A/N: This was written to cheer up my very wonderful roommate who has got me totally hooked on Ghostbusters (meaning brace yourselves, I'll definitely be writing more for these guys). Her requirements were a) kissing and b) Olympics. The result is this fun, fluffy Holtzbert. As it's my first time writing these characters, I'd love any feedback you have.
Trigger warnings: Minor injury, kissing
Dr. Erin Gilbert, Ph.D, had never really been into sports. Athletic ineptitude sort of came with the turf of being a physicist. She didn't mind, though; her work kept her satisfied and, now that it involved running around with a proton pack on her back, fit.
Seriously: After the initial weeks of back pain, Erin had gained some impressive muscle. Well, impressive for her, anyway.
So it is with a sort of cautious curiosity that she switches on the TV to watch the Olympic Games as she studies the latest edition of her favourite nuclear physics journal. Now that they are relatively well established as New York City's resident ghostbusters, Erin has considerably more free time to have fun between scrubbing ectoplasmic slime from her hair. And her idea of fun is catching up on the latest research. She is one of the finest in her field, after all, and convinced that if she brushes up on her nuclear engineering, she can give Holtzmann a hand with developing the theory for more weapons…
The engineer in question stands some metres behind Erin now, tinkering away with some device that Erin has been assured will not explode while she reads. Erin has no idea how Holtzmann has managed to secure a better TV set for her second floor lab than the shared one they had downstairs. Erin suspects it might have something to do with the stereo.
But the couch is comfortable, if a little squishy, and the sounds of welding and drilling and who-knows-what, really, can easily be tuned out as she reads and watches. Erin likes it up here, despite the extreme and potentially life-threatening mess strewn about.
Besides, with Abby and Patty out, she doesn't want to be alone now that she doesn't have to.
The time passes comfortably, Erin making her way through pages of equations and graphs and technical language, pausing to write a note here and there, while Holtzmann carries on with whatever it is she's doing with only the occasional comment to herself. Erin casts her a few curious looks, wondering how cooing to her tools could possibly improve productivity. Olympic coverage drones quietly in the background. Fencing. Erin wonders how sword-fighting—or any of these sports, really—can possibly be a useful skill.
Perhaps she can petition the Olympic Committee to make ghostbusting an event. And Erin smiles at the image of the four of them battling it out in patriotically star-spangled jumpsuits. (They would win gold, of course.)
The next time she glances up, men's swimming is on. Erin finds it really quite ridiculous that the commentators manage to be so serious about something which involves such absurdly small Speedos. Cocking her head to the side, Erin tries to work out just how it all stays put. She can barely hop in a pool without her bikini making a run for it, and these guys are diving—
Erin watches in mild fascination as they launch themselves into the water. Immediately, the announcers start screaming and Erin frowns. The whole thing rather reeks of testosterone.
It must be the relay, because when the swimmers get to the end of the pool, one of their teammates dives over them like a dolphin and takes over. Erin tries half-heartedly to keep track, but confuses the Singaporean and Polish flags and ends up utterly baffled when Latvia snags first place.
The commentators are still shouting when they go to commercial break. Erin shakes her head, as if that would empty her ears of their yells.
Instead, the noise is replaced by a gruff sort of scraping sound. It punctuates the cheerful music of a laundry detergent ad. When Erin turns around, she inevitably finds Holtzmann dancing, combat boots dragging against the floor. Almost immediately, Holtz catches her staring and gives Erin a shit-eating grin with a wink for good measure. Erin watches as Holtz's dance moves shift from something resembling moonwalking to an out-of-water backstroke.
"You know," ventures Erin, "I don't think that would qualify you to be an Olympic swimmer." If Holtz were actually in water right now, Erin's pretty sure she would drown with these movements. Erin's never seen Holtz swim, doesn't even know if she can (thankfully, the ghosts of Atlantis have yet to rear their translucent heads), but it's very apparent that she doesn't have the freakishly elongated torso or the broad shoulders of the professionals. No, Erin thinks with fondness, Holtzmann pointed out that Erin is, in fact, the one with the longest arms…
The laundry commercial is over and now Holtz's swim-dancing is accompanied by the brisk dialogue of an insurance ad. It shouldn't work, but of course it does because this is Holtzmann and she can violate the laws of fashion and physics without a blink.
"I think I'd be great," Holtz says thoughtfully. Her backstroking evolves into what Erin thinks might be the butterfly. "I would rock the Speedo." Erin forces that image from her mind before it can even materialise as Holtz scoots across the floor, hips swaying and arms pushing through invisible water. "Plus, I am great at breaststroke."
It takes a second for the double entendre to work itself out in Erin's head, but when it does, Holtz is drilling holes in her eyes with her gaze and Erin is begging the capillaries in her face to just vanish altogether but it's too late—they're dilating and flooding with blood and she's pretty certain that her head now resembles a very ripe tomato.
Her mouth is slightly open, ready to respond, but Erin snaps it shut quickly and twists around back to the TV. She can hear Holtz's quiet chuckle behind her and resists the urge to hide her blush with her hands.
When she'd first joined this odd group of outcast physicists, Holtzmann's nature had been a bit... unexpected. At first, Erin hadn't really known what to make of the bizarre flirtatiousness. It had just been another odd part of Holtz's generally unconventional personality. But whereas Erin (and most people) grow more comfortable with new people over time, Erin found herself being more and more affected by Holtz's winks and teases as time went on. It didn't make sense and Erin doesn't like things that don't make sense.
Puzzled and a bit disturbed, she roughly tugs her journal towards her on her lap and keeps her eyes firmly fixed on the text. The sounds of invention and experimentation start back up and, eventually, Erin's muscles relax and her skin cools back to an acceptable shade.
Seventeen pages later, it occurs to Erin that Holtz might have been onto something: Ghost locomotion very clearly isn't achieved by traditional propulsion. They've known this for quite some time, but they haven't yet managed to find a way to use it to their advantage. But really, the ghosts are essentially swimming through air and if fluid dynamics work the same way in death as in life, then there should be a way—
Erin grabs a sticky note and begins to scribble the beginnings of a theory. If she's right, then they could make their traps a thousand times more efficient and greatly reduce the amount of power needed by the proton packs.
She sticks the bright pink note on the page where she left off, letting it peek out the side so she won't forget it's there. By the time Abby shows up, Erin's notes probably won't make sense to her anymore, but she's confident that she'll be able to derive the gist of her idea from the numeric scrawls and doodle of a ghost in water. After a moment's thought, Erin brushes her ballpoint pen across the ghost's curved head and shades in some round glasses. With gentle twirls of her wrist, she draws loops of hair across its crown.
It's only a decent minute after she's finished grinning at her little creation that she realises she's essentially drawn Holtzmann as a ghost blob. Her cheeks burn quite merrily as she digs the tip of her pen into the paper, smothering the sketch with ink until it's a heavy cloud of scribbles.
Erin shoves the pen away from her and shuts her book with a muffled thud of cover on paper. Her arms cross themselves tightly across her chest and she keeps them that way as she settles deeper into the couch. She wonders when Holtzmann took up residence in her subconscious and how she'd somehow stayed totally oblivious to the new tenant.
Too much work, she decides, and fixes her eyes on the TV. A distraction is in order.
It turns out that women's gymnastics is not, in fact, the best candidate. As the athletes flick their wrists to theatrically punctuate their flips and turns, Erin can't help but superimpose Holtz's image on top. It's so easy to imagine that asymmetrical tuft of air flapping around Holtzmann's head as she shimmies across the floor in her usual style of playful dancing. No doubt she'd do something ridiculous—like scoot along the balance beam upside down like a sloth and she'd look absolutely absurd in a sparkly leotard, but now Erin is realising she's never seen Holtzmann's legs before—
The sound of a yelp and then a metallic clatter makes Erin flinch so violently that she smacks herself in the face. Scrambling onto her knees to look over the back of the couch, she finds Holtzmann flat on her back and Erin trips on her own legs as she stumbles over.
"Holtz?!" Erin kneels at Holtzmann's side, arms flailing as she can't decide where to touch or what to do. Holtzmann's eyes are wide behind her tinted goggles and she looks like she's trying in vain to breathe. "Holtz, what did you do?! Breathe, okay? You need to breathe!"
Holtz makes some painful wheezing noises and sucks in a gasp. Her dilated eyes find Erin's and she whispers hoarsely, "Stuck the landing." And then her arms and legs spasm into the air and she lifts her fists and groans, "And Holtzmann wins gold!"
It takes a second for Holtz's grin to reach Erin's higher reasoning. When it does, she isn't quite sure what to say. She settles on: "Are you alright? What did you do?"
Holtz tries to shrug while lying on her back and the result is an odd jerking of her shoulders. "A backflip," she quips in her typically casual deadpan, though now it is speckled with uneven and painful breaths. "You seemed to be liking that more than the swimming, so…" Holtz drags out the "o" so long that when her voice fades out, her lips are puckered tightly like a fish's.
Erin ignores that, unsure of what to make of it, and instead scans Holtz's body for injuries. "Are you okay?" she can't help but ask again. Her hands linger near Holtz's arm, her side, her head; fluttering about but never quite making contact. "Did you hit your head? Do you need anything...?"
Holtz gives Erin a smirk which Erin suspects is meant to be reassuring. "I'm fine, ghost girl," and she winks before moving her arm to prop herself up. But as she tries to pull herself into a sitting position, her breath catches and her eyes widen in a way that could almost be comical if Erin weren't terrified of the possibility of concussion. Frozen, Holtz gasps, "Maybe. No," and eases herself back onto her back. She gulps. "Nope. Not fine."
Erin can't help but wonder when her life turned from being so predictable to this utterly incomprehensible disarray. The only injuries she'd had to worry about treating at Columbia had been a toe bruised from dropped books, not backflips gone wrong. Part of her brain screams at her that Holtzmann could've seriously hurt something—back injuries are no trivial matter. But calling an ambulance is overkill (for now) and she knows it, so instead she reaches an arm under Holtz's arm to help her up. Considering Holtz's daily encounters with nuclear explosives, Erin supposes she ought to be grateful that she isn't more seriously hurt, especially since there's a blowtorch lying suspiciously close to where Holtz landed.
Erin tries to get Holtzmann to her feet and is substantially more grateful for her improved strength when Holtz ends up collapsing on her with a fractured cry. Holtzmann holds her breath and winces only minimally as Erin helps her shuffle over to the couch. Air hisses through Holtz's clenched teeth as she reclines on pillows and Erin hovers uncertainly.
"There isn't anything over there that will… explode if you don't touch it for a few minutes, is there?"
Holtz smiles around gritted teeth at a joke Erin doesn't get, but shakes her head. "Negative." She slowly pulls her goggles off her face, bending her neck so as not to aggravate her back too much. With the goggles deposited on the floor, Holtz sinks into the squashy cushions and murmurs, "I'll be perfect in a minute."
Erin highly doubts this and lingers a moment before situating herself on the other side of the couch. In her periphery, she can see Holtz watching TV almost unblinkingly, her expression blank but her breathing shaky. Erin doesn't think she's ever understood what goes on in that brilliant and somewhat bizarre head; she doesn't think she ever will. But right now, she thinks she wants to know Holtz's thoughts more than she ever has before.
So she grabs her book and opens it to a random page, determined to evict Jillian Holtzmann from her brain for at least an hour today. Erin reads with determination, even though she's turned midway through a chapter she hasn't even started yet and the author keeps referencing a proof she isn't familiar with. She even tries to ignore the pained little gasps from the other side of the couch, resists the urge to look up when Holtz comments to herself about whatever event is on the TV now. Erin doubts it's still women's gymnastics because she can't imagine a scenario where "I'd add magnets" could possibly be relevant to uneven bars. But with Holtz, one could never be certain.
Erin's quite proud of herself for actually being able to immerse herself in her reading until she feels a pressure against the side of her leg. Turning, she finds Holtz's socked toe prodding her thigh like it's trying to burrow underneath.
"Sorry," Holtz says when she realises Erin's staring. Somehow, Holtz has shifted herself so that her legs extend down the length of the couch, her upper body leaning against the far armrest. Erin can discern the oddness in her posture and the subsequent grimace as Holtz tries to adjust herself. "Cold feet."
"Oh, um," Erin looks again at the dark grey sock. Its skinny, bright green stripes horizontally circle the length of Holtz's foot, from her toes to above her ankle. Rather unsurprisingly, the other one is a sort of egg-yolk shade of yellow with white polka dots. She can see a hole beginning to wear itself in the fabric covering the ball of Holtzmann's foot. "Go ahead, I guess."
And with that, Holtz's feet dig into the couch cushions and settle underneath Erin's thigh. Holtz shifts against her pillows, apparently very comfortable, and Erin wonders if this is weird.
"Watchya readin'?"
Erin holds up the cover for Holtz to read.
"And is there anything in there that our brilliant Dr Gilbert doesn't already know?"
Erin shrugs. Now that Holtzmann is directly engaging her, distraction seems rather pointless; Erin deposits the book on the cluttered coffee table and drops herself deep into the sofa with a sigh.
"Ah!" Holtz tries to cover up her pained grunt but Erin senses the twitch in the pillows and leaps to her feet.
"Shoot! I'm sorry! I should've been more careful."
"Oh, the things I go through for you, Gilbert," mutters Holtz playfully. Erin doesn't like the way Holtz finds it necessary to hide her pain as she adjusts herself.
"Are you sure you don't need anything? Ice? Heat? Surgery?"
"I didn't realise you're also a doctor of neurology. You're just full of surprises, aren't you?" Holtz takes in Erin's blank stare for a full four seconds before her grin melts and she says, "I promise I'm okay. I told you: I'll be perfect in a minute."
"You said that twenty minutes ago."
"Then I'll be twenty times as perfect."
"And if you're not?"
"Then I give you full permission to use all my tools to put my spine back together, good doctor." Holtz's gaze is steadily aimed at Erin and she wonders if there's ever a situation when Holtzmann isn't so… intense. She probably sleeps with her eyes wide open.
But now Erin is thinking of Holtz curled up in bed, lying amidst a nest of blankets and pillows and probably power tools, and the warm feeling this image induces simply will not do. Erin wrings her hands.
"Hey, remember that time when that Dutch ghost tried to behead me for stealing his land?"
"It looked like he was gonna bend you in half if Patty hadn't stepped in."
"Right? It was awesome. I've been through worse than a little bump to my back."
Holtz pulls her feet closer to her body in what Erin assumes is a gesture to make more room for her on the side of the couch she had abandoned.
"So… aren't you gonna kiss me better?"
Erin's gaze swings from the spot she'd been sitting to Holtz's smile. "Am I—what?"
Holtz wiggles her shoulders and tugs at the silky tie loosely knotted around her neck. "Everyone knows kisses are the best medicine, Erin. It's science." Erin recognises the rambling monotone that shades Holtz's voice whenever she says something earnest and Erin finds it hard to believe she's joking. "I will accept here," Holtz pokes the flesh of her own cheek, "here," she taps her chin, "and here," she pats her kneecap. "Bonus points if you're within three-and-a-half inches of my left armpit."
Erin can't begin to contemplate the bizarre selection of body parts because her brain is too preoccupied with the realisation that her lips have never actually come close to any part of Jillian Holtzmann. Ever. She's kissed Abby and Patty plenty of times (platonically, of course, because that's all that's in discussion here), but never Holtz. And it's strange, Erin knows, that Holtzmann is probably the most physical of the bunch with her swagger and dancing and exaggerated gestures and yet any interpersonal contact is rare. True, there are always a few light brushes when Holtz instructs how to use new gear or tugs on wrists and elbows to avoid imminent danger or ectoplasm, but this is all line of duty stuff. Holtz is meant to be one of her best friends, but Erin can't remember what her skin feels like.
And it bothers her.
She wants to rebuke Holtz's teasing, come up with some witty retort before sitting down (gently, this time) and losing herself in equations, but instead all she can do is imagine what it would be like to feel Holtz's flesh against her lips, be surrounded by her scent.
And if the expression on her face is anything to go by, Holtz knows.
"Well, Dr Gilbert?" Holtz's voice is teasing now, but it's a more intense kind of teasing than her usual. It suddenly hits Erin that they're alone in the firehouse. "What's your final answer? May I remind you, you can still phone a friend."
Erin is going to tell Holtzmann to stop fooling around and get back to her work.
"Why does it have to be one of those three places?"
Or not.
Holtz's eyebrows fly up and a grin tugs her lips upwards. "Well, aren't you a brave one." She shimmies herself closer to the back of the couch and pats the space next to her legs. Erin perches at Holtz's thigh, her legs parallel to Holtz's and staring down at the wrinkled material of her shirt. "Alright, doctor. The patient is prepped and ready."
Erin catches the wink Holtz throws her way and enjoys the subsequent feeling of warm honey spilling in her gut. She should be more flustered, she thinks; shouldn't be so enraptured by the way Holtz's hair dangles into her eyes or how she presses her lips together.
"You know," Erin murmurs as she leans closer, "I'm not convinced you won't explode when I touch you. Everything else of yours seems to."
A cackle of laughter tickles Erin's ear as her lips land by the corner of Holtz's mouth, in the no-man's-land between lip and cheek. The skin there is soft, Erin notes, and slopes in waves around Holtz's smile. Fine strands of hair whisper against Erin's lips, and she wonders if it's possible to get goose bumps on your mouth.
Holtz hums a pensive hum of appreciation and Erin feels the resonance reach up to her from Holtz below.
"I dunno, Dr Erin," mumbles Holtz with wide eyes and a smirk. "I don't think the patient is cured yet."
Erin shrugs, "Alright," and slides her lips against Holtzmann's mouth. There's a puff of air as Holtz sighs and that's somehow more meaningful than any words she could stutter. When Erin pulls away after a few long moments, Holtz shifts her head to bring their lips back together and Erin feels teeth against teeth as they both smile.
"Weird," Holtz whispers a minute later.
"Hm? What?" Erin is vaguely aware of a hand resting above her waist and the other one that can't seem to decide between her neck, her hair, or her shoulder. Those hands tug her lower so that she is barely hovering above Holtz's chest.
In tandem with her hands, Holtz's tongue probes around Erin's lips and she nearly giggles at the sensation of a wet tickle teasing the corner of her mouth.
Holtz mumbles between kisses. "It's weird… kissing a lady… without… a blowtorch."
There's a wet noise as Erin pulls away and bursts out laughing. Holtz watches, smiling, before trying to tug Erin back down, but Erin resists and instead moves to press a kiss to Holtz's cheek and then the point of her chin. The kneecap is too far away for her liking, though, so she returns to Holtz's mouth and hopes that'll suffice. Based on Holtz's chuckle and the increased eagerness of her fingers in Erin's hair and along her neck and cupping her cheek, Erin rather thinks it does.
Erin won't be surprised if Holtz has augmented her anatomy with science. Like the superheroes in comic books—the brilliant ones that make themselves indestructible with the added bonus of being able to fly. Holtz's back heals miraculously fast, so Erin decides that Holtz has either replaced her spine with pure steel or kisses really are the best medicine.
Maybe not, though, because when Erin tugs Holtz (who is now happily on top of her) down closer, Holtz hisses and flinches in apparent pain.
"Sorry!" Erin says and quickly pulls her hands away. Speaking feels funny and she realises it's because her lips are swollen.
"S'okay," Holtz replies after a breath. "Now come back here." And her lips descend again.
Sometime later, Holtz has nestled her face against Erin's neck while the latter catches her breath. Stray curls are drifting into Erin's eyes, but she doesn't particularly care if Holtz is also placing gentle little nips beneath her ear. Erin realises the TV is still playing; a dull rendition of the French anthem drifts through the air.
"I thought you'd freak out," Holtz says into Erin's hair. In such close proximity, her rich voice sounds so much heavier and it swells across Erin's nerves like a wave.
"About what?" mumbles Erin.
There's a shift of Holtz's shoulder blades beneath Erin's fingertips. "Everything," she answers.
Erin surprises herself by chuckling against Holtz's temple and twirls a blonde curl around her fingertip. She feels Holtz's head shift and gives the hair a tug; Holtz inhales quickly.
"So did I."