Chapter Text
The first thing Holland notices when he wakes up are the backs of his teeth.
In the blurred space between sleep and consciousness he realizes that the back of his teeth are wholly unfamiliar. Confusion seeps in, loosening the warm grip sleep has on him and pulling him free.
His canines are dull. Duller than they should be and there's no familiar chip in the tooth right next to it. There should be an imperfection there. He remembers falling from his bike, remembers telling his father that a part of his tooth had splintered off, remembers that he hadn't believed him.
Holland had been a creative child, according to his parents. Always dreaming and telling stories too wild to be true. He remembers swearing that he was telling the truth, had gone to his mother to tell her, too, nearly begging for at least her to have faith in his story, but she had simply shared an exasperated glance with his father and placated him with food until he gave up, sulking in silence for the rest of the day.
Holland draws his tongue over his teeth again. They’re still shockingly unfamiliar, but solid and real enough that he knows he isn't dreaming.
He rubs a hand over his face, then halts, confusion slowly but surely melting into something that makes his heart beat and his hands shake, just a half-step away from full-blown panic.
Because that's not his hand on his face. And that's not his hair under it, not his nose under it, and definitely not his stubbly beard, because he doesn't fucking have one.
“What the fuck?”
Holland is glad he can speak at least, glad he isn't paralyzed, but the words come out… Wrong.
It’s like they stick together. Like they want to fall out of his mouth in one chained tangle of sounds, one after the other, the last sound of one word smoothing over into the next one until they're blurred, the boundary between the two hazy and soft.
Holland only slurs his words and smooths out the valley between them when he's close to passing out. He takes pride in not spitting all his words out hurried and stressed. He takes his time, separates the sounds as they should be separated. Makes sure Holly talks properly, too.
He counts the clues: not his teeth, not how he speaks, and not his voice.
The voice that came out of him was deep, and he felt it, where it rumbled in his chest. Most importantly, though, it's familiar. He knows that voice. Has heard it nearly every day for the past few months.
Holland opens his eyes, but no, that's not right, is it? Because he might be a fool as soon as he gets his hand around the neck of a bottle, but there's a reason he can pay for a rental as nice as the one he lives in currently.
He's a good detective. Stupid enough to take risks and just smart enough for it to work out. Stupid enough, too, to believe what might seem utterly impossible to everyone else and smart enough to prove that he was right all along.
So, Holland opens Jackson Healy's eyes, sits up in Jackson Healy's bed, blanket pooling at his waist, and looks around Jackson Healy’s apartment.
“Jesus fuckin’ christ,” he says and Jackson’s voice rumbles out of him.
He looks down at his(?) body.
“What the fuck,” he says again, his rational mind fighting against all the clear and plain evidence of what's going on.
Holland takes in Jackson's broad chest, his big arms. Flexes his hands, intertwines Jackson's thick fingers and cracks them experimentally. Feels pretty much the same as when he cracks his own fingers, he realizes with a shrug.
What very much doesn't feel the same, though, is the general size of the body he's currently inhabiting.
Jackson is a lot bigger than him.
Especially his shoulders and arms, though Holland remembers inappropriately staring at Jackson's broad chest, too, so different from his own lanky build.
He flexes his right arm, curious, then feels Jackson's biceps strain against the worn fabric of the shirt he's wearing. Jesus.
He wraps a hand around the biceps, squeezes down experimentally and has to laugh at how different it feels; nothing like his own noodly arms. He's abruptly reminded of how easily this body – Jackson – gave him a bloody nose and broke his arm. There's so much strength here.
Holland thinks people underestimate Jackson sometimes. They see the fat he carries and immediately forget all about what hides underneath.
But Holland knows better.
He intimately knows how strong Jackson is – not only from a hilariously unfair brawl that cost him the sleeves of some of his finest suits, but also from a case gone wrong where Jackson had to drag his delirious form back to their car, from a warm hand around his shoulders that catches him when he sometimes loses his already somewhat underdeveloped balance, and from lugging endless cases of Yoo-Hoos to the rental for Holly. (And for Jackson, if we're being honest.)
He wonders how much damage he could do with this body. If it's enough sheer force to make up for what Holland lacks in skill. Probably not. Jackson fights… Not elegantly exactly, but controlled in a way. With purpose and years of experience.
Holland hums, pokes himself in the belly – warm and soft – glad that Jackson sleeps in a shirt, so he can prevent any grave invasions of privacy, until he realizes he has to piss.
“Fuck.”
That's not good.
He nervously bites his lip, not really liking the path that's unfolding in front of him.
But needs must, so he swings his legs over the edge of the bed, studying Jackson's feet for a moment, until he realizes that that's maybe one of the things he shouldn't be doing. He's been trying to limit his staring anyway. Admittedly, it hasn't worked yet, but one day Holland is sure he'll be strong enough to tear his gaze away from his partner and his blue, blue eyes, soft smile and –
He gets up. It takes more effort than it normally does. That is, when he's not so hungover that he feels close to death.
He finds the bathroom easily enough, Jackson's apartment isn't all that big.
Then he stands in front of the toilet, hands on his hips, somewhat unsure how to do this.
He can just close his eyes? But then he can't see where he's aiming.
He heaves a sigh, embarrassed, because the urge to take a peek is strong enough to make his hands shake, but the urge to not further invade his partner's privacy is stronger.
Holland isn’t sure if he would have felt the same way at the beginning of their partnership, but over the months, the first weeks even, he's come to not only like Jackson, but respect him. Respect him enough to treat his body with the care it deserves, so he sits down, keeps his eyes closed, then carefully washes Jackson's hands.
He stares into the mirror, into Jackson's eyes, and steals.
He's a greedy man. Always has been. One scoop of ice cream was never enough, when he was younger, and then one drag from a friend's cigarette wasn't enough either and so it went and kept on going.
So he stands in his partner's bathroom, looks at his face, so familiar that it aches, deep in his chest, and steals as many glances as he can.
His eyes are darker. Just a bit, but it's noticeable. Holland had already known this, of course, but now he has the chance to really look.
He looks at the silver that threads Jackson's hair, too. Scrubs a hand over the stubble that adorns his jaw. Can't help but draw the tip of a finger over his lips, slow and careful, a touch that's just soft enough to excuse later, when he'll feel guilty about this.
He pulls a grimace, then does it again, just to see what it looks like on Jackson's face.
He smiles, too, breath catching when Jackson's soft smile is what meets him in the mirror’s silvery plane.
It's then that he realizes he has no idea where Jackson is. He'd just assumed, in the back of his mind, that Jackson would be in his body, grateful that he'd actually made it to bed yesterday evening and even more grateful that Holly was still on her cabin trip with Jessica and her parents.
But what if Jackson isn't in his body? What if this is affecting not only the two of them but more people? Maybe even the whole world.
It's not probable, Holland knows, because what would be the odds that out of eight billion people he lands in his partner's body?
The thought calms him down enough to find Jackson's car keys and he's already at the door, when he realizes Jackson probably wouldn't want him to leave without putting on proper clothes. He sighs again, turns around and searches for the closet.
He finds a pair of jeans thrown over a chair first, carefully replaces the soft pants Jackson apparently sleeps in with them, nearly falling face first onto the carpeted floor, because he’s still trying to keep his eyes closed.
He roots around in Jackson's closet, heaving long-suffering sigh after long-suffering sigh at the lack of suits and other fancier items of clothing. He finds a blue shirt with a faded print on it, deems it clean, after holding it up into the light.
The problem starts when he pulls the shirt over his head. He nearly has a heart attack, because as he blindly guides his arms into the sleeves the smell of freshly washed linen washes over him.
He makes a shocked noise that somehow comes out high and screechy, even with Jackson's normally deep voice, completely taken off-guard by a sense he should be missing. And of course, he is missing his sense of smell, but Jackson very much isn't.
That’s when Holland realizes that in his moment of shock he got stuck in the shirt. He wiggles around, tries to get a grip on the fabric to take it back off and try again, when it suddenly slips free, pooling somewhere on the floor.
The real mistake follows then, because Holland opens his formerly-closed eyes and gets an eyeful of miles and miles of bared skin.
Later Holland won't be able to tell if he opened his eyes on purpose or not. He wants to believe he didn't, but he also knows himself. Knows just how interesting he had found this situation, an excitement akin to a scientist's, buried behind worry and panic. This was a look into Jackson's life. A once in a lifetime opportunity of knowing more about him. And Holland always wants to know more.
It had annoyed his parents just as it, sometimes, annoys Jackson now. Incessant nagging, questions after questions. Sometimes Jackson indulges him and Holland feels like the cat that got the cream then.
Right now, he doesn't feel especially smug or satisfied, though.
“Oh, fuck,” he whispers, taking in Jackson's belly, the thick happy trail that vanishes into the jeans he pulled on, the graying chest hair he wants – no, needs – to bury his hands in and the rosy nipples he'd love to get his mouth on.
Oh, he’s so fucked, because so far his infatuation with one Jackson Healy had relied on his mind to create images and fantasies of what Jackson might look like under those awful patterned button-downs. But now? Now he knows exactly what Jackson looks like under them and he knows he won't forget it, not in a million years.
He sighs, deciding to deal with all this later, picks up the shirt from the floor and unceremoniously pulls it on. With open eyes it's pretty easy to find the right holes, he realizes.
Holland pushes his nose into the fabric when he's dressed, takes deep breaths, smells the fabric softener Jackson uses and thinks again, that maybe this whole ‘waking up in another body’ thing might not be all bad.
He turns back around, takes Jackson's keys in hand, remembers to grab his leather jacket at the last moment, then locks the door behind him and goes to find Jackson's car.
Thankfully, he's been here often enough, so he doesn't have any problem locating the blue car. He also knows the way to the rental from Jackson's apartment and for a Saturday the traffic is blessedly light, so he gets there in less than twenty minutes, haphazardly parking the car in his driveway and getting out, bumping into the door in the process, because he keeps calculating his movements with his own narrow frame in mind.
When he manages to get his balance back he sees that his car is still here, so wherever Jackson is, he didn't use the car to get there. Good. Holland hopes Jackson is still here and that he doesn't have to start searching for his partner who's, presumably, running around in his body.
He knocks at the door, underestimating his strength a bit and the knocks ring out startingly loud.
There's the sound of a key turning in the lock and then Holland is staring at himself.
Utter relief fills him, cool and calming like a cold shower at the end of a too-hot and too-sticky beach day, when he – something in him – instinctively recognizes Jackson.
Jackson hasn't dressed him. He's still wearing the clothes Holland had on when he went to bed yesterday evening; a crumpled light blue shirt and white pants that he knows are incredibly uncomfortable to sleep in, because even after months of wear they're pretty stiff.
His eyes seem even more asymmetrical than he already knew they were from the new perspective he has, but at least his mustache is really very well-trimmed.
“Hi.” Holland raises a hand in a vague wave.
There's silence for a moment, then, with Holland's voice, Jackson says, “What the everloving fuck is going on?”
“I think it's pretty apparent what's going on,” Holland retorts. “We,” at this he points to Jackson, then to him, then to Jackson again. “Swapped bodies.”
“And that seems normal to you?” Jackson shrieks, Holland's voice automatically rising, responding to Jackson's apparent bewilderment and panic like a well-trained dog.
“Not exactly, no, but still it's pretty clear what's going on, no?”
“No!” Jackson says then adds, “Why aren't you freaking out?!”
Holland shrugs with Jackson's shoulders. “I had time to adjust. I freaked out when I woke up, though.”
Normally, Jackson is the more easy-going of the two. He's pretty laid-back most of the time, even when he's breaking some poor sod's left arm. But this seems to be one of the things that can actually rattle him.
Jackson hasn't said anything, apparently speechless. Holland snorts.
“Come on, let me in,” he says, easily shouldering his way past Jackson who's still standing in the doorway.
“Alright,” Jackson says, closing the door behind Holland, in a move that seems both practiced and distracted. “How do we solve this?”
“I have no idea.”
Jackson grips Holland's hair with both hands, tugging at it in obvious frustration.
“Hey, man, don't tear out my hair,” Holland complains. “My body is a temple, treat it with the respect it deserves.”
Jackson raises an eyebrow, but lets his hands fall from Holland's blonde hair. “Really? A temple? You do know you're soaking said ‘temple’ daily, in what might as well be gasoline, right?”
Holland squawks, offended. “That's not true. I haven't had a binge-drinking incident in ages. Daily is a gross exaggeration!”
Jackson halts, turning that over in his head and Holland sees it on his face, when Jackson realizes he's right. Fuck, his face is incredibly expressive. He might as well be an open book for Jackson to read, good God.
“Huh,” Jackson says.
They stand there in silence for a moment, not sure what to do, then Jackson notices that Holland is dressed.
“You got dressed?” He asks, voice strained and coloured with something close to embarrassment.
“I didn't think you'd want me to go out in pyjamas,” Holland shrugs.
“You took off my pyjamas?” Jackson asks haltingly.
“...I had my eyes closed?” Holland half-lies, grimacing when it comes out like a question.
Jackson looks at him, something close to incredulity, but without the surprise, on his face. “You took a peek, didn't you?”
“Uhh, no. I mean –”
“You did!”
“I had to put on a shirt,” Holland says, helplessly. “You try putting on a shirt with closed eyes!” he adds, gesturing wildly to Jackson.
Jackson for his part looks flushed, and Holland just bemoaned how expressive his face is, but now he wants to take it back, because Jackson Healy is blushing, honest-to-god blushing.
He takes a moment to drink in the sight of Jackson, lets his mind quiet down and just looks.
Jackson apparently doesn't have anything to say to the whole situation. He's very curt today.
“Maybe if we touch we switch back?” Holland finally breaks the silence that had settled back over them, when he's satisfied his need to look at Jackson – it's not exactly the same with Jackson wearing his face.
“Might as well try,” Jackson says after a moment of studying Holland's face, shrugging and holding out one of Holland’s hands.
Holland takes it into one of his hands and then they're standing in the rental's hallway, awkwardly holding hands in a pose that looks like a greeting gone wrong.
Holland looks at their joined hands. Notices that while his fingers are longer and more tanned, Jackson's are way thicker and a bit paler.
“Well,” Jackson says, clearing his throat. “That didn't do shit.”
Holland shrugs helplessly, unsure what else to try, when he catches sight of the clock that hangs in their living room.
“Oh, fuck,” he says, wrenching his hand out of Jackson's grasp.
“What?”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Holland keeps saying, taking off into the direction of his bedroom. He absentmindedly takes in the rumpled sheets, the opened drawers – Jackson's been snooping – as he throws the doors of his closet open.
Jackson, who has followed him into the room, hasn't realized what Holland has.
“Get dressed,” Holland instructs. He throws a pair of slacks and a simple button-down at a confused and ruffled Jackson.
“Ms. O'Sullivan expects us in,” he cranes his neck to look out of his bedroom at the clock, “twenty minutes and the drive takes thirty.”
“Shit,” Jackson groans, awkwardly holding the bundle of clothes Holland threw at him. “But Holland?”
“Yes?”
“What the fuck do we do about this?” He barks, still not all the way calmed down apparently, gesturing between their bodies.
“We can deal with it later.” Holland waves him off.
“No, Holland –”
“Later!” He says, and closes the bedroom door, leaving Jackson alone in his room.
He stands in the hallway for a few seconds, then realizes that Jackson is fucking undressing his body just behind that door, and takes off into the direction of the car with a yelled “I'm waiting in the car” aware that he can't bear another minute this close to where Jackson is seeing him half-naked, noodly arms, happy trail, lanky legs and all, without flushing bright-red or just dying.
Jackson doesn't say anything when he climbs into the driver’s seat Holland left free for him. He's dressed, and for once the gold ring Holland always wears isn't visible, because he's buttoned up the shirt all the way. Who does that?
Jackson turns on the motor, enging rumbling to life, not unlike what Jackson's voice feels like to Holland, when it rumbles through his chest. He peels out of the driveway, tires screeching.
“Do you remember where–”
“Yes.”
Holland shuts his mouth and they drive in silence for a while.
He fiddles with the radio. He opens the glove box. Closes it again. He can't stop staring at all the closed buttons.
“Why did you button it up all the way?”
“What?” Jackson asks, brows furrowed as he makes a pretty sudden left turn, his subpar driving making his frazzled state clear to all involved parties.
“The buttons,” Holland says, nodding to the offending pieces of plastic.
Jackson glances over at him, still confused. “What's wrong with them?”
Holland rolls his eyes. “Why would you button all of them? It looks like shit.”
Jackson scoffs. “It looks just fine.”
“No, it doesn't.”
“What do you care?”
“I can't be seen looking like this,” Holland says and Jackson lets out a snort at his partner's dramatics.
Holland leans over, intending to undo at least two of the buttons, but Jackson flinches back out of his reach.
“What the fuck are you doing?” He snaps.
“Just keep still,” Holland says.
“I'm driving!” Jackson says. “Who cares about the damn buttons?”
“I do!” Holland retorts, leaning further over the center console until Jackson has nowhere to go. But he’s still trying, squirming around in his seat. “Keep still, Jack.”
“Holland –”
Holland manages to pop the buttons open. He lets out a breath. “There you go. Now I can let people see me.”
“See me, you mean.”
“No, I mean see me.”
Jackson snorts, pointedly wiggles his fingers. “See me .”
“It's still my body!” Holland says.
“Not currently, it's not.”
Holland squawks.
“So I can do whatever I want with your body too? Take a peek?” he says, carefully neither mentioning nor thinking about what he'd already seen.
Jackson whips around to face him. “That's not what I said!”
“Then don't embarrass me in my body!”
“Fine! And you don't embarrass me .”
Holland crosses his arms over his chest. “Fine.”
It's silent for another while, just the rumble of the pavement beneath the tires and the soft sound of the radio.
Then, just when the song ends, Jackson softly says, “I'm sorry,” not meeting Holland's eyes.
Something warm fills Holland at his partner’s words. Just half a year ago Jackson would have never apologized and Holland would have never accepted it if he had. Their partnership has grown since then. Yes, they bicker and squabble, but there's a sense of familiarity in the bickering, a sense of pretense, too. They don't mean it anymore, not really.
“It's fine,” Holland says.
“No.” Jacksons shakes his head. “You were right, it's your body and you deserve to decide what happens to it.”
Holland accepts that with a nod. “Thank you.”
He hesitates for a moment, then adds, “I really didn't mean to look – It just kind of happened?”
Jackson doesn't answer at first and Holland could be imagining things, but it seems like there's red smeared across his cheeks, soft and hazy. “It's fine, just – it's fine.”
Holland nods, leans back in his seat and watches how Jackson uses his hands, his long fingers, to drive his car. He spends the remaining minutes of their journey making careful observations about Jackson in the quiet of the car. In the back of his mind he almost wishes the way to their latest client was longer.
Said client, Ms. O'Sullivan, had called them about a week ago with a very standard job all things considered.
Her nephew had gone missing, but she had said she felt it was still too early to call the police and that they weren't all that close anyway, so it wouldn't be completely implausible that said nephew just wasn't picking up her calls.
Holland had simply nodded along, humming at the right moments, phone wedged between his ear and shoulder, taking notes for Jackson to read through later.
She had requested for them to meet her at her apartment, citing the need to stay close to her dogs, two yappy white bundles of fur that had hated Holland at first sight.
She had also given them a picture of her nephew, a young man with an assortment of moles grinning up at them from the canvas.
They were here again just a day later, because she had misplaced her check book the day before, but had promised that her neighbour would be able to help her find it in time.
Ms. O'Sullivan looks the same as the day before, when she opens the door for them. Their client is a small woman, with a shock of curly dark hair, the same abundance of moles scattered over her skin that her nephew also carries with him. She’s wearing dark blue linen pants today, a cardigan thrown over a white shirt and more necklaces than Holland can count around her neck.
Holland barely gets out a greeting when Ms. O'Sullivan takes one look at them and pales.
“Oh, dear,” she says, reaching out with one hand as if trying to poke Holland, but stopping and drawing it back before she can make contact.
“Oh, dear,” she repeats, a wondering, almost awed note in her voice and Holland has the terrible feeling that Ms. O’Sullivan knows something.
She doesn't say anything more, though, just steps back from the door, ushering them inside.
“Do you want coffee?”
“No, that's alright,” Jackson answers for both of them. He knows Holland hates coffee.
“It's no bother. I've just brewed a pot,” their client replies from where she's vanished into what must be the kitchen.
Jackson looks at Holland and Holland shrugs at him.
Ms. O'Sullivan ushers them into the living room and motions for them to sit down onto the couch, while she pours coffee for them.
Holland sees that her two vicious little dogs have already claimed the couch and wants to go find somewhere else to sit, when he realizes that he's in Jackson's body now and must look and smell completely different to them.
He goes to sit down next to the dogs, but as soon as he actually touches the couch they both jump up, barking like mad and jumping in place, clearly not happy with Holland, despite the fact that he's not even himself right now. Not really, at least.
Jackson who’s watching the whole thing unfold and who doesn't have any ongoing feuds with small white dogs, pushes Holland to the side and switches places with him.
The dogs quiet down immediately and Holland throws them a sour look. Bastards.
When he's finally parked his ass on the couch he looks at Ms. O'Sullivan who has been quietly studying them the whole time. She's not pale anymore, having recovered from whatever shock she might have experienced. Holland would be willing to bet it has something to do with their situation and for all his flaws, gambling has never been his thing.
“I see you've landed yourself in a bit of a predicament,” she says after taking a careful sip of her coffee.
Jackson looks at her with a confused expression. He hasn't caught on yet. “Wait, what?”
“You've switched places, my dear. Your souls, that is,” their client says simply, like the whole debacle is just another Thursday, which it might just be for her, because Holland can put two and two together and this really isn't the hardest mystery he's ever solved.
“How do you – Wait, did you have something to do with this?” Jackson asks, voice incredulous, and Holland figures he must be pretty conflicted right about now.
When someone poses a danger to Jackson, or Holland, or even worse, Holly, Jackson turns very dangerous very quickly. But the danger normally doesn't come in the form of old women who barely reach his shoulder.
Ms. O'Sullivan carefully places her cup on the couch table. “I'm very sorry, really very sorry, but it seems one of my spells has gone wrong.”
“Spells?!” Jackson does not seem to be on board with this development and Holland is fighting with this unceremonious reveal that magic is real, too. Quieter than his partner, though, for once.
“Last night, after you left,” their client begins. “I cast a spell on both of you –”
“Why?!”
“It wasn't supposed to do this .” She broadly gestures to both of them. “It was a very simple good luck spell, something I must have cast hundreds of times by now.”
There's a simultaneously awkward and stunned silence in the room, only the panting of the two white bundles of fluff audible.
“I really don't know what went wrong, but it must have gone wrong, because this has never happened before.” She keeps studying them and while she's wringing her hands and genuinely seems both surprised and sorry, she also seems very interested, eyes clear and focused on them. Holland feels like they're missing something here.
“Fuck,” Holland says. “Fuck.”
Jackson throws him a reprimanding look, not a fan of Holland swearing in front of paying clients.
“Can you undo it?” Holland asks. “Because as much as I like this bo – I mean –”
He tries again. “As nice as it is to be strong for once, I really would like my body back.”
Jackson nods. “I think we'd both prefer that,” he says very diplomatically.
No reason to antagonize someone, who is apparently some type of magic user and also their client.
“Yes, so we would like to –”
“The good news,” the old woman interrupts Holland. “Is that the spell lasts at most forty-eight hours, closer to twenty-four maybe.”
Holland lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding, relief sickering through.
“The bad news –”
Oh, fuck.
“– is that until those hours are up, I can't do anything.”
Holland swallows. “You can't do anything?”
Ms. O'Sullivan shakes her head. “I'm afraid not, Mr. March,” she says, adressing Jackson’s body, which is currently being inhabited by said Mr. March.
“You're not going to…spell us again?” Jackson asks, haltingly.
“Oh, no,” Ms. O'Sullivan quickly says. “And let me tell you a secret, detectives.”
She leans a bit closer. “Harmful magic doesn't exist.”
Holland furrows his brows. “What do you mean it doesn't exist? Look at us, we clearly –”
“Harmful magic, Mr. March, does not exist.”
Holland lets out an incredulous noise. “Then what would you call this?!” He asks, gesturing wildly between him and Jackson again.
Their client takes another sip of coffee, their own cups slowly but surely cooling where they've been sitting untouched.
“I'm not sure what this is, to be frank.”
“How can you not be sure? You did this!”
“Yes, and I'm sorry for that, but this just isn't how magic normally works.”
She spreads her hands, motioning to their surroundings. “Magic is real, but it's only just real enough for a handful of people to even believe in it. What magic did here is big, bigger than I have ever seen and bigger than I thought possible.”
She gives them a moment to digest that new information.
“The spell I cast would have maybe prevented one of you from dropping their wallet into a puddle. Or it would have made a bird decide to not shit on your car. Something like that. Just something to help along.”
Jackson nods. “I see,” he says and doesn't seem like he sees.
“I really am very sorry. I crossed a boundary, when I spelled you, but I really didn't expect something like this to happen.”
Holland is horrified to see tears gathering in their client's eyes and he had already believed her, but now there's no question for him. She's telling them the truth.
“Ms. O'Sullivan, it's – well, it's not ideal, but if, as you said, everything will be back to normal by Monday, I think we will be just fine. Right?” He says, directing the question to Jackson, who he hopes has recovered from his shell-shock.
“Yeah,” he clears his throat. “My partner is right.”
Their client nods gratefully, then goes back to explaining the intricacies of magic to them.
To Holland it all sounds like chance and luck and he knows if he wasn't literally sitting here in Jackson's body, smelling their client's perfume, the yappy white dogs and Jackson's shirt, he wouldn't believe a thing she's telling them.
Ms. O'Sullivan, thankfully, seems utterly sure that something like this won't happen again, the chance is just too small, and she does a good job of concinving Holland and Jackson of this.
They get up to leave about two hours later, when their client, who's following them to the door says, “I will, of course, triple your usual rate, detectives.”
Holland stills. He had completely forgotten about her lost nephew and from the look on Jackson's face, so had he.
But Holland has never been one to say no when an opportunity presented itself and Jackson seems to know it, judging from the long-suffering sigh he lets out.
“We will gladly accept that,” Holland says with a grin.
“And that's really very kind of you,” Jackson adds, silently reminding Holland to please remember his manners.
“Yes,” Holland nods. “Very kind. And we will, of course, find your nephew as fast as possible.”
“I'm glad, I’m very glad,” Ms. O'Sullivan says, opening the door for them.
Jackson leaves the apartment first, and Holland tries to follow but misjudges his frame again and bumps into a picture that was hanging on the wall. It falls with a loud clatter, the breaking of glass very audible in the hallway.
“I'm so sorry.” Holland flushes, embarrassment worming in his belly, and bends to pick up the pieces. He has the picture in hand, a young man standing in front of what must be his car, when their client shoos him away.
“Let me take care of that, Mr. March. I've brought you enough work, I think.”
“No, I can –”
“Mr. March, I'll do it, don't worry.”
Holland nods, still awkwardly bent at the waist, picture in hand. “Alright,” he says, handing the picture over
“Now go,” the old woman says. “Your partner is waiting.”
Holland straightens up, throws their client an awkward goodbye and leaves through the door.
Jackson is leaning against his car, head tilted towards the sun, arms loosely crossed over his chest and Holland feels like he's been hit over the head with a frying pan. He looks so much like himself, despite not being in his body.
He shakes his head, dispelling the spiralling thoughts and clambers into the car with Jackson.
The case is almost disgustingly easy to solve.
Jackson drives them back home.
Holland would have thought the atmosphere would be less strained, less hurried, now that Ms. O’Sullivan has explained what's going on, but it's not. There's tension in the air, thick and cloying.
Holland squirms in his seat. He puts his hands on his thighs, momentarily confused until he realizes why they're so much thicker than he's used to.
He keeps squirming, not sure what to do with his – Jackson's – hands suddenly.
Does he put them on his thighs? It feels weird to know what Jackson's thighs feel like beneath his hands, almost forbidden.
They're not his hands, of course, but still, they work just fine and he can feel the muscles shifting beneath, can feel the warmth of Jackson's body seep into his skin.
“What did you knock over?” Jackson suddenly asks.
Holland jumps. “What?” He asks, and only then processes the question. “Oh, a picture.”
Jackson hums. “A picture of her daughter?”
“She has a daughter?”
“Yes, she – Holland, she told us about her yesterday.” Jackson looks over at him, studies him. “Did you already forget?”
“No,” Holland lies, grateful that Jackson’s voice doesn't betray him like his own tends to.
Jackson raises his eyebrows at him, clearly not convinced.
“It was a picture of a guy.”
Jackson nods. “Her nephew, then?”
Holland goes to nod, then stills. There was a car in the picture.
“Jack,” he says. “Jack!”
“What?"
“I have his number – his license plate number I mean,” he says excitedly, slapping at Jackson's shoulder with one hand. He must have underestimated the strength Jackson carries with him yet again, because Jackson jumps and sends him a dirty look.
“What?”
“There was a car in the picture. His car, the nephew's car!”
Jackson looks at him, surprise in Holland's blue eyes. “And you got the license plate number from that?”
Holland shrugs. “Yeah, I know it.” He taps a finger against his temple. “Got it all in here.”
Jackson smiles, small but content. “Good work.”
Holland feels something flutter in his belly, feels heat crawl up his chest and neck, but it blessedly stops before it reaches his face.
He wonders if he could see the blush that he can feel has taken over Jackson's chest. Wonders what the soft pink of his nipples looks like against the flushed skin.
He's fucked, he realizes. But he can deal with that later, too.
Finding Ms. O'Sullivan's nephew is easy after that. Almost suspiciously so.
Holland calls an old friend from the force, has him run the plate and then they have an address.
Holland gets caught in the car door again, when Jackson parks in the ridiculously oversized parking lot, this time hooking Jackson's light blue leather jacket on the metal. He thankfully manages to get it free without any tears, while Jackson unimpressedly watches him fumble with it.
Jackson raises his eyebrows as if asking him to get it together. Holland waves him off.
“You try getting used to a frame like this,” he says, motioning to the body he's in at the moment.
Jackson snorts. “I did.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Holland says, conceding the point, shrugging Jackson's jacket back on.
He's only been wearing it for a day, but already he's grown fond of the reassuring weight on his shoulders. Or maybe that's a remnant of memory that got stuck in Jackson's cells.
They step up to the door. Holland unceremoniously rings all the door bells. Jackson throws him a glance and Holland just shrugs, smiling at Jackson, when someone buzzes the door open.
Jackson starts climbing the stairs, but Holland's legs are considerably longer than the ones he's used to, so he stumbles on the third step. Holland is there, though, catching him by the shoulders with an ease that he really could get used to. The strength he carries now is addicting. He wonders how Jackson deals with it.
“Thanks,” Jackson says, embarrassment ringing out through the apartment's stairway. “Your legs are freakishly long.”
Holland huffs. “I'll try to not take offense to that.”
“I didn't mean it like that,” Jackson says, hurried in an unfamiliar way.
“I know, Jack. I know.”
They come to a halt in front of a non-descript brown door. There's a hand-drawn sign next to the door bell. O'Sullivan is written on it in someone's scraggly script.
Jackson knocks, used to going in first, but Holland tugs him back a bit and steps in front of him. He can do the protecting for once.
Ms. O'Sullivan's nephew opens the door and Holland nearly wants to laugh. Solved the case in two days for triple the pay. Maybe this is the compensation for the whole debacle they found themselves in this morning.
Connor O'Sullivan looks exactly like he had on the two pictures Holland had seen of him. Dark moles and darker hair. There's a smile on his face and Holland doesn't like not knowing why it’s there.
“You know,” Connor says. “I really thought moving would get me my third win.”
Jackson and Holland look at him in silent confusion.
“What?” Jackson asks then, deadpan.
“My aunt and I – You see, we have this game,” he starts and Holland furrows his brows. Why is this kid talking like he's a wise old wizard.
“It started when I was younger. I'd hide in the woods and she'd find me. Then she would hide and I would find her.”
“This is a game?” Jackson grouses.
“This whole thing?” Holland adds, incredulously.
“Yes!” Connor laughs and Holland decides that he’s done with this. He's done with this case and this insane family.
He can feel anger bubble up in him, tinged with frustration. The feelings come quick, quicker than he's used to and he flexes his right hand, forms a fist with it, then carefully relaxes it again.
Jackson is throwing worried glance in his direction.
Holland makes a split-second decision, turns on his heel and leaves.
He's been doing so well at controlling himself – not his fists of course, but the reaching of his hands towards the nearest bottles – and he doesn't want to give in to the greedy thing inside him now that just wants to tear it all down, be that himself or someone else. Especially now that he actually has the power to do so.
He sees Jackson leave the building about ten minutes later.
“You okay?” He asks.
“Yeah,” Holland says, then shakes his head. “No.”
He looks up at Jackson, still an unfamiliar motion. “I would have hit him. I wanted to.”
Jackson nods. “I know,” he says, a bitter note of self-deprecation ringing out through his voice. “I know what I look like when I want to hu – when I want to punch someone.”
Holland doesn't know what to say to that.
Jackson looks at him silently, hands in the pockets of his slacks and Holland takes it as an invitation to say what else is on his mind.
“Do we just seem like clowns to everyone?” Holland asks, a familiar timbre of annoyance in the low voice that pours out of him. “Does it seem like we're playing a game? Are we just that hard to take seriously? Am I just that –”
He huffs, irritation rising to new heights as he struggles to find the right words.
“Am I that much of a joke?” He finally manages to press out, blinking heavily, glad that Jackson's body seems to be at least somewhat familiar with pressing back tears.
“Hey,” Jackson says, stepping closer, hesitantly reaching out for him. When Holland doesn't pull himself out of reach he takes it as permission, putting a warm hand on his shoulder.
“You're not a joke, Holland.”
Embarrassment burns its way up Holland's throat. He's a grown man for God's sake, he shouldn't be having breakdowns like this in a parking lot in L.A.
“Holland,” Jackson says, stepping even closer. “Holland, look at me.”
Holland raises his head, neither used to looking up at Jackson nor used to looking into his own eyes.
“Ms. O'Sullivan didn't hire us – didn't hire you , because she thinks you're bad at your job,” Jackson says, voice earnest and intense. He smells like what must be the cologne Holland bought last year. He remembers putting it on the morning before. It smells good. Like apples, but spicy, yet fresh. He'd rather know what Jackson smells like. He should have tried his cologne when he had the chance.
“I talked to Connor,” Jackson continues. “They take their game seriously. Their whole family bets on who wins the current round. It's a big deal, alright?”
Holland nods slowly, just once.
“Ms. O'Sullivan didn't hire you for fun, she hired you to win, and Holland?”
“Yeah?"
“You solved the case –”
“But you helped –”
“Holland, I never would have noticed a license plate number in a picture I knocked over and then looked at for a few seconds. Never.”
Holland laughs, and while it comes out sort of wet, it, thankfully, doesn't come out quite as strained as he feels.
“How did you notice?” Jackson asks after a while, when they're back in the car, on the way home to the rental, his hands relaxed and easy on the steering wheels, and he seems genuinely curious. Holland can see it in his eyes.
“Seventeen and nine,” Holland says and Jackson hums, intrigued.
“The 17th of September, it's, uhh, that's Holly's birthday.”
Jackson laughs, a soft sound that's somehow familiar to Holland, even in his voice. He looks over at him, still smiling softly.
“You brilliant man.”