Author's Note: The basic outline of the story has been in my head since Forever creator Matt Miller's tweet about Henry and Jo getting lost in Paris together. A part of this came into my head at four in the morning on Valentine's Day while I was trying to go back to sleep. I hope that you will enjoy the story.
Chapter 1
Jo took a few deep breaths as she watched the couple inspect their car for any signs of damage and for any indications as to what had caused the accident. Several voices from a growing crowd shouted what sounded like questions, instructions, and reassurances, yet she couldn't tell. Henry, however, would—.
She closed her eyes and fought the nausea in her stomach and the tears in her eyes. The sickening sounds of screeching tires and an audible thud rang in her ears. She was in an unfamiliar city in an unfamiliar country with no knowledge of the language. And the person who knew them had just died and vanished before her eyes.
Breathe, Martinez! He said that this would happen. You know of five deaths—three during the week that you met him—in the last two years, and he's mentioned that there were two more in that time. He's okay, but you need to get to him now.
That was the problem. She wasn't sure if he was alive. Henry had not died once in the year since Adam had killed him with the flintlock pistol used in his first death. She couldn't tell if he was afraid of not coming back if he died again or if he didn't want her to see one of his deaths in spite of her knowledge of his secret. In any case, he had been uncharacteristically cautious when it came to his safety. That is, until today.
She felt a vague tap on her shoulder. Half-expecting to see Henry behind her—and fully clothed—she slowly turned toward the source. Her heart sank when she noticed a well-dressed, dark-haired woman in her mid-20s instead of her ME.
"Perdon, mademoiselle. Est-ce que vous allez bien?"
The woman's words slowly began to register in Jo's mind. Although two of the words vaguely sounded like something that Henry had used in greeting people, she didn't recognize them. The concerned woman appeared to be asking her if she was okay. Jo wished that she had asked Henry to teach her a few phrases during the flight to Paris. After she returned home—or on the return flight back to New York's LaGuardia Airport—she would learn them.
In the meantime, though, she couldn't respond. "I'm sorry. I don't understand what you are saying." She smiled and hoped that the other woman would interpret it as a sign that she was fine.
The young woman nodded and left Jo to herself. She blinked and shook her head. Everything felt as though the accident was just a dream. She was back in New York waking up in her bed, and Henry and Abe were already starting their day in the antiques shop they called home. If she woke up now, everything would be fine, and she could end this nightmare.
A glint of gold on the ground convinced her that she wasn't dreaming, that this was real. She gently picked up Henry's pocket watch, the only physical evidence that he was standing just behind her when the accident happened, and fondly fingered it. He had tackled her to get her out of the way of oncoming traffic, just like she had tackled him once before when he had tried to stop Kevin Crachiolla from getting away. When she could find him, the first thing that she would do was to find a way to thank him for saving her life.
Jo looked over at the motorists and the crowd on their phones, presumably calling the police. As a member of the law enforcement community, she knew that she should stay at the scene so her colleagues could take her statement and so the paramedics could treat any injuries that she might have sustained. Yet, she couldn't explain this to anyone without sounding like she was insane. She needed to get out of here—now.
She carefully slipped his watch into the pocket where she kept her cell phone. She pushed herself to her feet and looked around. She found a street leading away from both the museum that they had exited moments before and the crowds that could identify her at the scene and took off for it as calmly as she could.
She walked until she found a quiet alley. She turned into it and leaned back against the wall of one of the buildings. She checked herself for any injuries. She sighed when she looked at her legs and noticed blood and skin showing through two huge holes in her pants. From what she could see, it appeared as though she had slid on the sidewalk after Henry had tackled her.
She studied her wounds. She had enough scraped knees and cuts in her childhood to know that the cuts on her hands and knees looked worse than they were. She quickly ripped the legs off her pants, rubbed the blood off her legs, and fashioned the torn fabric into a pair of makeshift bandages, something that he had taught her during a recent case. Once she returned to the hotel, she would clean her wounds then.
She closed her eyes. If Henry made it back to the hotel—.
First, she needed to find him. Maybe she should call Abe. He might have an idea of where she could find his father.
She reached into her pocket. The moment her hand brushed Henry's watch, she withdrew her hand. Then again, maybe not. It would be difficult for Abe to help her when he was an ocean and two rivers away.
She peeked out of her hiding place and looked toward the Eiffel Tower. More details about their preparations found their way through the fog of her mind. Fortunately, she had asked Henry about where he had returned to life before they had left New York. He had mentioned one place along the Seine, a spot near the Hippodrome de Longchamp in the Bois de Boulogne. He should be there. If not…
She swallowed and fought back tears. She shouldn't think of that now. He should be alive, and he would in danger of getting his wet, naked, immortal butt arrested again.
She took a couple of additional deep breaths to calm herself and stepped out of the alley. As a car moved toward her, she immediately lifted her arm and yelled, "Taxi!" She smiled as the cab slowed to a stop. It was just like home.
She quickly checked to see if the driver was Adam. Satisfied that the man wasn't the psychopathic immortal stalker who had resumed his torment of Henry months earlier, she slid into the car.
"Where to, miss?"
She opened and closed her mouth several times. She hadn't expected to hear a French-accented English speaker.
After a moment, she remembered her destination. Abe had insisted on looking up the site of Henry's awakenings in Paris online, and he had surprised his father with aerial photography of the area. "Yacht Moteur Club de France."
The man looked at her in the rearview mirror and raised his eyebrows.
She owed him an explanation, no matter how flimsy it sounded. "I'm meeting a friend there."
She breathed a sigh of relief when it looked as though he believed her. In a way, it was the truth. She was just meeting Henry in a place across the street from it.
As they drove off, Jo looked out of her window at the passing city. She began to shake from the rush of adrenaline that was still coursing through her body, but she resisted the temptation to react to it for fear of raising her driver's suspicions. She inhaled to calm herself. Hopefully, Henry was alive and that she would find him soon. If not… She didn't want to think about it.
As she walked through the woods, she kept an eye out for Henry. To her dismay, he was nowhere in sight. She heaved a frustrated sigh. In spite of his assertion that he would be here if he died during their trip, it seemed as though she might not ever find him.
She found a tree and leaned back against it. She pulled off a shoe and began to massage her foot. Her dress shoes were not made for hiking through the woods. When she got back to the hotel, she was soaking her feet in some warm water.
She sighed again. This was not what she and Henry had thought about when they had discussed going to Paris. They had been talking about a romantic trip—getting lost, walking the streets until they were too weak to walk anymore, ordering some wine and some food at a nearby café, and doing it again once they finished their meal. As he described his "regimen", she found herself daydreaming about doing everything that he was saying with him—in spite of the fact that she was dating someone else at the time. He… Well, it was the first time that she had seen a dreamy look cross Henry Morgan's face without him reminiscing about something from his past. It had been almost as if he had wanted to take her to Paris himself.
Yet, the first opportunity that they had to come to the City of Lights was for a case. Construction workers working on the renovation of one of the National Museum's wings had found one of the Louvre's staff members dead under a pile of material. Since the murder had occurred in New York, Lt. Reece had insisted that Jo should go to the city and conduct a part of the investigation with her Parisian counterparts. To Mike's usual disappointment and Lucas' fanboying joy, Lieu had ordered that Henry should accompany her because of his knowledge of art, French, and French culture. Over the past few days, they had been so busy with the case that they barely had time to eat and sleep—let alone to have some time to themselves so that they could sightsee.
That was until this morning. Yesterday evening, Yves Desloges, the detective whom they were working with, had urged them to take the day off, and she reassured them that she would contact them if she found another lead in the case. Henry realized that a café that he had frequented in the 1920s—and where he had seen Ernest Hemingway with his girlfriend—was miraculously still open and was a few blocks from the hotel. Once they ate breakfast there, they discussed exploring a nearby museum and stopping at a local market to pick up some bread, cheese, fruit, and wine for a picnic lunch in one of the city parks.
The meal and the trip to the museum were enjoyable, but Jo had found herself wishing that they were doing what Henry had described last year instead of staying close to their hotel because of work. One glance at him, and she could tell that he had been thinking the same thing.
She fought back her tears. She would give anything to hear his voice again. To see him check his pocket watch again. To spend another moment listening to his long stories and his theories. Even to see his nose wrinkle in disgust at the sight of one of her gyros and to roll her eyes when he refused to stay put. If only she had paid more attention to the traffic than to her daydreams of redoing the trip…
"Jo?"
She jumped at the almost quiet, surprised voice behind her and reflexively swung at its source. A startled, loud "ouch" snapped her out of her trance as her hand made contact with rough skin. She took a couple of deep breaths and finally looked up to discover who had called her name.
In front of her was one very stunned and slightly sheepish Dr. Henry Morgan, rubbing his scar with one hand and keeping his modesty intact with the other. His eyes met hers. He attempted a smile, but it refused to come.
She didn't know what she was supposed to feel. She was angry that he had decided to risk exposure to save her life. She was upset that he had left her alone in the middle of the city. Yet, she was flabbergasted, overjoyed, and relieved to see that he had survived this death, that he was indeed immortal, and that he was still with her.
His still wet skin caught her attention. How did he make it here without attracting the attention of the people at the yacht club, the drivers on the nearby road, or anyone who had wandered to his hiding place after the horserace that she could hear drifting through the woods?
The warm spring midday sun shone in her eyes. The Bois de Boulogne was over twice the size of Central Park, yet it was as well patrolled as its sister park in New York. Based on Henry's stories about previous awakenings here…
She lowered her voice to keep anyone from overhearing them. "Do you want me to go back to the hotel to get you some clothes?" What am I saying?! Of course, he needs clothes!
He gave her a small, lopsided smile. "I think that I'll be safe here until you return. If you can't find me…"
She nodded. He didn't have to be naked to be arrested for indecent exposure. During their last case, he had stripped off his shirt, waistcoat, and coat and had begun to remove his shoes to save a drowning victim when a couple of unis approached him. If she and Mike hadn't been standing beside him and insisted on letting him rescue their victim, he would have been arrested again in spite of wearing pants.
Another taxi ride later, she entered their room. She smiled as she saw his pillow and his folded covers sitting on the foot of the bed. She had suggested that they should flip a coin for the bed, but he had insisted that he was comfortable on the floor. She couldn't argue with his decision. After all, he had slept in jail cells, in open fields, in military vehicles, and—she shuttered to think about it—shackled to a wall in the asylums. If he wanted her to take the bed, she was happy to grant his wish.
She stopped for a moment at his "bed" between the door and her bed. When she had returned from the bathroom, she had noticed him sleeping peacefully with the blanket tucked under his arms. The long hours working on the case, the similarities between their victim's death and one of his more violent ones, and his worries about Abe while they were gone were exhausting him, and she wasn't sure how much longer it would be before the emotional stress associated with all three would take its toll on him. She didn't know what had relaxed him last night, but she was glad for it. Wanting him to enjoy a few extra minutes of sleep, she had eased into their closet and changed before waking him up.
She headed to the closet, carefully removed one of his shirts and pair of pants from the hangers, and set them on the bed. She wrangled her carry-on bag out from between the wall and his suitcase, quickly removed her unpacked item, and set them on the desk across from their beds. She folded his suit before packing it in the bag.
She went back and opened his suitcase. She chuckled as she removed his extra shoes and a pair of socks. When they had gone through the security checkpoint, people had shot him curious looks after seeing his old-fashioned suitcase—and were shocked when he and his luggage had cleared the checkpoint in record time. She quickly closed the case and added his socks and shoes to the bag.
Her feet began to smart again. To relieve the pain, she sat down between his bedding and her bag. She pulled out his pocket watch and affectionately fingered it. When they had met two years ago, she had never dreamed that the "weirdest, creepiest, most unusual person I've ever met" would become her partner and friend. Her drinking buddy. The person whose shoulder she could cry on when the grief from losing Sean threatened to overwhelm her. The guy who she wanted to get lost in Paris with. Someone she deeply cared about—so deeply that the thought of losing him forever, even though she knew that he would come back to her, had pained her.
She shook her head in amazement. How did that happen?
The times in which she had returned his watch came back and reminded her of what she still needed to do. She pocketed the timepiece and slipped her carry-on's handle onto her shoulder. She hoped that their fellow colleagues wouldn't find Henry in his current condition. If so, she was about to find out how to bail him out of jail when she didn't speak the language.
They returned to the hotel room and closed the door. Jo dropped her bag on the closet floor next to his suitcase. Once she stepped into the main room, she crossed her arms and watched Henry as he finished his coffee. Admittedly, his taking her hand to convince the unis that they were having a romantic tryst—his words, not hers—had to be the smoothest and the most surprising act of deception that he had ever pulled.
So, why was her heart still fluttering whenever she thought about it?
She took a step toward him. Just as she was about to ask him how he was doing, a stinging sensation caused her to stop in mid-step. She hissed in pain. She was so concerned about him that she had forgotten about the cuts on her knees.
"Jo, what is it?" Henry set his coffee cup down on the desk and hurried over to her. He gently wrapped one of her arms around his neck and his other arm around her waist before guiding her to the edge of the bed.
She hissed again as she lowered herself onto the foot. She had scraped knees before. How could they cause so much pain now?
Henry pulled the desk chair toward her and sat down. As he gently removed her shoes, she unexpectedly lost all coherent thought. Fascinated by his movements, she silently watched him remove her socks and then her bandages.
"It looks as though I've lost a suit and you've lost a pair of pants during today's adventure."
She found herself unable to respond. If anything, her mind was on the verge of daydreaming.
He slightly lifted her knee to the light and examined it. "The amount of blood loss is minimal. The laceration is deep but not deep enough to require stitches. There is debris in the wound…"
She barely noticed him standing. His mutterings, honed by 150 years of experience as a practicing doctor, quickly prompted her to dream of them walking in Paris again.
Just as they sat down in a café, she felt a sudden pain which coursed through her body and roused her from the dream. She closed her eyes and dug her fingers into the edge of the bed to keep from screaming.
When she dared to open her eyes again, she saw Henry attempting to gently wash her cuts with a warm, wet wash cloth. She glanced down at the bed and saw a tray with first-aid supplies on it.
Where did that come from? What on Earth had come over me to keep me from noticing that?
"How do you do that?" The second the words left her mouth, she realized that she had just spoken her thoughts.
He stopped his cleaning, looked her in the eye, and sighed. "In some cases, the emotional trauma following a death lasts far longer than it does in others. My last one before today's death had been especially difficult on me. Until today, I didn't know whether I could come back again."
He glanced down as though he was trying to decide something. Finally, he raised his eyes. "I guess that is why Abigail and Abe had been concerned about my deaths over the years. That they feared that death would one day take me as I know that it would come for them." He mirthlessly chuckled. "It took me about 70 years to figure that out." He sat still for a moment before resuming his work.
She nodded as she remembered the times that he had volunteered to be shot instead of her—or even their suspect. "That hasn't stopped you before."
He looked at her and gave her a sad, lopsided smile. "My family and friends are too important to let fear stop me from protecting them."
She stared at him for a moment. She had never thought of his "lack of a self-preservation instinct" in that way before.
She felt herself starting to daydream again. She cocked her head and stared at him. "That's not what I meant, though."
"What did you mean?"
"I—." Her cheeks suddenly warmed. She couldn't tell him what she was thinking. It was too embarrassing to admit.
He looked into her eyes. He had the same expression that he had worn the second before Abe had interrupted them last year. The same look that was now convincing her that, even then, he had wanted to get lost in Paris with her.
He lowered his eyes and tended to her knee. As she grimaced, he peered into her eyes again. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen. I—."
She held up a hand. "If I wasn't so lost in thought…"
They looked at each other and chortled. There was nothing to forgive.
She shifted her weight to make herself more comfortable on the bed. "Thank you for saving my life."
He swallowed and quickly turned his attention back to his task.
She squeezed the edge of the bed as he finished cleaning her other cut and as he applied ointment on them and covered them with a pair of gauzes and some tape. She could almost see him doctor Abigail like this…if she had allowed him.
"Let me see your hands."
She obediently held them out and let him examine them. He washed the scrapes and applied ointment to them. A couple of moments later, he gave her some ibuprofen for the pain and a cup of water.
As he tidied his mess, he looked at her. "You must keep an eye…" He inhaled as though he couldn't believe what he was saying. "If you see any signs of infection, let me know, and I'll look at your wound." He gave her a puppy-dog eyed look. "It's the least that I could do."
She couldn't resist him. "I will."
Once he disposed his trash, he took one whiff under his arm. He blinked several times and wrinkled his nose in disgust. "I need a shower. Excuse me." He went into the closet, grabbed some clothes, and headed for the bathroom.
Jo bit her lower lip to keep herself from giggling. He was cute when he was disgusted.
She slowly moved to the head of the bed and sat down. The sound of running water erased any lingering doubts that this was a dream. Henry was alive, and she had just gone on her first fishing trip, as Abe had jokingly called his runs to the river or wherever Henry could find someone willing to loan him a cell phone to pick up his father
She looked out of the window and gazed at the Eiffel Tower. Since his answer to her question about his must-sees, she had dreamed about what they would do in the city. Yet, she had never thought about what would happen in the meantime.
Was this what the rest of the trip would be like? The heart-to-heart conversations? The care for each other? The tender touches that rendered her unable to do anything but react?
More importantly, was this what a relationship with him would be like?
She shook her head. She shouldn't be thinking about that. He was a very good friend, and they were in the most romantic city in the world on business. She was letting her imagination run away with her.
Somehow, though, she wasn't convinced about that last thought.
"Nuts! I forgot my shirt!"
She smiled. "You know I have seen you shirtless before?!"
He opened the door and walked into the bedroom. She found herself breathless as she surveyed his mussed-up hair and his bare chest.
He solemnly stepped over to the bed and sat down where she was seated minutes earlier. He bowed his neck as though he was studying the comforter.
Sensing that something was wrong, she got up and joined him. "Henry, what is it?"
He slowly raised his head and turned to her. "From the moment that I had started to swim to shore, all I could think about was you. About us."
Her heart began to pound in her chest. She wasn't sure if she would like—or was ready for—what he would say next.
He inhaled. "About this time last year, I had told you that you were someone I deeply care about." He rubbed his tongue over his bottom lip. "I don't know how, but my care for you has grown deeper and stronger since that moment." He took another deep breath. "Almost losing you today has shown me that."
She lowered her head and bit her lower lip. Admittedly, the thought of losing him had opened her eyes to how much she cared for him.
She looked up again, and their eyes locked. The rest of the world and her concerns instantly vanished. The only thing that mattered was him.
His eyes continuously travelled from her own to her lips and back again. Sensing what he wanted to do, she waited breathlessly for it. She vaguely felt him turning so he could face her.
He looked at her lips one more time. Honestly, she was ready.
A loud ring pierced the air. They broke their gaze and sat silently for a moment as they tried to regain their bearings. Disappointment filled Jo as they looked at each other again. She wished that Henry had kissed her before they were interrupted—again.
The phone continued to ring. She reluctantly walked over to the hotel phone and picked it up. She pulled his watch out of her pocket and returned it to him as she listened to Yves relate some information to her.
As her Parisian counterpoint spoke, Jo felt her eyelids growing heavy. She rubbed her face, uncertain as to whether the fatigue from the day's events or the ibuprofen was making her sleepy.
Soon, she hung up the phone and sighed. She wasn't ready for this.
"Jo?"
She turned to Henry as he buttoned his shirt. He was already deducing what the conversation was about.
She struggled to keep her emotions in check. "Yves and her team have located our suspect. They're going to bring him in tonight. She wants us there for the interrogation tomorrow…"
He disappointedly nodded. He wasn't ready to return to New York yet either.
She blinked several times to keep her eyes open, but it was no use. She was growing more tired by the minute.
"Do you need some sleep?"
She looked up at him. "Would you mind?"
He grinned. "I remember someone imploring me to take a nap recently."
She smiled. She had asked him that yesterday afternoon while they were taking a lunch break. He stubbornly refused, insisting that he didn't need it.
As she climbed under the covers and closed her eyes, she thought about everything that had happened. They were good friends, but she no longer was satisfied by their relationship. She wanted something more. How did that happen?
Author's Note: Originally, this had been planned as a one-shot. After seeing the way that the chapter ends, I began to think that the story would be better as a two-chapter one.
I have cut one knee the same way that Jo does here. That is how I know you can slide on a dry sidewalk.
Jo's race to get Henry some clothes is more urgent in Paris than it is in New York. According to a CNN story about the plans for a nudist beach in Paris, a charge of public nudity has a punishment of a $15,000 fine or a 1-year prison sentence. According to New York's Penal Code, Henry risks a 3-month sentence or a $500 fine if a prosecutor can prove that his naked walks are intentional. A regular indecent exposure charge carries a lesser punishment. A judge could sentence him to less than 15 days in jail, but Henry likely pays a fine of up to $250 every time he's arrested.