Work Text:
It’s a few weeks into his first year at high school when his dad comes home, complaining about a meddling teenager at the force. That’s the first memory he has of Nancy Drew. And sure enough, the next afternoon, he finds a crumpled newspaper with her face on it.
The Hero of Horseshoe Bay
He sees her for the first time in the school parking lot, her auburn hair in a high ponytail, tied with sparkly ribbon to match her cheerleading uniform. She doesn’t see him though. He’s in a parked car a few spots away, passing a blunt to Doug from geometry.
Two weeks later when he’s in detention for getting caught smoking weed in the school parking lot he sees her again. He notices the hair first, copper tresses cascading over her shoulders as she scribbles furiously in her notebook. He can’t see the contents from two rows back, but he soon comes to know that she carries a notebook with her everywhere.
He also notices she gets detention a lot. Not for troublemaker reasons like being tardy or pranking the freshman class. He hears the stories about her. Getting caught in the boy’s locker room trying to bust the football team for dangerous hazing rituals. Or the time she investigated the booster club and discovered one of the teachers was pocketing thirty percent of the funds raised.
She almost always proves her point but he suspects Principal Keene enjoys assigning a few detentions along the way. Some sort of justice for being outsmarted by a teenager.
The first time she notices him, he’s at the police station, in the copy room. Florence is in need of new tires so he agreed to help his dad digitize some files to work off the cost. It’s an arduous process because the scanner seems to be older than Florence somehow.
“What’s this? Community service?” she asks, leaning in the doorway.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to be back here,” comes his reply.
“What you got there?” she asks, ignoring him.
“Oh this,” he gestures vaguely at the stack of folders, “just generic police stuff. Super, very important documents of criminal activity and such.”
“Wouldn’t happen to have a deed in there?” she asks. “Maybe for the Hudson’s boat house?”
He looks down at the top of the current stack. Sure enough, the property deed where the Hudsons want to build a boat house. His fingers drum along the files while the scanner whirs on loudly.
“I can neither confirm nor—”
“Oh, come on,” she pleads, melting him with a cheeky smile, “could I keep it once you scan it for posterity. You’ll just shred it anyway.”
She gestures toward the other stack, neatly poised on top of the shredder.
“I think you misunderstand the point of the shredding,” he tells her with a little laugh. “The idea is to keep it out of civilian hands.”
“You’re a civilian.”
She has a point.
“Can I just take a peek?” she asks. “I’ll give it right back. You can shred it right up.”
He doesn’t trust her. But he also doesn’t want her to leave because she’s brightened up an otherwise banal afternoon. So he compromises, gripping the sheet between his hands and holding it out so she can see it clearly in front of her.
That’s how he learns about her eidetic memory. Nancy Drew can literally recall anything she has ever seen. It’s absurd actually. And two weeks later she uses that skill to halt construction on the Hudson’s boat house when she proves it to be Passamaquoddy land.
They end up in the same AP biology class his senior year and it’s probably the only class where he ever got a perfect attendance record. Looking back, that’s also probably why he took an interest in anatomy, even considered med school for a minute. Actually, seriously considered it and even got accepted pre-med. But that was all derailed when he got busted for a federal crime.
But before all that, he was Nancy Drew’s biology lab partner. Just once.
It was mostly a lecture class. But twice per semester Mr. Bexter would pair them up randomly. They would put on lab coats and protective goggles pretending to be scientists to dissect butterflies or analyze fingerprints. On this day they did a DNA test with a strand of hair and a droplet of blood. She insists they use his hair.
“You clearly have superior hair,” she says to him, unpacking the test kit.
“Oh come on,” he gushes.
“I’m on the yearbook committee,” she reminds him. “It’s unanimous. You got best hair. And now we are going to ship your hair off to this lab in Boston to find out if it’s great hair products or just genetics.”
“I don’t think that’s what the lab will be testing for,” he tells her. “Pretty sure the good hair gene does not exist.”
“Have you seen Mr. Bexter?” she whispers, pointing toward their bald biology teacher. “His hairline would beg to differ.”
He laughs as she runs her hands through his hair, parting it with her fingers to extract a sample. Her fingers linger in the soft locks at the nape of his neck, ruffling his hair one more time as if to cover a gaping bald spot from where she plucked a few strands.
They cross paths at prom. He’s there with one of the girls from Hebrew school that his mom was always trying to set him up with. There are a couple photos from that night wedged in his yearbook but he doesn’t even remember her name anymore.
He does remember Nancy.
She’s in a floral dress with ruffled sleeves and strappy sandals. He remembers thinking she looked like a gladiator, acted like a gladiator sometimes. She’s settled into the vintage blue and white striped armchair in the ancient lobby of the Breaker Hotel, a dusty leather bound book in her hands. He doesn’t recognize her at first, face hidden behind the book, he knows that red hair. But when he sees her dad coming out of the back office, briefcase in hand, and prod her away from her reading, he instantly knows who she is.
The Hero of Horseshoe Bay
Two seconds later, his prom date is looping her arm through his and steering him toward the grand ballroom where the rest of the class is awkwardly dancing to top radio hits while parents and teachers mill about the room making sure no one has too much fun.
Not long after that he’s forced to make a life changing decision, one that fills him with regret for years and threatens to ruin his relationship with his dad forever. When Chief McGinnis bails him out of federal prison by coercing him to be an informant. That’s the real reason he turned down college and the scholarship. Because the Chief’s trustiest informant won’t do him any good from thousands of miles away.
The tension with his dad becomes…a lot. Things weren’t great before but that’s when the house truly became a war zone.
But things aren’t bad at The Claw. He likes it there. Easy paycheck and he gets to work with his hands. He even starts to believe he never would have wanted to be a doctor. And of course, there’s still Nancy Drew.
Maybe it’s because he’s not in high school anymore, but he stops hearing about her getting into detention and running amok at the police station. Probably just a phase she grew out of. But he still sees her.
She’s at The Claw every so often sitting at a crowded booth in the corner with the group that only orders a basket of fries and four shakes. He knows George hates that table. It’s not lost on him how they snicker at her when she turns their back on them or the fact that they leave her tip under an upturned water glass.
He knows that because George usually pulls him out of the kitchen when it happens. It’s a dick move and it’s never funny. Not even once. But he has a system down where he slides the glass all the way down the table where the water empties into the bus tub. Inevitably messy but he manages to salvage a measly tip and avoid a huge spill.
That’s how he knows that Nancy always hangs back to use the restroom after her friends leave, howling with laughter like they invented pranks. Every time she leaves a tenner on the table and mutters an apology under her breath before joining the rest of the assholes outside.
And then he meets Laura Tandy
Pretty much everything else in his life that summer revolves around Laura. The parties up on the hill, watching sunsets from the family’s yacht moored outside the harbor, and waking up in the Hudsons guest cottage, wrapped in silk sheets and smelling like geranium body wash. Chief McGinnis takes a special interest in the new intel which makes him feel particularly guilty about his relationship with Laura.
It’s complicated. As hilltop girls tend to be.
Laura leaves for California when the leaves start to change. She says she’s chasing the sun. He’s not sure he believes that but he knows Laura’s always chasing something. They said their goodbyes at the airport, promising to spend New Years together in London with her in-laws. But some time later he stops texting back and by the time the holidays come he doesn’t think about her anymore.
Looking back, this is also around the time Nancy stops hanging out with the assholes. It’s not like he’s keeping tabs on her. It’s just that, it surprises him a little when he finds her sitting on the bus bench outside the library one day, unable to recall the last time he saw her. But there she is, head buried in a book, waiting for the bus.
“Hey,” he says, surprising himself. It’s not like they’re friends. Or even know each other that well.
Apparently he surprises her too because she jumps a little before looking up at him. He feels her study him a moment, analyzing his face, trying to recall how they know each other.
“Nancy Drew? AP Bio?” He runs a hand through his hair. “I’m Ace.”
“Good hair gene,” she teases. “Good to see you again.”
“Need a ride somewhere?” he offers, surprising himself yet again.
“Oh um…” she ponders it for a long moment before responding. “Not really. But thank you.”
“Alright, see you around,” he tells her.
There’s something different about her but he can’t place it. He takes a few steps closer to where Florence is parked and just when he’s about to cross the street, he hears her on his tail, high tops slapping against the sidewalk to catch up with him.
“Actually,” he hears her say, “do you have weed?”
The last word is barely a whisper but he knows what she means. People tend to assume the burnout with the long hair can get his hands on weed. And they would be right.
“I do.” His response is almost a question, daring her to explain more. He regrets his candor and wonders if it’s a trick. Maybe she’s teamed up with McGinnis too.
“How much can I get for twenty bucks?” she asks boldly, shoving a hand in her pocket as if to put up a front of confidence.
“You a narc?” he asks, noticing the way her thumb trembles.
“No.”
“Exactly what a narc would say,” he replies, teasing. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” she says, barely above a whisper. And he notices the way her lip quivers as if she wants to say something more.
“You ever been high before Nancy?”
She shakes her head with a shrug. The smile fades from his face. There’s something she’s not telling him, maybe even not telling herself.
“I’m not a dealer,” he says. “Tell you what, I’ll smoke you out. Come on.”
They pile into Florence, parked down the block, and that’s when he notices what’s different about her. She’s stopped smiling. But also, she doesn’t wear the frilly dresses anymore. Her clothes are vintage now, kind of like his. Actually, they are his. He remembers looking for that blue pullover for months before his mom finally admitted that she’d donated it last Yom Kippur to the women’s center.
“Seatbelt,” he reminds her, putting on his own.
“Oh, we’re not doing it here?”
“Hotbox Florence?” he asks, outraged. “Absolutely not. Besides, I know a place.”
Nancy reluctantly obliges to go on a drive with him and he steers them out of town toward Sylvan Woods. It’s one of his favorite places, but also the rangers are kind of lazy so he knows they won’t get caught. Plus the wind is blowing toward the bluffs so no one will smell it.
He parks at the visitor center where there are only two other cars and reaches over to the glove compartment to grab an old mint tin. His arm accidentally brushes Nancy’s knees as he pulls away but she doesn’t notice, or at least, it doesn't bother her.
“You okay with a little hike?” he asks.
“Sure,” she replies. “You’re the expert.”
He tucks the metal tin into the pocket of his windbreaker and they take up toward the trail. It’s not a difficult trek but it takes a while and he fills the silence with a few jokes and random facts about the trail. She laughs politely but doesn’t really make conversation. So it’s a relief when they finally reach his favorite spot.
“This is beautiful.”
The words leave Nancy’s lips breathlessly as they stand at the base of a creek, shaded with pines. They can hear the bubbling over shallow rocky banks and he steers her just a bit further with the promise of a better view. When they finally make the last turn, the sound of running water grows louder, and they reach the waterfall.
“You weren’t kidding.”
“Come on,” he tells her.
He guides her to a large boulder with a flat top, eroded from years of hikers having picnics and sunbathing on top. She follows his lead, sitting cross legged opposite him so there’s a small patch of bare rock between their legs.
From his jacket, he procures the metal tin, opening it up to reveal a few rolling papers in a sheath and a nug of weed. She watches patiently as he pulls out the dried plant and rubs it between his fingers until it flakes off onto the translucent paper. It forms a little mountain and then he puts the nug back down before tearing off a long strip of cardboard from the sheath.
He rolls it up and lays it at the edge of the paper and then brings the entire contraption between his fingers to ease it into a long cylinder. And when he’s done, he pulls it to his lips and wets the edge with his tongue to seal it closed. He finishes it off by twisting the free end.
“Okay,” he tells her. “The trick is, you inhale gently, just hold the smoke in your mouth and then let it out slowly. Like this.”
He places the joint between his lips and uses his hand to shield it from the wind. It still takes a few tries to light it. Just like he explained, he waits a beat before releasing a string of smoke and then he hands it to Nancy.
She holds it between her slim fingers and inhales gently, like he taught her, causing the end to flare red. Despite his tutorial, she still coughs a bit as she releases the smoke. But then she’s laughing and he realizes it’s the first time he’s ever really seen her laugh, bobbing back and forth uncontrollably.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” Nancy replies.
“I better not,” he says, when she passes it back to him. “I’ve got to drive us out of here.”
“Good point,” she says with a laugh before taking another puff. “Very responsible.”
She finishes off the joint slowly. They have to relight it a couple times and she probably doesn’t actually inhale that much of it, but they have fun. She opens up to small talk after a while and laughs at his jokes, less politely this time and more earnestly.
“You feeling high yet?” he asks as the joint dwindles down to just the card.
She nods eagerly, cracking a smile and he takes it from her hands, fingers brushing, before tucking it back in the metal tin.
“Why do you do that?” she asks him.
“Evidence,” he replies. “And also to protect the woods.”
“You’re different than I thought,” she tells him, pondering him for a long time.
“You thought about me?”
The words escape his mouth before he can stop them and then he wonders if he’s higher than he thought. But she doesn’t answer his question. Maybe she didn’t hear over the running creek water or maybe she’s just high. Either way, he still wishes he knew the answer but isn’t brave enough to pierce the silence between them to demand a response.
“You okay?” he asks, after a long moment of quiet.
“Yeah,” she tells him. “Just thirsty. Like, seriously thirsty.”
“Hold on.”
He leaves their little perch for a brief moment and procures a slim canteen from his inside pocket. Leaning at the edge of the waterfall, he fills it with fresh water and then runs back to where Nancy’s sitting.
“It’s a natural spring,” he says, pressing it into her hand. “Safe to drink.”
“See?” she says, taking a swig. “That right there. How do you know that?”
“The woods,” he says with a shrug. “They speak to me.”
They sit there for a long while. Nancy sips water and Ace drums his fingers against the rock. After some time, the wind picks up and he notices her shiver as the late afternoon sun begins to fade. Goosebumps forming on her legs between where her plaid skirt ends and her wool socks begin.
“You’re cold,” he says.
“Yeah, we should probably go right?” she asks.
“I’m not sure I’m good to drive yet,” he tells her. “Can you stick it out a little longer?”
“Yeah sure,” she replies.
And then, as if it were the most natural thing, she scoots over, closing the space between them. Her head lands on his shoulder and he instinctively wraps an arm around her back, rubbing warmth into her arms.
“That’s better,” she tells him sleepily.
They sit there for a long time, his arms falling to rest on her waist when she curls up closer to him. And then silently she wraps her arms around his torso, burrowing herself into his jacket.
“Thank you,” she breathes.
“For what?” he asks, surprised.
“For this?” she tells him. “I haven’t felt like myself in awhile. This is nice.”
“I like hanging out with you, Nancy Drew.”
She tilts her head and suddenly he realizes how little space remains between them, how his lips are dangerously close to hers, his hair dangling so it’s just barely brushing her chin. And he’s not sure who makes the first move but he does know he likes how her lips taste, earthy and spicy from the weed.
He leans down to deepen the kiss, hands grip tightly at her waist, propelling her onto his lap so she’s straddling him. The cold from the evening breeze no longer a problem because his skin is on fire, cheeks burning as she cups his face in her hands.
“You’re freezing,” he says, when his fingers land on the icy patch of skin at the waistband of her skirt.
“Keep me warm,” she says before pressing another kiss to his lips.
He hugs her close, hands diving beneath her (his) pullover to spread his warmth across every inch of her as she writhes in his hands. His hands slip beneath the cotton band of her bra, cupping her breasts in his hands. He’s only acutely aware of the way her own fingers inch lower and lower until he finally has to pull away before they do something they can’t come back from.
“Nancy,” he pants against her jaw, “we…should…stop.”
“No, it’s okay,” she says softly. “I want to.”
“You sure?” his voice cracks.
She nods in response before freeing him from his belt buckle. It lands with a clink against the rocks as he buries his face in her neck, dotting a trail of wet kisses. Then her nimble fingers unfasten his button and zipper. He can’t be held responsible for the husky groan that escapes his lips when he realizes how close her fingers are to his…
“Nancy,” he whispers between kisses.
She laughs at the sound of his voice, squirming in his grasp, inching closer and closer to the part of him that is throbbing and desperate to feel her. But first, he matches her moxie, daring to drag his hands further, bunching the material of her skirt as his fingers skim underneath to the soft flesh of her thighs.
He hears her breath hitch, echoing in his ears she’s so close to him. And then slowly, with all the restraint in the world, he inches his fingers up her thigh until his thumb lands on the damp cotton of her underwear. He circles the spot, applying pressure every time he hears her sigh desperately.
“That okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” she murmurs. “Keep going.”
But he wants so badly to feel her, all of her, so he reaches the elastic and tugs it down gently. She helps him separate herself from the last bit of fabric and then sinks onto his hand with a soft moan.
He’s had some experience, probably more than her. But never with anyone as still or quiet as her. He’s not sure what he’s doing but he’s also not totally clueless. And all he knows is that he’ll do anything to hear those little cries from her lips every time he hits that spot.
“I…want…you….Ace.”
The way his name sounds on her lips, he’s not sure he’ll last much longer. That’s when he takes his hand off her, for just a moment, to dig in his coat pocket for the foil wrapper he keeps just in case.
“You sure?” he asks one more time, begging her to convince him it’s real.
“Yeah, Ace.”
She says it again and he can’t help it that his cheeks flush red hot at the sounds of her voice. He blushes again when she takes the condom from his hand and fumbles with the wrapper. He doesn’t remember anything after her fingers are on him, the full length of him, before she takes him between her legs.
For years he would replay this moment in his head before falling asleep. All he knows is it’s the most vivid memory he has and no amount of avoiding will allow him to forget it. Forget the way she felt in his arms, the way her little whimpers vibrated in her throat. He commits it all to memory, down to the way her whole body shakes afterward, when she’s on top of him just lying against his chest, tracing figures on his shirt.
“You okay?” he asks her again while they lie there.
She murmurs something in the affirmative, not bothering to even lift her head. His hand slides up and down her back as they lie there. Her skin is significantly warmer now, still radiating from what they just did. But when his thumb snags on something, he recognizes the flimsy vinyl tag.
“Can I check something?” he asks.
“What?” she asks, sleepily.
“Your tag?”
“Okay weirdo,” she replies, not bothering to get up.
The whole weight of her is still on him, like a protective shield, as he props himself up on his elbows to get a better vantage point. Yanking slightly, he tugs at the label and then smiles softly. There it is in faded blue sharpie. A.C.E.
“Where’d you get this?” he asks.
“At the Center,” she replies. “Paid two dollars for it.”
“I knew it,” he says, cracking a smile.
“What?”
“My mom donated it a few years ago without telling me,” he replies. “It was my lucky blue pullover.”
She laughs into his arm, wiggling on top of him until the label is out of his hands. She mutters something about not believing in luck and then goes back to tracing circles on the inside of his bicep. He could stay there forever, listening to the cascades fall while the setting sun paints the sky purple. But eventually they disentangle themselves and he takes her hand as they begin the slow trek down the mountain.
He opens the front door of Florence to let Nancy in before running around to the other side, because his mother raised him right. And then they drive back into town, not saying a word except for when he asks if the heat is warm enough. His bravery is suddenly inexistent and even though he wants desperately to reach over and hold her hand, even dust kisses on her knuckles, he doesn’t. Something about this feels fleeting.
She gives him directions to her house and he notices she is warm enough to shrug off her coat. Even warm enough to rip the blue pullover off her head, leaving her in just a thin cotton camisole.
“You should keep it,” she says, folding it nicely before setting it on the dashboard. “It brings you luck.”
It’s the only proof he has that this whole afternoon even happened. Because Nancy basically disappears from his life after that. Maybe she’s avoiding him or maybe they really just aren’t in each other’s orbits. But what happened in the woods, never happens again. He comes to accept that it wasn’t the beginning of something. Just a single special moment they shared, away from the rest of the world.
It’s months before he sees her again. He’s coming out of The Claw after his shift and she’s pacing in circles out in front, a stack of papers in her hand. She’s noticeably better dressed than usual sporting a smart blazer on this very warm summer day.
“Nancy Drew,” he teases when he sees her, trying desperately not to think of that afternoon, lest the stiffening against his jeans give him away.
“Hey,” she says, awkwardly. “Just the Ace I’m looking for.”
He tries to hide the obvious excitement in his eyes. Maybe that’s not why she’s standing outside the place where she knows he works, looking effortlessly gorgeous.
“How can I help?” he asks, trying not to get his hopes up.
“Happen to know if The Claw is hiring?” she asks.
“Big time,” he replies. “George is drowning in the front.”
“Yeah, that’s what I was worried about,” she says, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth. “George.”
“I can put in a good word for you with Dawn,” he offers. “She likes you. Anytime something goes missing she has this little joke how we should ‘put Nancy Drew on the case.’”
Nancy cracks a smile, the papers in her hand rustling with the sea breeze. He takes two steps to close the space between them and plucks the document from her hand, scanning it before he tucks it in his back pocket.
“Don’t worry, I got this,” he tells her.
“Thanks a lot, Ace,” she replies before turning on her heel.
He makes good on his promise and he’s right that Dawn likes her. A week later she’s working at The Claw with the other new waitress. George isn’t thrilled but he can tell she appreciates the help.
They never talk about that day in the woods but he does start taking smoke breaks. George either doesn’t mind or doesn’t notice that he comes back smelling like cheap weed. It’s on one of these breaks that Nancy joins him, hopping onto the cement divider before smoothing out her skirt.
“You want a hit?” he offers.
She shakes her head.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” she replies, kicking her heel against the concrete. “Just, today’s orientation week at Columbia.”
“You’re not going?” he asks.
“Didn’t apply.”
“Happens to the best of us,” he says, trying to cheer her up.
“Yeah, I mean. You didn’t go to college,” she tells him, “and you turned out alright.”
“Exactly,” he says, taking another drag.
“I just really fucked up, you know,” she doesn’t speak directly to him. Almost like she says it out loud just for herself. “I wasn’t really myself after my mom died. I kinda shut down and did a lot of shit I regret like skipping class, flaking on my applications…just…everything.”
“So you didn’t even apply?”
“Nope,” she punctuates the p, twisting her mouth so that dimple beneath her lip is visible.
“Then you can still get in,” he offers. “You know, in Europe, it’s very normal to take a gap year. Super normal. Everyone does it.”
“Yeah?” she asks, halfheartedly.
“Oh yeah,” he echos, taking a long drag. “You know who got into Columbia?”
“Alexander Hamilton?” she says with a shrug. “J.D. Salinger? Warren Buffet?”
“Well, yeah, them too,” he tells her. “But I got in and you’re way smarter than me so–”
“Really?” she asks.
He nods, cracking a smile. And luckily, before she asks the specifics about why he didn’t go or if he regrets skipping out, George pops out of the kitchen and yells at them to get back to work.
That’s the last time he takes a smoke break at The Claw. Things get complicated shortly after. Not with Nancy. Things with Nancy become remarkably easy after that. Now he understands why they don’t talk about the woods. It’s part of her regrets. So he does his best to file away his favorite memory. And it’s okay. It keeps things easy between them. Never having to wonder.