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Holly March rolled her eyes as her key stuck in the lock to the front door of the quaint little ranch house the same way it had when she was home six months ago. She cursed her dad’s highly suspect and rarely functional memory under her breath and pushed her shoulder hard against the door. It burst open with a shudder and a squeal, only years of experience forcing her way into her own home keeping Holly from losing her feet upon impact.
"Knock knock!" she shouted brightly, tugging her duffel bag into the living room and kicking the door shut with the heel of her boot.
There was a muffled curse and a murmur of low, familiar laughter from the floor above, and then Holland March came half-tripping down the stairs in a pair of blue polyester pants. His patterned shirt – off-white with tones of orange and yellow to it – was open over his chest, tails flapping like wings behind him while the familiar gold glint of his wedding ring flashed against his undershirt. He was a little on the scruffy side, with the exception of his neatly trimmed mustache, and his hair was dark and damp with silver threaded through at the temples that hadn’t been there last time she’d seen him.
There was also a warm pink flush to his cheeks that suggested he’d been preoccupied with activities Holly didn’t especially desire to think about in the context of her father’s participation therein not long before she arrived.
"You’re early!” he accused, pausing at the foot of the staircase. He glanced from Holly’s unimpressed expression to the door, put two and two together, and scrubbed a hand over his mouth. "I’m gonna get that fixed,” he said determinedly, pointing at her.
"That's what you always say," Holly muttered, but she couldn't help smiling. Her dad crossed the living room in a handful of long strides and wrapped his arms around her, almost lifting her off her feet despite the fact that she was his equal in height nowadays. He swayed back and forth for a second, taking her with him, and didn’t let go of her even when he loosened his grip, curling his palms around her shoulders instead.
“You look good, kid,” he said, smiling at her in a way that went a little gooey at the edges and absolutely did not make Holly’s throat clench or her eyes sting. “Education suits you.”
“More than I can say for you, old man,” she replied, blustering past the joyful flush in her cheeks and the affection humming in her chest. She reached up to flick at the hair over her dad’s temple. “When did this happen?”
He made a face and tilted away from her fingers, half-rolling his eyes and looking a little embarrassed. It was strange and sort of bittersweet in a way, Holly thought, to see her dad with gray in his hair. He’d been coloring the silvering strands since they first started to crop up when Holly was sixteen.
“You see what you’re doing to me, running around with boys and tailing us on cases all the time?” he’d said to her then, squinting into the mirror and slopping dye all over the porcelain of the downstairs bathroom sink until Jackson had gotten home and started yelling about respecting personal property. The sink was stained to this day, yet another victim to the roaring tyranny of Holland March’s vanity.
Now, he just shrugged, flushed a little pinker, and huffed, “Jack likes it. Says it makes me look distinguished or something.”
“It does,” a low voice rumbled, as if on cue.
Holly twisted in her dad’s arms just in time to catch the edge of Jackson’s smile before he was pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
“Welcome home, sweetheart,” he said, squeezing her shoulder.
“Hey pops,” she replied, craning her neck just far enough to flash him a sincere, close-mouthed smile. “Good to see you’re keeping him in line while I’m gone.”
“Someone has to,” Jackson grumbled, agreeable and amused. “You know he tried to open a safe with a tie-pin the other day? Like we live in a goddamn Macgyver episode or somethin’.”
“I’m standing right here,” her dad huffed irritably, reaching over Holly’s shoulder to swat at Jackson’s. “Besides, it worked, didn’t it?”
“No,” Jackson said patiently. “I had to bring out the liquid nitrogen, remember?”
“Yeah, well, I loosened it up for you,” her dad said breezily.
Jackson snorted in response. He squeezed Holly’s shoulder and leaned down to collect her bag while her dad continued, “C’mon, kid, let’s get you set up so we can go hunt down some grub.”
“What happened to a home-cooked meal?” Holly teased, slipping an arm around her dad’s waist as he slung his over her shoulders in return. “I distinctly remember that being part of massive guilt trip used to swindle me into coming home this weekend.”
Jackson rolled his eyes fondly, Holly’s duffel hefted easily up over one broad shoulder, and leaned in conspiratorially as he started to say, “He tried, but he burnt the - ”
“Alright!” her dad squawked, tugging her close and taking a step toward the stairs as he glared at Jackson, betrayed. “We don’t gotta get into all that! It was nothing, and the fire extinguisher needed replacing anyway.”
“Dad,” Holly sighed, pained, and buried her face in the palm of one of her hands.
“Tomorrow, okay?” her dad said gently, giving her an affectionate little shake and steering her across the living room. “We’ll do that pasta thing you like, with the chicken and the weird little peas.” He wagged his fingers in the air for effect.
“Chicken piccata?” Holly clarified skeptically. Her dad shrugged, noncommittal.
“Sure.”
“You don’t know how to make chicken piccata,” Holly snorted, disbelieving.
“Jack does,” her dad assured with a wave of his hand.
From behind them on the stairs, Jackson drawled, “So glad to be volunteered, dear. ”
Their bickering picked up in a familiar rhythm - March insisting that Jackson should be so lucky to feed his beautiful daughter while Jackson brutally and shamelessly mocked March’s inability to cook even simple dishes as a man well into his forties. Holly found herself biting her lip to keep from grinning so wide her cheeks hurt. College was great, and all, but she had to admit that there was nothing quite like coming home.