
Holland is incredibly proud of his dick. Ten years on testosterone (with only a brief break when he was carrying Holly) had done him well. Big enough to stand out from his well-groomed bush, even when flaccid, and substantial enough to jack off with a few fingers.
"Holland," Jack groans, and oh. Holland likes the way his name sounds on his lips when he says it like that.
"Like what you see?"
"You kiddin' me? I'm droolin' over here."
"Thanks, I grew it myself," he preens.
Healy rolls his eyes and grabs Holland by the backs of his thighs. "Shut up and get over here."
The first touch of Healy's tongue on his dick punched out a noise that Holland will refuse to acknowledge as a whimper. It's hot and slick and all encompassing. He laps through the blood and slick without any hesitation or disgust—just the single-minded goal of making March feel good.
The sight of Jack below him, lips around his cock is almost arousing enough for Holland to blow his load far too soon.
He threads his fingers into Jack's thick, soft hair and tugs him off just slightly. Instantly, Jack growls and tugs against Holland's hold, trying to latch back on.
"Fuck, you really need it bad, don't you, sweetheart?" His eyes are heavy-lidded and locked on Healy's, blown dark with desire and disgruntled that he's being kept away from his prize. There's blood drying in the stubble on his chin, and Holland's knees go weak.
Jack takes the opportunity to pull out of his grip and presses himself firmly against Holland, nose nestled in his bush, and hands gripping his ass almost painfully.
"Jesus, don't we feed you??"
There's no more room for sass in Holland's mind once Jack starts bobbing his head, giving him a proper blowjob. Lewd sucking and obscene moans fill the room as his orgasm grows nearer and nearer.
"That's it, Jack. You're doing so good for me, baby. Your lips look so pretty around my cock, stained with me," he babbles, grinding against Healy's face to chase his finish.
A few moments later, he's crushing Healy's face against his pelvis as he cums, moaning long and loud. His orgasm is only drawn out longer by the truly cock-drunk groans Healy's pressing against his cock.
He finally lets him pull away, and he's almost ready to cum again at the glassy look in his eyes, the lower half of his face glistening with blood and slick.
Holland's more satisfied than he's been in a long time, and he flops back onto the bed, not worrying about the mess because he never did get around to changing his sheets from this morning.
Healy flops down beside him. "Feelin' better?"
"If I'd have known you had a mouth like that, we would've done this a long time ago," he laughs.
The two of them lie there in comfortable silence while they both catch their breath.
Holland turns to face Jack and gestures to his crotch. "You want me to—"
"Don't worry about it, Holl," he brushes off.
"No, I'm not a selfish lover, Jack. Just let me—"
"This was about you, not me."
"Come on, I want to!" Holland reaches for the fly of his jeans and freezes when he feels it.
"March—"
"… oh my god." The denim is cold and wet where his hand is cupped around Healy's very flaccid dick.
"Not a word."
"You totally creamed your jeans! I should've known you had a thing for blood, given your chosen profession. I, for one, am flattered, truly."
Jack rolls his eyes and tugs Holland into a kiss by the nape of his neck. March squeals and shoves him away.
"Dude, fucking gross! That's my blood all over your mouth!!"
"You weren't complaining earlier."
"Ugh. You're so lucky I love you."
They stare at each other.
He backtracks. "Uh, I mean—I love working with you, not like I love you or any—"
"I'm lucky I love you too," Healy cuts him off with the most besotted smile.
Holland tackles Healy to the mattress to kiss him again and again and again—fuck the blood.
Maybe today wasn't so shit after all.