#I also realized this may be the first fic i've written where bill doesn't smoke at all

[citrinekay]

I've had a prompt rolling around in my brain the past couple of days, I keep thinking of Holden's car breaking down in the rain, and he has to make his way to a payphone, and he calls Bill, because he doesn't know who else to call. I keep thinking about Bill being worried he'll get sick because he's soaking wet. Sorry if this is disjointed sending asks gives me anxiety >>

Nothing to worry about at all, hon. This makes perfect sense to me! Here you go, hope you enjoy 💕

Holden’s father had instilled a healthy respect for car maintenance in him from a young age, and he considers himself a responsible person when it comes to his possessions; but some things just can’t be foreseen. There were no warning signs, no little lights popping up on his dash to tell him that something was wrong, but still, as his car sputters out on the side of the road, he figures this is somehow his fault. 

It’s late evening on a Friday, the ragged conclusion of a long week out of state on consult. It’s no more than a thirty minute drive between the airport and his apartment, but his little Nova, which up until this very moment had been trustworthy and faithful, couldn’t make it that far. On top of everything else, it’s raining. Not a mist or a drizzle, but a deluge that rolls from the rumbling sky in unrelenting gusts that don’t appear to be stopping anytime soon.

 As the engine clicks and dies on the gravel shoulder of the road, Holden leans his forehead against the steering wheel to brace back a wave of tearful dismay. Not only does he usually leave car repair up to knowledgeable professionals, but he’d also been looking forward to crawling into his own bed after an arduous week spent tracking down a pedophile and murderer. 

A rift of anger rises up from his sudden despair, and he leans back to strike the wheel with the heel of his hand. 

“Fuck!” The curse chokes from his throat, punctuating the steady drum of rain against the metal exterior of the car. 

He breathes heavily into the silence for a long moment until the initial rush of panic and alarm fades. He tries to think clearly about his options. He should call someone. But who? It’s much too late for shops to be open, and he doesn’t want to call the police department and create a scene. He could call a cab, but that might take awhile. And before he can pursue any of those options, he has to find a phone to even call from first.

Holden rubs his tired eyes, and scans the street. 

He knows where he is. Just think … Payphone. The corner of Mission Street and Jackson Road. Two blocks away. 

“Fuck.” Holden says, aloud, again. 

He’s exhausted, and he doesn’t want to walk two blocks in the pouring down rain; but what other choice does he have?

Gathering his collar up around his neck, Holden draws in a deep breath, and shoulders his way out of the vehicle. The rain is coming down so hard that he’s almost instantly soaked, his hair drenched and plastered to his head, his trench coat barely concealing his shivering body from the biting gust of cold wind and stinging droplets. 

For a moment, he thinks about climbing back into his car and waiting it out, but he doesn’t want to face the possibility of the rainstorm persisting through the night. Putting his head down, he trudges away from his car in the direction of Jackson Road. 

The shoulder of the street is washed out in the rain, creating a treacherous obstacle course of sliding gravel, loosened rocks, miry sludge, and muddy puddles, two of which he manages to step directly into. It’s difficult to see with his eyes squinting shut against the driving rain and the scarce streetlamps lining this particular strip of deserted asphalt. 

If his car had broken down just two blocks later, he would have been in a much better position. There’s a tavern and gas station at the intersection along with the payphone, some sign of civilization that this forested stretch of road where he’s abandoned is absent of. 

Holden clenches his jaw and drags his coat more tightly around himself as a fresh clench of frustration seizes his chest. Part of him wants to sit down on the side of the road just to rest his trembling legs, but he pushes on, determined to get to the payphone in as little time as possible. 

Eventually, he approaches Jackson Road, a darkened street of shops with only the neon blow of the tavern sign smudged against the black sky in rain-drizzled reds and greens to light the way. Across the street, the gas station with two sad pumps is illuminated by a few overhead lights that attract more insects than people at this time of night. The phone booth stands like a beacon at the corner of the intersection, interior lit by a single, bare bulb. 

Holden rushes to the payphone, relief washing through his chest. The sliding door protests on rusty, jammed hinges as he grabs the handle, and it takes a few forceful pulls to get it open far enough for him to slip inside. 

The steady, cold patter of rain on his cheeks cuts off abruptly as he stumbles into the glass enclosure. Bracing a hand against one wall, he draws in a shuddering breath and tries to subdue the bone-deep, chilled shiver running through his body. 

His relief lasts bare seconds. Now what?

Turning to the pay phone, Holden tucks his hand in his pocket to search for coins. As he sorts out the quarters, he bites anxiously at his lower lip. The booth has no telephone book, and he doesn’t know any numbers for a cab off the top of his head. Nervously jostling the quarters in his hand, he glances down at his watch. 

10:35. Christ, it’s late. 

Holden presses his eyes shut as a solution rises in the back of his mind. He can feel rain dripping from his hair and sluicing down his cheeks, absorbing through his clothes to chill his skin. His belly shudders from deep inside and his feet hurt, cold and miserable from the long walk in the storm. He’s stranded, and he doesn’t have any other choice. 

Shoving aside his nerves, Holden feeds the quarters into the narrow slot and listens to them fall to the bottom with a metallic clatter. He picks up the phone, and slowly dials the number he knows by heart. 

As he listens to the shrill ring of the phone, he feels a sudden wave of emotion crawl up the back of his throat. He’s thinking rapidly and all at once: Please pick up. Please don’t be mad. Please help me. And finally: Well, this is just fucking pathetic, isn’t it? 

The phone rings six times, and he thinks about hanging up. He could call the operator and get a cab service. He could call the police and they would be more than happy to send someone out - it’s their job after all. His anxiety is about to overwhelm him when the repetitive tone cuts off, and the line rustles with movement.

“Hello?” Bill’s voice is muted and raspy with confusion. 

“Bill.” Holden says, pressing his eyes shut. His cheeks flush with heat that competes with the chill of the rain. 

“Holden?” Bill’s sleepy confusion quickly breaks out into concern. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m sorry it’s late. I didn’t know who else to call.”

“What’s going on?”

“I, um … I just got back into town, and my car broke down, if you can believe it.” Holden says, a nervous chuckle rising from the back of his throat. 

“Oh, man, talk about shit luck. Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine. I just …”

“Where are you?”  

“Well, my car broke down back on Ellis, but I’m at the payphone at Mission and Jackson.”

“Shit, it’s raining cats and dogs. I hope you didn’t walk all that way.”

“How else would I have gotten here?”

“Jesus, you must be freezing.” Bill says, his tone taking on a note of worry. “Stay inside. I’m on my way.”

“Thanks. And I’m really sorry about this. I know it’s late and it’s an inconvenience and-”

“Don’t worry about it. Now the sooner we get off here the sooner I can come pick you up.”

“Right.”

“Okay, stay put. I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.”

“Okay. Thanks, Bill.”

“Yep.” Bill says, quickly, before hanging up. 

Holden puts the phone down, and leans back against the cold glass partition. Relief surges through his chest at the prospect of not having to walk one more foot in the rain, but despite Bill’s eagerness to help, he’s still anxious. Ever since Atlanta, they’ve been walking around on egg-shells with each other. Holden doesn’t want to intrude on Bill’s privacy as he goes through his divorce, and Bill seems too focused on his own problems and work to regard Holden’s tenuous grasp on his panic disorder. He’d never wanted to be a nuisance or create problems he couldn’t solve on his own. He’d never wanted to be babysat, or for anyone to think he needed supervision - but apparently he had; and now he’s facilitating yet another situation that Bill is required to pull him out of. He wants to pick the phone back up and call just to say “You’re not mad about this, are you?” But Bill has probably already left the house. 

Drenched and shivering, Holden cowers in the phone booth for the next fifteen minutes until he sees Bill’s car through the smudged pane of glass. 

Bill pulls up at the curb, and climbs out of the car. Rain dampens his hair and the shoulders of his trench coat as he pulls a blanket out of the passenger’s seat and carries it across the sidewalk to where Holden is slipping out of the booth. 

“Thanks for coming.” Holden says, blinking against the surge of rain. “You brought me a blanket?”

“Yeah. Jesus, look at you.” Bill says, his brow pinching with worry as he unfurls the blanket. 

Lowering his head, Holden revels in quiet disbelief as Bill drapes the blanket around his shoulders, and draws it closed at his chest. 

“Come on, you’re going to catch a cold.” Bill says, his hand bracing against the middle of Holden’s back to lead him towards the car. 

Holden quietly lets Bill guide him to the passenger’s side and hold the door open for him. Slipping into the vehicle, Holden lets out a shuddering sigh of relief at the warm air blasting from the dashboard vents. 

Bill jogs around the hood of the car, and climbs behind the wheel. When he pulls the door shut behind him, the interior falls into silence except for their muted, heavy breathing, and the quiet sound of Holden’s teeth shivering against one another. 

“You okay?” Bill asks. 

“Yeah.” Holden whispers, his voice unsteady with a chilled tremor.

 He slips his eyelids open to peek across the car at Bill. His face is illuminated in the pale light from the dashboard, rain-slick lips pursed into a grim line of worry, his usually perfectly combed hair flattened with the rain. He doesn’t look angry.

“I’m really sorry about this.” Holden whispers, drawing the blanket tighter around his shoulders. “It’s so late-”

“I said not to worry about it.” Bill says, firmly but gently. “Frankly, I’d be more upset if I found out later that this happened and you didn’t call me.”

Holden glances back down at his lap where his numb fingers are white-knuckled around the blanket. It has that foreign smell of someone else’s house lightly concealed by the ashy sting of cigarettes. Abruptly, he feels like crying again. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Bill asks. 

Holden nods, pressing his eyes shut. “I’m just really tired.”

“Okay, let’s get you home.” 

Holden turns his face toward the window where the storm outside continues to rage. The car softly lurches into motion as a tear stings the corner of his eye. He lifts his chin against his cheek to let the emotion absorb into the soft microfiber of the blanket along with the rain. It takes him just as long the drive back to his apartment for him to realize that he isn’t just overwrought or extremely tired, but relieved - as if he’s been holding his breath since Atlanta, waiting for everything to spill over between them, waiting for Bill’s disapproval to come crashing down on his fragile shoulders. It hasn’t come, and apparently it never will; he’s been shadowboxing with lying ghosts. 

At his apartment, Bill shuts off the engine, and climbs out of the car. Holden steps out onto the street on the other side, letting the blanket slide from his shoulders. 

“I’ll walk you in.” Bill says.

“You don’t have to do that.”

Bill circles around the car, his expression determined and unwavering. He waves a finger at the drooping blanket. “Come on, put that back on.”

“It’s yours, I don’t want to take it.”

“You know how long that thing has been sitting in my closet for?” Bill asks, pulling the blanket back up around Holden’s neck. He nods toward the building. “Come on, the blanket is the least of my worries. I don’t want you getting sick.”

Holden doesn’t protest again as Bill leads them across the street to the lobby. He punches in the door code with cold, shivering fingers that he quickly sticks back underneath the blanket when the door unlocks. 

In the elevator, neither of them say a word, but Bill’s hand is tucked loosely against Holden’s lower back. It’s not grabbing or forceful, just resting there almost protectively. When Holden closes his eyes, he can feel the weight of it more than the bone-chilled shivers running all the way to the core of his body. 

Holden leads the way to his door, and drags his keys out of pocket with numb fingers. 

“You should get out of those wet clothes right away.” Bill says, quietly.

Holden nods. “I will.”

“Good. The last thing we need is you catching a cold or pneumonia.”

“Yeah.” Holden mutters, jiggling his key in the lock. 

“Hey,” Bill says, touching his elbow. 

Holden glances up from the lock, and Bill’s eyes are soft in the low light of the corridor, worried and unaccusing. 

“We need you.” He says, “So take care of yourself, okay?”

Holden’s throat tightens, and he nods. Shrugging his shoulders to indicate the blanket, he says, “I’ll get this back to you on Monday.”

“Sure. Keep it if you want.” 

Holden frowns softly as Bill gives him a pat on the back, and moves past him back in the direction of the elevator. 

“Let me know if you need a ride to work on Monday.” He says. 

“Thanks, I will.”

“Okay, see you then.”

Holden stands with his key in the lock as he watches Bill amble down the hall back towards the elevator. A slight smile tugs at his mouth. 

When Bill is out of sight, he gets the door open, and slips into his apartment with a sigh of relief. 

First, he drapes the blanket over the arm of the couch, and takes off his wet clothes. When he’s in clean, dry pajamas, he goes into the kitchen to boil water for tea, and as the kettle warms, shuffles into the living room where the discarded blanket is lying. Picking it up, momentarily holds it to his nose, and closes his eyes as he inhales the lingering, warm smell underneath the rain. If he washes it, that scent will be gone. 

Carrying the blanket into his bedroom, Holden uses clothespins to hang it from the curtain rod to dry. Faint light from the streetlamp filters through the microfiber, casting a soft, pinkish glow across his room. The cold in his bones is almost entirely melted away, and he feels warm again.